A/N. mostly unchronological and unconnected snapshots, aside from the 3rd part, which are all, mostly, in order. the first two parts were all beta-ed by the lovely emma, i love her so much and her contribution has been so, so helpful.

Woojin, I.

This is the first time Woojin's having an actual conversation with a girl his age that isn't just for ten seconds; he gets to have the conversation with someone who's basically a literal God, so he'd like to think that just losing track of what he's saying in his sentences is actually something for him to be proud of, thank you very much.

"I don't think I've ever talked to you before." A lot of people could say the same thing, actually, but most of them wouldn't say it. "But, since we're going to be working on a lot of scenes together, might as well be friends, right?" At the face of that kind of ease at socializing, a little thing that Woojin's barely grasping the straws to, he can only nod, and hopes he doesn't look as lost and awed as he feels right now. That would be bad, to say the least. "I'm Doyeon."

Woojin knew that. There's really no way he wouldn't know her, the epitome of high school royalty  if that's a real thing and not just something that exists in teen flick movies, because literally no one in their school would remain ignorant to the fact they've got a future supermodel walking among them. As good as she is at posing and promoting brands, however, she's not the best that Woojin's met at masking her emotions; that's the main reason why he can read the wariness on her face as she introduces herself, as much as she attempts to cover it with what she figures must be an easygoing grin.

He's a hundred percent sure this is his reputation at work, more than anything, and he's grown used enough to the wariness. What he isn't used to is people actually wanting to know him as anything more than the resident troublemaker (and not making any conversation, just whispering and pointing from afar like he wouldn't notice eventually), and he'd never expected that one of the only people who'd bother to make that effort would be someone as high in the social hierarchy as Doyeon.

She's just always seemed so out of everyone's league. Woojin thought he'd never be able to talk to her in his entire life, but apparently, he can be proven wrong.

"Hi," he says, after he figures that he must've been silent long enough that she's begun to show some discomfort. Damn it, he probably looked like a total creep right then, and that's just the farthest thing from his original intention.

"I'm Park Woojin. You can call me Woojin. Or, uh, anything you want, actually." Not his best moment, but he hasn't been stunned into silence (longer than a minute), so he must be doing pretty good. Times like these, he wishes Guanlin would pop out of nowhere and just give him a thumbs up of encouragement. That'd be absurd, maybe, but the idea of it isn't necessarily abhorrent.

"Should I call you 'anything', then?"

He needs a moment before the realization that she's joking settles, and by that point, he's laughing too loud for it to sound unforced. God. He's terrible at this, kill him now.

"You can," he says, and the words come out in a tangled flurry, because obviously he's not speaking with his mouth, and rather, his bundle of nerves. "I mean. I had it coming, didn't I." Thankfully, she makes a show of polite laughter, and she's being so nice about Woojin generally being terrible at socializing that he makes a silent vow to purchase her next editorial. But then again, would that help her paycheck increase? He should look into it later.

"Oh, definitely," she says, and doesn't sound mean, but she treats Woojin the same way she'd treat speaking to an old friend. It makes him feel... nice, actually, and the smile that lingers on his face is more real than it is made out of forced politeness. "I'm going to save your number on my phone as that. Now, if someone sees my phone and I've got a text from 'anything', they're definitely going to be curious."

Her cheeriness is infectious, and the banter is enough to drive Woojin into soft laughter. Evidently, that's all the confirmation Doyeon needs to grin heartily, the previous wariness leaving little trace on her pretty face. If Woojin wasn't so adamant on continuing to like Hyungseob, just as he had for the past few years, this would be the exact moment he'd begin to develop a hopeless crush. But, point is, his heart's already preoccupied with someone else, so all he grows for Kim Doyeon is admiration and the need to sign up for her official fancafe.

"Do you act a lot?" The question just slips out of his mouth, a last ditch attempt to keep the conversation from really dying, and he nearly takes it back until he doesn't see Doyeon looking particularly unpleased. It's hard for Woojin to imagine that people wouldn't just go around and consider what he's saying as useless, mostly because he's forced himself to stay silent for so long, and the treatment he's receiving right now does a good job at making him feel like he's not so hopeless at the social department. That he has hope for improvement, farfetched as it might seem at the given moment.

"I can see you haven't watched the previous shows," she teases, and he awkwardly grins. Does it look more like a grimace? He hopes it doesn't. "I've been acting for a while, yes. My manager first told me to join because it could've been practice before I dive intro dramas, but I ended up enjoying myself more than I thought." She shrugs, like that's the kind of story she dishes to people you'd barely consider as acquaintances than strangers, and maybe, it is. "How about you? How're you liking theatre so far?"

"It's... something," Woojin winds up saying, much to Doyeon's obvious amusement. "I've never really joined anything like this before."

"You're a part of the dance club, aren't you?" Um. How does she know that. "I bet you're wondering how I know." The question must've been obvious on his face, he thinks, with a dust of pink highlighting his cheeks. "I'm friends with Yerim! You're on her Instagram sometimes, whenever she posts pictures of the dance club. Don't you follow her?"

Woojin doesn't have any SNS, actually, so he didn't even know he was a presence on Yerim's Instagram. "Uh, no," he says, hoping he sounds more sheepish than he is guilty.

"You should follow her! And, you know what, follow me too. I'll follow you back," she promises, and that's enough to make Woojin nod without really thinking about what he's getting himself into, not even stopping to consider that Doyeon must’ve had at least fifty new people following her on a daily basis and how small the chances could be for her to actually notice his account in the sea of unknowns.

(True to her word, however, she does follow him back, even when his account has no avatar, he's got zero posts, and the only people he follows are Doyeon, Yerim, Sejeong, and Guanlin. To know that she'd meant her words instead of just saying them for the sake of it makes his chest feel warm for the rest of the evening, and he makes a careful note to delete his web history so to remove any trace of him becoming an official member and leveling up on the Kim Doyeon fancafe.

Sejeong would never let him live.)

Guanlin, I.

Dongho is either really, really good at telling his story, or Guanlin's just great at relating to it and being able to place himself in the older's shoes (past shoes?) that he finds himself able to follow the flow of the story easily. The same way of how easy it is for someone to float on water once they've learned to swim. Though there are more than a few of Seongwoo's decisions that Guanlin questions to this day, getting Dongho to become Guanlin's mentor is far from being on the list.

"You started acting because you wanted to impress someone?" This is the part that Guanlin can't exactly relate to, mostly because he started acting to repay a debt that technically doesn't even need to be paid;  but in comparison to everyone else's reason that seems to stem from the general 'I just love acting' pool, a reason like Dongho's is new, and not unwelcome.

"Yeah," Dongho confirms, nodding with a smile that looms on the bittersweet territory more than anything. Considering he's most likely thinking back on a love that's long passed, Guanlin doesn't need to ask why. "She was one of the most popular girls in school, and her mom was a big shot actress. The acting genes ran in the family." His smile melts from bittersweet to secretive, like he's saying this as a secret meant to be keep between the both of them. "Y'know, she never noticed me. I found out in the beginning of the next semester she actually had a boyfriend who was in college, but I gained something better."

Guanlin leans forward, palms planted firmly on the ground to help him keep his balance. "Like what?"

"Uh, a lot of things?" Dongho laughs, but Guanlin doesn't, and keeps staring at him with big, curious eyes, that tend to be creepy now that he's kept them open, completely unblinking, for longer than five seconds. Dongho coughs, and resumes his story, not wanting to partake in  further participation of Guanlin's scrutinization. "New friends. An actual hobby. A place for me to express myself and my talent further than just singing in the shower," he spells it out, and Guanlin saw it coming, but still, he nods, hanging onto Dongho's every word.

He figures, that if he means to ask a question that Seongwoo's never been able to answer, now might be as good of a time as any. "Was it difficult? Adjusting to something new, not completely breaking under the pressure?"

Dongho makes a noise that resembles a tut, somehow, it makes Guanlin feel chastened. He guiltily leans back, slouches into his form slightly more than he had just a moment ago, and completely misses the glint of amusement that crosses Dongho's eyes, even for the slightest moment. "I never said I didn't break under the pressure."

"What...?"

"Guanlin," Dongho begins, and the tone he uses is enough to force Guanlin out of his slouch, immediately fixing his back and sitting in an upright position. "I wasn't like Seongwoo. I had the potential, and I could sing better than him, though some of that's mostly because I used to be in a choir when I was a kid and I had some tricks up my sleeve already, but—acting? That was new to me."

Being new to acting while being experienced at singing is still better than Guanlin's current situation, but it's closer than Seongwoo's 'I've been good at this all my life' attitude, so Guanlin takes it. Complaining is never going to do him good at any rate.

"I was terrible at it at first," he says bluntly, and the honesty's not surprising, but still, it's nice enough to Guanlin that Dongho doesn't have any qualms with addressing his flaws. Or rather, past flaws. He doubts Seongwoo would've considered Dongho as someone worthy enough to ask him with teaching if Dongho's still terrible at acting. "I didn't start off with a leading role like you, and the role was minor, but when you think about it, I was bad enough to the point the director was constantly yelling at me and giving me sh—I mean, crud—for my fifteen lines and two scenes."

Ouch. That bad then.

"So, what did you do?"

"I found out what was holding me back." This is the part where Dongho stops talking, and looks at Guanlin in a way that gives Guanlin the hint that he should be able to figure out where Dongho's going with this. But, Guanlin doesn't find whatever it is he's supposed to have found, so the only thing he can do is smile apologetically; instead of going on a tirade or lashing out at Guanlin's inability, though, Dongho chuckles, and while his fingers reach forward, as if to ruffle Guanlin's hair, he stops at the last moment and awkwardly lowers his frozen hand to the ground. “It was myself.”

This is beginning to sound a lot like what Seongwoo once said about Guanlin not knowing what to do with his own potential, but at least with Dongho, he might be able to leave the conversation later with something that’d be useful enough to let him know what to do with himself. Something he’s never gained from his numerous conversations with Seongwoo, even if Guanlin’s tried to replay the other’s words in his head, turning them over and over just to see if he can find some kind of hidden meaning that’s never there.

“The actual process for me to come to the realization is a little painful,” he admits, but doesn’t stop himself from telling Guanlin anyway. “The highlight of it had Seongwoo involved, though. Want to hear it?”

Like Guanlin’s ever going to miss the opportunity to hear about Seongwoo’s high school days—because there’s literally no way that Seongwoo doesn’t have any embarrassing moments of his own. Everyone does. “Yes!”

“We only had a month to go until opening night, and I was still bad. Not terrible anymore, but I wasn’t even mediocre, and the director was planning on kicking me out from the theatre club after the show was over.”

“Why didn’t he replace you with an understudy? No offense, but I’ve just heard that’s how things usually work, but I guess understudies are supposed to be when you’re sick,” he ends the note on  a thoughtful note, and smiles shyly when he notices Dongho’s silent question. “Sorry, hyung, you can carry on.”

“Right.” Dongho doesn’t sound annoyed, and that much makes Guanlin feel better about rambling during his interruption.

 “Anyway, I was getting desperate then, so I bought tickets to see a musical that was being held in the city. Got my own transportation tickets and everything, and I was ready to spend a few hours seeing what theatre’s supposed to really be like—never expected to end up sitting next to Seongwoo of all people, and he was as shocked to see me there just as I was to see him.” In his head, Guanlin can imagine it: a younger Dongho, just wanting to see if there’s anything he can learn from watching a play live, having just the luck to get the seat next to the prodigy who wouldn’t understand Dongho’s struggle even if he tried.

“Was he an about it?” Dongho gapes at Guanlin’s use of language, and it’s only then that it sinks in that Guanlin’s talking to a teacher and should try to be more careful about the words he chooses to use. “I mean. Was he mean about it?” he corrects hastily, but the damage has been done if the scandalized look in Dongho’s eyes is anything to go by.

Dongho hums, and shakes his head. “Surprisingly? He was quiet.”

Imagining Seongwoo as quiet is unsurprisingly difficult, and the struggle must’ve shown; Dongho’s quick to speak, not leaving much of a time gap for Guanlin to conjure the image of Seongwoo being silent. “During the show, at least. The show’s got a break right before the second act starts, so he asked me to go outside with him, to get some air. I took up his offer.”

There’s obviously more to this story than just that, because right now Guanlin isn’t seeing anything that correlates to Seongwoo helping Dongho enough to the point Dongho would owe him a favor. And so Guanlin waits on bated breath, gazing at Dongho with a quiet kind of eagerness—maybe a little drowsy too, because apparently, he looks like he’s almost always sleepy, or at least, according to Woojin.

“He took me to a back alley right next to the building. In any other occasion, it would’ve been shady, and to be honest, it probably was, but it was Seongwoo, and I knew him. So, I wasn’t scared. Besides, on the off chance that he’d take that as the opportunity to try something funny, I took up martial arts.” Dongho snorts, and the fact that he has martial arts training doesn’t come as a surprise. “Gist of our conversation: he asked me what I thought I was doing, if I was really doing this as a last ditch effort and why I wanted to try so hard at something I couldn’t get right,” he ends with a note of frustration, as if no matter how many years have passed since then, no matter how much they’ve put the past behind them, Dongho could never forget the emotions he must’ve felt at the time.

That makes perfect sense. Dongho’s only human, after all, and though some are less prone to remembering, there are people who never can. (Keeping in mind, too, that sometimes there are situations that serve to make forgetting not quite an option; those situations are often turning points, and while for Guanlin, it's the moment that Woojin literally manhandled him into a situation better than what he'd before, for Dongho, it might just be this.)

"You want to know what he said to me?"

Um. "Duh." He probably could've attempted that a little less 'obviously' and with more tact, but honestly, Guanlin really just needs to know how this story ends.

Dongho grins with his teeth. "He hated how I had something he didn't, no matter how many times he's tried, and he told me how he hated how much I was putting a cap on my own talents. At the time, I had no clue what he was talking about, because he was always... him. You didn't hear this from me (and for God's sake, don't let Seongwoo know I've told you this, because his ego would never deflate and I just feel bad for the poor soul who's stuck dating him), but he always had the sort of talent that was nothing short of unattainable. He was someone who everyone in the production looked up to, because he could commandeer the stage with his presence, and he never seemed to have trouble getting into character. He wasn't perfect, and sometimes the director would have to nitpick him to find some more obscure rookie mistakes, but out of all of us, he was the best. Here’s what I thought back then: I’ll never be as good as someone like him, so why should I bother?”

“But you had the potential,” Guanlin interjects, sounding as confused as he feels he is. There are many questions swirling in his head, and some of the questions even have questions of their own, but considering all of them eventually lead back to the question he's just asked, he figures he could keep the rest of them as under wraps as he could; given his record of thinking before he speaks though, that might be an unfruitful venture.

"Do you think I knew about that?" Dongho makes a noise that sounds like a 'tch', crossing his arms in front of his chest, but considering he's looking up just to look properly at Guanlin, it's more funny than intimidating. "You're lucky you've got a teacher who can see your potential. Mine knew I wasn't completely useless, but that's the extent of it. Before I even realized what I could do, before my teacher realized it, only Seongwoo noticed."

"... Huh."

"He's got an eye for talent. Comes with what he naturally has, I guess." A prodigy with the ability to spot people who've got a shot at being as good as he is doesn't sound too outlandish, considering how Seongwoo's just full of surprises. "Told me it was frustrating how I had the potential, but no one was honing it, and I was too much of an idiot caught up with impressing the girl of my dreams to do anything to even try. Told me I had a better singing voice than him, and I got a kick out of that one—could you imagine him having to bite that out of grounded teeth?" Guanlin can, at least a little, but the image would likely never be as good as the actual product. Shame. "I was confused."

The younger blinks. "Not enlightened?"

Dongho's quick to correct him. "Eventually, I was. But at first, I just felt. Angry, insulted, confused, at loss; all those things. I even nearly went home after the conversation, and I was alright with missing the second act, as long as it meant I wouldn't have to deal with him until school."

"And did you?" Guanlin's sure he's probably asking a lot of questions by now, but Dongho doesn't even seem the least bit annoyed—on the contrary, every time Guanlin voices a question, Dongho's cheek dimples show, even if it's the slightest flicker of them. It's like receiving questions and being able to share more of his experiences makes him happier than having Guanlin become a passive listener to the story he has to tell.

(He recognizes that happiness, now that Guanlin takes the time to lament over it for a while: he's found that kind of energy from his teachers, back in middle school, although not all of them shared it. Mostly, he found it from the teachers that taught because it was what they wanted to do, and what the hell, apparently Dongho's the teaching type. Naturally.)

"I didn't." Guanlin's grin matches the one on Dongho's lips. "It was nearly unbearable, considering he was just... silent throughout the second act, and the silence wasn't the good kind. Actually, it forced me to think about what he said instead of enjoying myself, because that's kind of impossible to do considering the person who caused me my problem was literally right there."

Something in Guanlin's face twists into empathy. "That doesn't sound very fun."

"Trust me," says Dongho dryly, "it wasn't. But it ended up being a painful sort of lesson. Not fun at all, though it does its job. What Seongwoo said had weight into it, which was surprising, considering I'd previously never pegged him to be the type to notice people aside from himself, maybe with the addition of his own reflection. But I guess that's the surprising part of him, and I just think that, if he hadn't been the one to slap some sense into me, I never would've developed."

Guanlin holds up five fingers in front of his face. "So, first, he told you that you had potential." The thumb goes folded, and four remain. "Then, he said you were too busy impressing your crush." Next, the pinky. "But those words were able to somehow, magically drag you out of your acting slump? Inexperience?" The last one to go is his ring finger, and Guanlin, realizing he's still got his index and middle fingers up in the air, maneuvers his hand back to the ground - a sheepish smile looming on his visage.

"That's the gist of it." Dongho nods. "Sounds really simple when you put it like that, actually." He ends his words with soft laughter, and waves Guanlin off when the younger attempts to stiffly bow his head into a nod that's meant to be an apology, because he didn't know whether to take Dongho's words as a light attempt at humor, or if it was meant to subtly tell Guanlin off. Apparently, it was the former. "You're not entirely wrong. That's how it went, though there was a lot of thinking on what to do and re-thinking everything else I'd done at that point before I was able to improve."

"And how'd that happen? Like." Guanlin tries to make a motion for it with his hands, brows knitted tightly together in a look of concentration. "How'd you manage to take off the... cap, was that it?" At Dongho's nod (though Guanlin only thinks it's a nod, his eyes are a little preoccupied with whatever it is that he's trying to do with his hands, so when he sees something move a little above his line of view, he's supposing it's Dongho's nod instead of something like a bug), he continues. "Yeah, that, or managed to take away the block that stopped you from being good?"

"I found out that everything came from here." Dongho's index finger points at the little space on Guanlin's chest that, underneath, holds his heart. In return, Guanlin makes a face. It's not as if he's got a resolve that makes him firmly against anything sappy, because he might have a soft spot for those things, but at the same time, this feels... anti-climatic, almost. He's been on the edge of his seat, wondering how he was supposed to be good at this acting and performing thing instead of being a flimsy, mediocre lead at best, and apparently, the answer to this question is the same answer to practically any other question: it's all in your heart. "Don't look at me like that." Dongho must've read his mind. "I know it seems... simple, but that's because it is. Honestly, I actually saw that solution coming from a mile away, too, although I'd never stopped to actually consider doing anything about changing my own stance of how I saw myself."

"How you see yourself?" The judging look on Guanlin's face has eased into something softer, and he tilts his head in confusion, but at the same time, little warning bells ring in his head.

"Perceive, yes. I perceived myself as someone who wasn't good enough, not that my teacher ever did anything to help with that," he says, maybe a little bitter, but then again, who wouldn't be? "Even after Seongwoo tried to talk some sense into me, my initial reaction was denial and a lot of self-doubt. Things like, maybe he just said those things to me because he couldn't stand that I was trying to improve. Or, on the  more negative side of the spectrum: he might be right, but I can't make that happen, and I'll never be good enough to live up to his expectations."

Through this, Guanlin forces himself to be quiet, even though he feels the urge to interrupt Dongho's flow, to say something, anything, but this doesn't seem to be the time.

"Eventually, I came to realize: I was the one holding myself back. I was the one who kept burying down my potential every time it tried to surface by forcing myself to think I'd never be able to be enough. If that was the way I'd perceived myself, then how could I ever have improved? I was always trying to tear myself down, because I practiced so much and so hard, I even went to a show to see how the professionals did it: but at the end of the day, I stopped, told myself that it didn't matter if I still wouldn't be good enough, and all of that went to waste."

Even now, Guanlin remains silent, but there's a notable difference: previously, he needed to strangle away his own words, but this time, the silence comes naturally. He wants to be silent, because he's not sure if he can speak with a coherent sentence. Dongho's hitting too close to home now, even closer than the previous things he'd said, and while this is making it harder for Guanlin to breathe, maybe this is a good thing.

No. It's not maybe, Guanlin resolves, almost grimly. This is a good thing. I needed it. I will need it.

"One day, I just decided that I needed to have more confidence in myself and my abilities, because if that continued to be my outlook, then I don't see how I could ever improve. I didn't grow a big head and suddenly thought of myself as the best, but I did enough. I changed enough to start showing improvements, and during the first practice where I gave my all into performing, to the short lines I had, you want to know what my teacher said?"

Mutely, Guanlin nods.

"Did you have it in you this whole time?" Dongho's voice goes lower, presumably to mimic his teacher. "You're good enough to keep around after all. It wasn't the kind of praise that I'd consider a full praise but after getting lashed with criticisms from the old guy, it was better than anything else I'd ever received from him." Dongho's shoulders move in a shrug. By this point Guanlin's already calmed down from the half revelation he'd received from Dongho's story. "That's not really the most noteworthy reaction, though. That one came from Seongwoo himself, who cornered me backstage, and punched me in the left shoulder before he hugged me." His face pinches into something sour, but it doesn't last long, considering Dongho ends up sighing, and the look on his face loosens into something more peaceful. "It was the most uncomfortable moment of my life." A pause, followed up by, "still is."

Dongho, big and tough seeming, having an uncomfortable look on his face as the smaller in figure, but bigger in ego, Ong Seongwoo holds him in a tight embrace. Guanlin's mouth purses together in a valiant attempt to keep himself from doubling over in laughter, because the image is just... it's something, that's for sure. He wishes he could've seen it happen. It must've been as pivotal as it was entertaining.

"You understand what I'm trying to say, don't you?" At this, Guanlin nods, a little too quickly considering his head feels a little dizzy after the fast, sudden movement. "Do you think you could apply it to yourself? I have to say, this is the first time I'm seeing Seongwoo put enough faith to a newcomer, enough to give him the main lead at one of his productions, but if he thought you were able to pull it off—then you can." Guanlin gnaws on his lower lip, maybe a little worried, and Dongho notices. "Oh, I must've made you feel even more pressure. I'm sorry about that." He breaks out of the serious character easily, rubbing the back of his head with a weak grin. His eyes still curve in a smile.

"I'm used to it," Guanlin says, as honest as one could get. "I... I've been keeping this to myself for a while, but I think the reason why I haven't been able to be as good as everyone wants me to be is because I have a problem with believing that I could live up to everyone's expectations," he begins to explain, and it takes up all his courage to stay honest, to not change the subject to something else, to let out his worries to someone who, less than an hour ago, was practically a stranger. (Surprisingly, however, it’s not as difficult as Guanlin makes it out to be: while it still takes him a great deal of bravery, there’s something about Dongho that makes him unbelievably easy to confide in.)

Dongho’s eyes soften, and he reaches out with a palm, placing it atop Guanlin’s knees. It’s comforting, and the warmth that comes is enough to make Guanlin feel easier about divulging his problems. “You’re dealing with that from the start, and if you weren’t scared over it, I’d be worried for you. It’s not an irrational fear, but you have to work through it,” he says gently, knowing he’s treading on thin line. “You’ll never live up to anyone’s expectations if you stay doubtful and scared.” Dongho doesn’t bother to soften the blow, just as Guanlin’s prepared for it to come. That’s why he doesn’t feel so hurt by the comment when it does—comes, he means. “I can help you with that, but it might not be easy. It’ll be as difficult as how you’ll make it for yourself. Do you want to try?”

Guanlin takes a deep breath, and with it, he takes in all the things he wants to be: good enough, worthy enough, and in the end, more than just enough.

He breathes out, and nods, steely resolve hiding behind his deceptively clouded hues of brown.

“Let’s do it.”

Jihoon, I.

Whenever Jihoon finds himself being caught up in his own problems, he finds the school’s rooftop as a good enough place to stay in, sometimes during class hours and sometimes not. (Technically, this is ditching class, but he’s never had the best record anyway: his grades are his only salvation, and he maintains them high enough that the teachers are never too annoyed about his occasional absence during class hours.)

The world looks tiny from all the way up here, Jihoon notes, standing at the edge of the rooftop, knowing that one misstep could lead to falling, which could lead to his imminent death. There might’ve been a time where he was too scared to even look down, because the school has four floors and it’s tall enough that he’s sure he’ll be as good as squish if he falls, but now, Jihoon can’t bring himself to care.

Callous, maybe, is the correct way of putting it: he’s just callous to the height, to the possibility of death, to the risk of falling and not having his fate secured. Wrong as it sounds, there’s something almost calming about it, because at least this way Jihoon stays grounded. Knows that no matter how bad his problems get, something as widely feared as death could always happen, and if that does, it just serves to make all his problems seem like nothing at all.

“ing hypocrite,” he says under his breath, acidly, to himself. There’s no one else up here, only him and his shadow that follows him around, and there’s no risk of someone calling him ‘mental’ for talking to himself. It’s just him, and Jihoon can drop the mask he almost always has up freely without any risk. “For all the talk you’re willing to give about how you won’t even blink at the face of death”—just for the hell of it, Jihoon takes a leap, and it’s risky as it is stupid, but he lands fine a few steps away from his original spot, his heart rate only faster by a slight—”but you’re not willing to do jack about your stupid fear.”

A reckless thought jumps in his head. Makes him wonder what it’d be like if he just jumped now, if doing something stupid and life-threatening would be the thing he needs to get over what he fears the most, because if jumping to possible death won’t make what he’s feared for over three years now to seem trivial, then what will?

In the end, though, Jihoon doesn’t. Instead, he in a sharp breath, and forces his head to reel back to something that doesn’t involve jumping off the rooftop and possibly making the local news’ headlines as some kid who committed suicide because of… whatever reason the media could come up of to make it more sensational. His nails, long and untamed (he needs to clip them, he knows that much, but he hasn’t for a month), dig into the fragile skin of his palm. It’s not sharp nor deep enough to bleed, but it’s enough to make him feel a short sting of pain, and slowly, he gets his feet back on the safe ground of the roof, where he’s not on the edge, where he’s not one, two seconds away from making a mistake and becoming a human pancake.

“,” Jihoon curses, stooping down to crouch on the ground, and hangs his head low. He can feel some of the blood rushing to his head, and can practically sense the beginning of a small, momentary headache. He’s cursed more on the rooftop than he has everywhere else, all day. Then again, this is what happens when you leave Jihoon alone, with only his thoughts to keep him company. “I’m a goddamn fake.” He laughs, but there’s no trace of humor, only a rough, desperate kind of edge. For all the talk he’s given to Woojin about being an actor, everything else he’s said before to motivate him, he’s woefully terrible at applying any of that for himself—he’s all bark and no bite, and maybe that’s all he is.

Maybe that’s all he’ll ever be.

Woojin, II.

On the rare occasion that Woojin goes to practice without Guanlin hanging on his tail, he manages to catch a sliver of Seongwoo’s elusive boyfriend—who actually isn’t very elusive, if you’re a part of the school’s choir because he’s literally the conductor, but since he only hangs around the choir room and barely ever steps foot inside the theatre when the theatre kids are using it, he’s practically an urban myth within the circle of the production team.

“Aw, did you miss me so much that you couldn’t resist the urge to meet me in my natural habitat?” Seongwoo teases, and while Woojin doesn’t see the details clearly, he can make out the way Seongwoo leans in, like he’s expecting a peck on the lips. Instead, his boyfriend scoffs, and rears himself backward, away from Seongwoo’s advances.

“You forgot your lunch in the choir room, Ong.” No malice can be detected, and there’s even a spark of fondness, even if the words come out sharp. Woojin can even imagine the smile behind it: tired, and maybe exasperated, but no less warm. “I have to get back to my class now.”

“But school’s over.” Woojin hears the pout in Seongwoo’s voice, resists the urge to roll his eyes, and continues to awkwardly hang by the entranc