Kyuhyun’s mouth is on his collarbone and his hands are on his shoulders and he’s holding him like he has nothing else to hold onto, even though Jongwoon knows that there are more things out there, out there for Kyuhyun. Kyuhyun’s hands dip inside his pants and they fumble with him and it takes all of Jongwoon not to come right then and there, at the feeling of Kyuhyun’s hot hands touching him, at the feeling of Kyuhyun’s wet mouth working and and his skin.

Pants and shirts come undone and even though they know they should be exhausted, they’re not because Kyuhyun’s dark eyes glint in the darkness, blacker than ever with pupils dilated even though Jongwoon can hardly distinguish anything himself. But he knows Kyuhyun’s there and Kyuhyun’s taking him all in—but they’re both thinking, Not yet because they’re not done yet and Kyuhyun likes to tease, he really does. Jongwoon grits his teeth and tightens his hands on Kyuhyun’s shoulders, trying to urge him, urge him downwards.

Kyuhyun doesn’t, though; he tosses off the last of their underwear with a lazy flick, and then pulls out their third bottle of lubricant (almost out) and gets himself ready. He adds a little extra on his fingers, too, and then suddenly he’s inside Jongwoon and Jongwoon is twisting and writhing in delicious pain as Kyuhyun spreads him, as if Kyuhyun hasn’t spread him enough already, as if he’s not used to this sensation at all. Moments pass and Jongwoon has resorted to fumbling with the comforter as Kyuhyun opens him up, and then Kyuhyun takes himself out and Jongwoon kind of misses it—and then he comes in and Jongwoon blacks out for a second, just a second.

Kyuhyun rocks back and forth and watches Jongwoon’s face as Jongwoon soaks up the delectable heat, the heat of Kyuhyun in him and ing into him and he’s so used to this feeling but not really. Kyuhyun moves back and forth, and Jongwoon lets out little incoherent cries because he can’t hear or see anything except for his heart pounding in his ears and little white spots beneath his eyelids. Kyuhyun continues ing him until Jongwoon can’t take it anymore, and he comes without having Kyuhyun really touching him and then suddenly Kyuhyun’s coming as well, just as Kyuhyun is watching him, just as Kyuhyun is staring at him with those half-lidded eyes and swollen lips and Jongwoon knows nothing except for the two of them, and the darkness enveloping their bodies into the night.

“I love you,” he murmurs when Kyuhyun’s finally pulled out and on the side, and they’re tangled in the sheets, waiting for sleep to come.

Kyuhyun says nothing.

**

The next day, Kyuhyun is gone.

There is no note, and when Jongwoon comes into the apartment after work, he notices that it is significantly more empty. There is no second laptop. The bookshelf looks smaller. A few decorations have been taken off the shelves, decorations Jongwoon had never bought, or put there in the first place.

Some bowls from the kitchen are gone, half the mail is on the kitchen table, and when Jongwoon goes into his room, he sees that a few things are missing. A few things that had been left there from forgotten nights and lazy mornings, like wisps of steam from coffee cups, tantalizing and fading away. Jongwoon goes into the hallway, looking for something—but he knows it won’t be there.

Kyuhyun’s room is empty. The only things that are there are the shelf and the bed, which is neatly made. There are no clothes. There are no books. There are no instruments or little trinkets, no cell phone or notebooks, no pencils or sheets of music strewn across the floor. There are no glasses or photos or wallets. And when Jongwoon looks in the bathroom, there’s only one toothbrush, one cup, one shaver and one bottle of shaving cream. And when he opens the cabinet, one tube of unopened toothpaste is gone.

He should have expected it. He really should have. Jongwoon walks back into the living room, and sits.

The couch feels much too big.

**

(He knows what he’s done wrong.

It wasn’t warranted and he couldn’t do that to Kyuhyun, no, not yet. Even though he’s always liked it, always liked the way they touched and kissed and hugged and knew, the way they just managed to fit into each other, somehow. Even though they’ve always been like this. Even though they’re together.)

**

(Not anymore.)

**

It’s a shock, Jongwoon will be the first to admit. All the habits of sharing are gone. All the memories still linger, even though the life doesn’t. All the schedules he’s been used to for the past year and almost a half are completely altered, forcing him to get used to living like this. By himself.

Jongwoon can deal with living by himself, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t need it.

He’s cold for the first nights. Quiet. But he’s not completely out of place, because it’s like he’s already used to this; like his body has been preparing himself for this moment. Like his mind has been preparing himself for this moment. But there’s an empty, aching hole in his chest, like one part of him had been left out in the dark, not ready for this at all. Not ready for this onslaught of emotions.

Not ready for any of this.

He pretends. That it’s always been like this. That nothing has been taken away from him. That he hadn’t been expecting too much. That this is life as how it is, how it has been.

**

And then he just gives up.

“This is horrible,” Jongwoon mutters, staring at the document on the computer screen and raking his fingers through his hair (it’s gotten thicker as he’s gotten quieter.) His song is fine, but it’s also all wrong and it’s just not right, even though his manager comes over and a funny look passes over his face.

“What? I think this is a great song, Jongwoon. Your best song yet,” his manager encourages. His manager never lies. Jongwoon wonders if he’s taken on a new hobby.

“It’s not,” says Jongwoon.

“Well it’s no matter. I’m sure you’ll make it more perfect soon enough,” says his manager. “Also, are you sure you won’t reconsider that singing tour? Of course, you’ll be moving around a lot, but…”

Jongwoon tunes him out. For once in his life, he doesn’t know anything.

**

The Christmas tree is still in the living room. Jongwoon feels like he should take it down, since it isn’t even close to the winter anymore, but he can’t. He doesn’t know where he should put it.

It sits there every day, staring at him, mocking him. Eventually Jongwoon trains his gaze to look everywhere at the Christmas tree, the pure reminder of what had been.

**

Spring passes much too quickly, and then it’s summer again. And summer doesn’t really feel like summer, because the sun is bright and hot and beating down on Jongwoon’s neck and all Jongwoon can think about is how it seems so fake because nothing can be this bright, nothing can ever be this bright.

Summer means that Jongwoon gets more breaks than usual, but he wants to work harder than ever. He comes in on one of the days he’s supposed to have off and the janitor looks at him oddly, looks at him like he’s something wrong and maybe Jongwoon is something wrong. But Jongwoon stays there and he writes songs in the empty building and he leaves at five in the afternoon, as always. (For a moment he thinks of what he’s going to cook for dinner and is worried that they don’t have enough bean sprouts—then he remembers there’s not a they but a he and he’ll have much more bean sprouts than he’ll need.)

**

What do people usually do in the summer? They go to the beach, except they usually go to the beach with someone else. Jongwoon thinks for a moment that he hasn’t been to the beach in ages, since probably some years back when he had visited his family for vacation—and then he remembers that he had gone down to the beach with Kyuhyun last year and so he just stops thinking and continues working.

He buys another laptop because his old one is getting, well, old (and he is too), with some of the money he had made over the last month. (He and Kyuhyun had barely discussed their salaries, and Jongwoon feels like it’s something lovers (lovers?) should have discussed.) His new laptop is faster. More high-tech. Jongwoon is satisfied with his purchase.

Soon enough he stops thinking about Kyuhyun so much because of work and because of everything else in life (and he’s paying the rent now, so why should he waste his mind on someone who isn’t helping him pay for the apartment?). But he doesn’t forget.

**

Jongwoon cooks dinner for himself as soon as he gets home. There are some leftover peas, so he microwaves those, and he cooks enough stir fry and beef to last him for the rest of the week. Which is sort of an amazing feat, considering how exhausted he is.

As soon as he finishes eating, he flops onto the couch and sprawls all over it. His eyes briefly flit to the second chair at the small dining table; but his mind makes no remark on the matter. He grabs one of the magazines on the coffee table and ignores the fact that it used to be much fuller, only mere months before. His fingers rifle through the faces and his eyes rake over unattractive men, because everyone is unattractive to him.

He falls asleep at eight in the afternoon and wakes up at three in the morning. He doesn’t go back to sleep. In fact, he just sits there and waits for the sun to come up, because he knows it will sooner or later.

**

He grabs the newspaper again, like he always does, from one of the boxes on the side of the street. They’re a bit funny, like they expect you to be interested, for you to reach in and grab one because you want to keep up with the news. When they don’t know that on the outside, no one really cares.

Jongwoon cares as he reads the headlines with a breakfast cake in his hands. The economy. Politics. Murder. Scandals. It’s all the same, just different. With different people, different endings. Still the same. Jongwoon quickly tosses the newspaper into a nearby trashcan, and heads to work.

“Jongwoon!” his manager says brightly as soon as he steps into the building. “I know you’ve been saying no for the past—what, year?—but I think it would be really good for your career if you branch out. Go for different direction, see new things. You seemed pretty insistent the last time I asked, but traveling isn’t just good for sales, it’s also good to get new fans and a new audience, for them to see—and look, more publicity! And all right, I suppose in the end, that’s still for new fans, but think about it Jongwoon, won’t that be great if—”

“I get it, I’ll do it,” says Jongwoon, putting his hand up to quiet his manager.

His manager keeps rattling off the advertisements. “—you gain more fans? Then the sales will definitely go through the roof! Internationality is everything in business, even though you’ve got plenty of fans already here thanks to your old band; and you’ve got a fantastic voice, too, though I’m sure you know that already…”

“Sunbae, sunbae, I said I’ll do it. So you can stop talking,” Jongwoon chuckles, looking at his manager slightly exasperatedly.

“Oh.” His manager seems surprised. “That’s great then. All right. You’ll do it?”

“I’ll do it,” Jongwoon confirms. He doesn’t have anything to hold him back anymore.

**

Jongwoon gets the mail because he’s the only person to get the mail. He goes through the envelopes. It’s the same old thing with the taxes and the money (he still has to sort a few things out with the landlord), and then a few magazines and advertisements. Jongwoon saves a few coupons in case he wants to go out and doesn’t have any extra money to spend, which is a lot more likely than before.

He’s about to leave the rest of the mail on the table, and then changes his mind and throws the rest of it away. It’s all extra. So much in his life is extra. The mail is pretty much extra, as well, but Jongwoon has a schedule to keep; he still has to get it these days. He’s always gotten it these days. It’s one of the things that has remained constant.

**

On one of the days when Jongwoon feels a little bit stronger, he goes into Kyuhyun’s old room. It’s the same as Kyuhyun had left it, as he had left it: dark and empty. He’s only come in because he’s left his cell phone lying around somewhere, and he’s searched the rest of the apartment high and low. This is the only place he hasn’t checked. (Of course he doesn’t expect it to be here—but it wouldn’t hurt to look, would it?)

He looks on the bed and at the bedside, but of course his phone isn’t there. He goes to the corner between the wall and the shelf—for some reason, this place seems a bit familiar. He remembers where from: that Christmas, ages ago, when he had been home all alone and put a Christmas present here for Kyuhyun because Kyuhyun wasn’t here. In the back of his mind, he regrets not asking Kyuhyun about it. In the front of his mind, he is still searching for his cell phone.

When he finds his cell phone about an hour later (it had been in his bag all along), he briefly considers going back into Kyuhyun’s room to see if the present he had put is still there. But he knows it’s not because when he had looked, it had been empty. And in the back of Jongwoon’s mind, again, he regrets not asking Kyuhyun about his reaction.

He fumbles with his cell phone and calls his manager about when they’re going to leave Seoul, the same way Kyuhyun has left his mind.

**

Jongwoon comes home at nine at night on a Thursday in the middle of June. He’d spent the past few hours at work, talking and recording and discussing and planning, and time had flown by without him knowing it—time seems to do that nowadays, doesn’t it? Hunger had escaped him during the day, but now his stomach is growling and he feels like he could eat everything in this whole apartment. If only he could stomach it.

He grabs a piece of toast from the counter and hopes that it satisfies most of his hunger pains. He walks around the apartment, trying to find something to do with the adrenaline still running through him. Jongwoon rearranges some things, finds other parts of things in the apartment to adjust; he’s always been a neat person and now everything feels more organized than ever. He dawdles around in front of the television set before realizing that he hasn’t turned it on in ages, hasn’t appreciated any other form of entertainment for a long time. And perhaps he never will.

Jongwoon spends too much time in the living room and not enough time in other parts of the apartment. One of the rooms remains untouched, almost empty. To Jongwoon, it is.

Instead, he goes to the bathroom.

He takes the time to observe the surroundings; the bathroom ceiling has always been ugly. A nasty knot twists in Jongwoon’s stomach. He looks to the shower—the shower that might as well be stained with everything he’s done, the shower in which half the water running hadn’t been for him. The knot tightens, and he promptly exits the bathroom.

He goes into his bathroom, intending to call it a day and go to sleep as soon as he can, even though he knows it’ll be hours until he finally drifts into the arms of slumber. One of his turtles is poking the glass walls of its tank. Ddangkomaeng.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, hitting the wall back with the knuckle of his forefinger.

Ddangkomaeng tilts his head and looks at him, but doesn’t say anything. Because it can’t. It’s a turtle. And turtles can’t talk to people.

Jongwoon suddenly feels very alone.

**

Early in the morning on Saturday, Jongwoon awakes, not feeling up for a day of rest. Work clears thoughts out of his mind. Jongwoon doesn’t want to think. It’s never been his strong point.

He lies in bed for a while, staring at the white ceiling, almost hoping, imagining that the ceiling is staring back. When he finally decides that he’s being stupid and petulant, not wanting to do anything but nothing all day (and isn’t that an oxymoron, he thinks sardonically), he gets up out of his bed and shuffles into the kitchen still clad in his dark plaid pajama buttons. The floor is polished, cold.

He goes out of the apartment for a moment to grab the mail. He notices a letter not addressed to him, and in the back of his mind, tells himself to later pen a carefully worded letter on how Kyuhyun doesn’t live here anymore. He sets the envelope aside on the counter and rifles through the rest of the mail.

It’s been four months, but it feels so much shorter.

So much longer.

But then again, Jongwoon sighs and stares up at the ceiling thoughtfully. It’s been monotonous. Boring. Every day is the same now. Every single day. Jongwoon feels like he should be grateful, grateful of little excitement, grateful of no restlessness, grateful of peace. But he’s not at peace.

**

(When the tide comes in, Jongwoon thinks for a moment, this is it!—and then the water turns to dust and flickers onto the sand, and there’s nothing between Jongwoon’s fingers except for the blue spaces of the sky.)

**

His manager is excited. Jongwoon is not.

“Think about it!” his manager says, pacing the room up and down as everything goes into boxes, cardboard boxes, brown cardboard boxes. The sight stuns Jongwoon for a moment. “You’ll be performing in new places! Oh, this will be fun, too much fun.”

“And if they don’t like me?” Jongwoon asks dryly, twiddling the pencil between his fingers. He’s picked up too many habits from too many people, he figures.

“That’s not possible.” His manager waves a hand. “And if they don’t—think! We can just go somewhere else! Somewhere, people will like you—you’ve got a talent, you know.”

“Yeah.” The compliment has been told so many times over so many years that it’s more of a fact, now.

“Though you’ll need a nice place to stay,” says his manager, tapping his chin with his pen. He glances at Jongwoon. “Your new apartment all right?”

Suddenly, Jongwoon would like nothing better than to move out. No memories. No old routine. “It’s fine, but it could be better,” he says, hoping that his sunbae will pick up on the implication.

And his manager nods. “Then you’ll move! Somewhere small because you probably won’t be staying too much—you’ll probably see a lot of hotels the longer this goes on—but just so that you have a place to go back to, right? Like a home.” He chuckles.

Home. Jongwoon doesn’t know what to make of this. Like a home. Even though it’ll be anything but a home.

“Sure,” he says.

**

At one o’clock in the morning, Jongwoon finally snaps and trudges out of his bedroom. He supposes he can do whatever he wants since he’s alone now. He can turn on the lights and do some stress cleaning. He can eat straight from the milk carton. He can sing loudly. He can stomp throughout the apartment, testing the floorboards.

He doesn’t. He goes to the bathroom and leaves the door open.

Jongwoon supposes that he can be sanitary and in the shower, but it’s ing one in the morning and he really doesn’t care. He’s a bit tired, too, but psychological drive overcomes him and instead he just drops down his pajama buttons and stares at himself in the mirror, before wandering over to the toilet.

He and grips himself and just wants it to be done, to be over with so he can get a goodnight’s rest, so he can rest. When he finally, finally comes after what feels like a tremendous amount of effort, he tells himself that he hadn’t been thinking. He hadn’t been thinking about anyone. He hadn’t seen a figure in his mind or a face in the dark, nor heard the familiar breathing patterns of someone he once knew. All it had been was his own hand on his own and ual frustration pouring out of him. That was all it was.

He climbs into bed and closes his eyes. In the morning, he does not feel rested.

**

Eventually Jongwoon becomes tired of having the same thing for dinner over and over again, beef and meat and rice and vegetables, because he keeps cooking too much and it turns bland on him. So he decides to go out for dinner, and it’s not like old times because single people go out to restaurants and eat by themselves, right? Jongwoon brings a notebook with his lyrics in it just so that he has something to work on, and his cell phone even though he doubts anyone will call him on a Sunday evening.

He goes to a restaurant and thinks he might recognize the waiter; in fact, he might even recognize the restaurant itself. He doesn’t know. He hadn’t paid any attention to the sign outside. The symbols had just been symbols and all Jongwoon had really cared about was that the restaurant served decent food and he had a wallet in his pocket. He eats the food and thinks that it might taste a bit familiar as well. The waiter tilts his head to the side, almost asking, Weren’t you here with another man one day? Jongwoon is tempted to say no, but he knows that he’ll look like a lunatic. So instead he smiles and eats his food and nods, and it’s enough. Apparently.

He’s sure he’s eaten far too little, but Jongwoon is used to these small diets; and after dinner, he goes outside and thinks he might treat himself. Funny, how everything looks so much bigger when you’re alone. The streets seem to stretch on to the end of the universe. Jongwoon walks and walks down the sidewalk until he comes to an ice cream vendor, and thinks that might be familiar as well.

He orders his ice cream and it, thinking about why he feels like he’s seen it all before. Felt it all before. Like in a dream, a strange sense of déjà vu, even though it feels too real. Far too real.

Jongwoon suddenly realizes and stops in the middle of the street. He throws the rest of his half-eaten ice cream cone away into a trashcan on the side. Then he turns and walks back to the apartment, wishing he had somewhere else to go.

**

“We’ve decided,” announces his manager, tossing a large map onto the table and pointing to somewhere south in South Korea. “You’ll be staying in Changhung. Living there, that is.”

“Huh?” Jongwoon sleepily lifts his head up from the cradle of his arms.

His manager sighs. “When we leave. Changhung. That’s your new home.”

“Oh.” Jongwoon blinks and stares the map. “But… that’s so far away.”

“Hardly a few hours’ flight.” His manager waves his hand. “And I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it. When do you say we leave? In a month?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jongwoon complies, and then returns to resting on the table as his manager continues planning stuff with the others.

It’s a bit different but Jongwoon lets them guide his life, because even though it’s been like this in the past, it definitely feels like something new. He hasn’t had plans before but now someone is making plans for him. And Jongwoon can only go along with them.

At lunch break, one of the stylists comes up to him and asks him if he wants to go to lunch with her. He agrees; he sort of needs the company, anyways. And all right, maybe the stylist looks a little bit too happy when Jongwoon says yes—or maybe she realizes he needs a pick-me-up and is trying to make him feel better. It won’t work, but Jongwoon has the decency to feel grateful.

Lunch is over quickly and Jongwoon is back in the workroom. His manager makes plans. Jongwoon hears, but doesn’t listen.

**

His manager tells him to man up and find an apartment for himself in Changhung already (apparently Jongwoon’s the only one actually moving, since everyone already has a home here in Seoul. But their homes have families and wives and husbands and children. Jongwoon’s doesn’t. Pity), so Jongwoon searches online and does. He finds a nice small one, at the edge of town: Changhung is a bit less urban than Seoul is. He purchases it on a whim and then waits for the weeks to pass by until it’s officially his.

It’s the first apartment that he had seen on the internet. He hadn’t even considered going to Changhung to look at it.

Two days later, his manager tells him he’s proud of him. For what, Jongwoon doesn’t know, but he just smiles weakly and continues on with the business that is business.

“You are going to be big further down south,” says his manager. “Super Junior was pretty successful in Korea, wasn’t it? Much less internationally.” He chuckles. “They’ll know your name already. They’ll be impressed with the stuff you’ve got.”

Jongwoon doesn’t try to deny this, because even sometimes he can’t believe that nowadays he’s singing a lot of heavier stuff. Rock stuff. Whatever happened to ballads and pop? It feels like the first time Jongwoon’s paying attention to his career. (He still sings loads of ballads though, because they’re his comfort zone and he’s not especially fond of stepping outside of his comfort zone.)

All in all, Jongwoon doesn’t know if this is a good thing or not.

“And you’ll make enough money to retire by the time you’re forty,” his manager chuckles, patting him on the back. For some extremely strange reason, Jongwoon feels like this is supposed to make him feel better, even though it doesn’t.

**

Jongwoon’s in his bedroom when he beats off again. It’s starting to become a habit, doing this when he can. He supposes lonely men do this all the time. Not all men do, because a lot of them have someone to help them. Someone to stimulate them.

(Jongwoon doesn’t have someone to stimulate him, he really doesn’t.)

Eight hours later he wakes up and cleans his spunk off his sheets. Fourteen hours later, he does it again.

**

His manager has gotten his whole new schedule figured out—stay in Changhung for a little bit, then go around to Haenam, Sunchon and Mokpo. Jongwoon doesn’t bother wondering why Mokpo sounds so familiar to him. He knows why.

Then his manager asks him if he’s packed up yet and Jongwoon has a sinking realization he hasn’t. His manager scolds him because hell, they’re moving in two weeks. Two weeks. Jongwoon believes in time, but two weeks sounds so short. Two weeks in comparison to two months, two years—

Two people. Too many memories. Too much past.

Jongwoon needs to get out of here as fast as he can.

**

A few days later, they’ve even decided which hotels Jongwoon would be staying at when they go out to travel, to perform at public places and shows. Volunteer arenas, for causes people should care about but don’t really care about anyways. At schools, even. Jongwoon sort of imagines that people will be pointing and laughing at him, saying, Look, there’s an ex-Super Junior member! Doesn’t he look so lonely now, having a solo career? Jongwoon knows that loads of artists have solo careers, but when you’re in a huge boy band, it’s hard to forget something you were part of. Something that was part of you.

The hotels, fortunately, are comfortable and nice and his manager says that they’re “his style”—what style, exactly, he’s talking about, Jongwoon has no idea. He smiles and goes along with it, though. Anything to keep his manager happy. Anything to keep everybody else happy.

When the weekend rolls around, Jongwoon tells himself he’ll pack up, only he knows he won’t. He lounges around the apartment, looking for things to do, things to keep him busy, to keep his mind off of other things. There are things and things and things and more things, and soon enough Jongwoon is just getting bored out of his mind. He sings some of his old songs as he cleans the apartment for the fiftieth time on Sunday. His voice is loud in the empty space.

Jongwoon wonders if there are people who are like this. Who actually live like this. Who’ve been lonely and bored their whole lives, and he suddenly stops feeling sorry for himself. Then he immediately feels sorry for himself again, because he shouldn’t be caring about others and comparing himself to other people because he’s himself, and okay sure maybe Siwon’s happily married and Donghae has three bouncing children and Ryeowook’s business is booming and his girlfriend is cheerful and adorable. And Jongwoon is pathetic and alone, and sometimes he wishes for an end.

Not the sort of end where he dies and disappears, none of that. He won’t have any of that. But some sort of closure, some sort of finality. Then he realizes that there isn’t going to be a finality, because there’s no middle to balance that end. There are just beginnings. Beginnings, beginnings, beginnings. And Jongwoon considers for one sickening moment that this is his last beginning, and he’ll never have another.

Three hours later he falls asleep in bed, his mind full of insane thoughts and random questions and not enough answers. He gets four hours of sleep, a pale comparison to the thirty-two hours he had been awake.

**

His depression comes to an abrupt end when his manager tells him to pack up already because seriously, they’re leaving in a week. Already there are advertisements about KIM JONGWOON IN CHANGHUNG—DON’T MISS IT! Jongwoon’s sort of sick of it, but not really (because hey, beginnings, right? There’s another one coming around the corner. Or at least, Jongwoon hopes so.)

Though he hasn’t had nightmares for a while. And that’s something else to contemplate about. Nightmares. If they were just based on his moods, if he could have brought light to his nightmares and made them, well, better. Nightmares are a source of sanity, to feel weak. If Jongwoon hasn’t had nightmares for a while, does that make him stronger? Or weaker?

Anyways, apparently his manager and every other person he works with has noticed that he’s been behaving sort of odd lately and his stylist tells him that he really, really should get more sleep because there are those horrible bags under his eyes and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot. And Jongwoon’s pretty much at his own eye makeup, and there’s no way he could possibly hide his eyes, so he does what she says and gets some sleep. It becomes embedded into his everyday routine, like everything else. And even though everything’s changing, it’s staying exactly the same.

His stylist comes over with a water bottle, pats his head and tells him it’ll be all right.

**

His bookshelf holds many things. Books, notebooks, pencils and pens, binders, textbooks, old letters, random paperweights, and discs. Things he’s compiled over the past few years. It’s one of the things he never bothers sorting out, or else it’ll make even less sense to him.

Jongwoon puts them all into his carry-along bag (except for the paperweights—they go into the suitcase) until he reaches the bottom shelf. He’s not paying too much attention to the discs—a few old albums by bands he’s liked since he was a teen, some from bands while he was in a band—until he catches sight of a familiar face. Kyuhyun’s face. On the disc he had bought from him.

Jongwoon stares at it for a moment, remembering when they had talked about their careers. Then he puts it into his bag.

But after that is yet another all-too familiar disc. It’s not Kyuhyun’s face this time; rather, it’s his own. It’s the face that Kyuhyun had been staring at that one day, when Jongwoon had come home from work. Jongwoon had never asked Kyuhyun why. They hadn’t even talked about the incident. Incident. Like it’s such an important matter.

Jongwoon puts that into his bag, too.

He continues packing, until a black-and-white photo album stares up at him. This, Jongwoon can’t help but smile at. It’s the old Super Junior disc. Third or fourth, he can’t remember. He puts that into his bag, and right underneath where the previous Super Junior album had been, there’s another one. And Jongwoon really can’t help the fluttery feeling in his stomach this time, the long thrill of reminiscence.

He takes the disc out of the album and puts it into the stereo. Then he listens to the songs one by one, humming a little bit.

Gradually, the humming turns to soft words, and the soft words turn into louder words. Eventually he’s singing, singing along with the songs, singing with all his might, singing words he doesn’t know but just spill off the tip of his tongue, singing better and bigger and more passionate than he has in ages, in ages, and this really doesn’t mean a thing because he’s belting out words and sure these are ballads and supposed to be nice and soft but Jongwoon, Jongwoon is singing with all his might and he doesn’t—

Stop. This isn’t Jongwoon’s song.

It’s not a song that’s meant to be sung alone.

Jongwoon shakes his head and feels foolish, as he takes the disc back out from the stereo. He looks at it for a long time, then puts it back into the disc flap. And he puts the album into his bag. And then he continues packing.

**

Jongwoon sees a pink stuffed animal sitting inside the unused bedroom closet.

He packs that, as well. He doesn’t stay in the room for any longer.

**

Then they’re all ready to go. Jongwoon’s stuff is in the van, his turtles indignantly tapping their shells in the back (Jongwoon can hear them, but it’s probably because his ears are too sensitive) and they’re heading to the airport. His manager is ecstatic in the front.

On their way out of the van, Jongwoon trips as he walks out and is caught by a few people who are helping out. “Sorry,” he apologizes to the people who had caught him, who tell him that it’s okay.

“Could have sprained that ankle,” his manager chuckles.

Jongwoon smiles. Could have.

They go through baggage and security check on time, and then soon enough they’re on the airplane. First class. Row A. Seat 3.

Not bad.

“Would you like a glass of champagne?” asks the flight attendant. “Wine? Beer?”

Jongwoon offers her a little smile. “No thank you. No beer for me.”

“You’re missing out,” calls his manager on the side, but Jongwoon doubts he is.

**

The moment they touch down in Changhung, Jongwoon suddenly feels awake, wide awake. It’s not proper to want to advertise in such a small town, and this Jongwoon knows—and sure he sort of wants people to know who he is, and so that’s why he doesn’t feel tired as he walks out of the airport.

He tells his manager that he’s going to stay awake in his new apartment and that he doesn’t need anyone’s help. “It’s eleven in the evening, Jongwoon,” his manager grumbles, but doesn’t bother with him when he bids him goodnight.

Jongwoon unpacks everything on the first night and, instead of getting a decent rest like he should, he instead preens around, deciding where he should put furniture. He’s not going to buy too much since his bed and television and many other things are on their way, but he’ll probably need a couch so he can sleep on something other than his makeshift bed (composed of an old pillow and some clothes) for a few days. And, you know, lights wouldn’t hurt.

However, Jongwoon doesn’t bother going into the kitchen, doesn’t think about making himself meals. Anything at all. He’ll just eat out. Cooking is much too tiring, anyways.

**

The next few days he has off, giving him some time to settle into his new apartment. Jongwoon gets used to it quickly, as well as the lady down the hall who thought she might have recognized him (but didn’t) and the new landlord, and a few new neighbors. He gets used to the town and the streets and the places, and soon enough people are eating out of his hand—well not really, but they’re perfectly congenial to him. He isn’t to them, but he’s used to it.

And he doesn’t get settled in, but he’s used to it.

He goes to his new workplace on Monday morning—a large building down the block. Jongwoon’s manager had had a friend who lived here and could help them out, including their working space. When Jongwoon enters the building, he greets the receptionist, who gives him a quick nod before giving directions to his manager’s temporary office here in Changhung. He’ll be getting a permanent one soon.

“So,” his manager says as soon as he settles down at the desk. “I was thinking that since we’re in a new place, we could try new things. Remember that time a few months ago when you said you wanted to do a collaboration with your roommate?”

Jongwoon’s stomach turns over. “Yes,” he says, “but my—my roommate apparently was too busy. He, ah, already had other projects going on.”

“Is he all right with you moving?” his manager asks him breezily.

Jongwoon can feel a bead of sweat on his upper lip. “Yes,” he says shortly.

“Ah. Well anyways, I suppose you could always collaborate with someone else.” His manager chuckles. “Are any of your old bandmates—?”

“No,” says Jongwoon before his manager can get any further.

His manager frowns. “Well all right then. It’s not an idea we should scrap, though, because I’m sure your voice will sound good with loads others. We’ll try to find a nice duet for you to join in on; meanwhile, let’s keep working on those solo songs!”

“Yes,” says Jongwoon, and never in his life had he been so grateful that he is alone.

**

Because of the new reign on the company—though technically it’s not a new reign, just a new schedule and a way of doing things—they’ve decided that Jongwoon is getting a new cell phone. Specifically, this means that Jongwoon had had no say in the manner, although he’s not entirely opposed to the idea, anyways.

“What would you like?” the cell phone man asks him, probably eager to treat someone who’ll be paying him so well.

Jongwoon chooses without picking, and then waits as the data gets transferred and the money gets sent. The company will help paying for this as well; it’s part of the insurance. And also proper etiquette, Jongwoon figures as he thanks the man and goes back to his apartment with the cardboard box holding his new cell phone in his hands.

When he arrives, he scrounges around for his old cell phone. He stares at it for a moment. He considers throwing it out.

But he doesn’t. He keeps it in the back of his bag. Just in case.

**

Writing love songs gets harder, like the love isn’t there.

Jongwoon taps the back of his pen on the bridge of his nose. The words just don’t sound right. At all. Like they’re trying to fit together to create something special and extraordinary, except it all turns into . Jongwoon’s mood dampens significantly.

Eventually he sets his pen down and gets up to get a snack. When he comes back, the horrible lyrics are staring back up at him and he doesn’t know what to do to make them sound right.

**

He doesn’t like his new bathroom, because it doesn’t smell like fresh grass and water. Still, he es and then sits in the bathtub, his bare on the cold floor.

He ends up falling asleep and wakes up too early in the morning; he knows because the sky is dark and it’s not even close to the time when he should be in the office. Jongwoon gathers himself up and treads over to the only bedroom. He falls asleep but it feels like two minutes later when he wakes up again.

A vision of rippling waves flashes through his mind, but Jongwoon only puts his socks on and gets ready for work.

**

“Your hair’s getting long,” says his stylist right after a show, taking his makeup off and brushing his long hair out of his face. “You need a trim.”

“More than a trim,” says one of the other designers, observing the top of Jongwoon’s head. She meets his gaze for a second. “We could do it, if you’d like.”

“That’d be great,” says Jongwoon, wanting nothing more than to get out of here as soon as possible.

So the next day, they cut his hair and then give him a mirror and praise him. They’re his stylists for a reason, because everyone who passes by stops to admire him and compliment him on his haircut.

“You couldn’t look better,” crows one of the wardrobe people, beaming.

Jongwoon couldn’t feel any worse.

**

His new apartment is different from his old apartment, in many ways.

First, it’s smaller. Much smaller. Too much smaller. In fact, it’s so small that it sort of makes Jongwoon feel like he’s living in a closet—he’s not, of course, because it has multiple rooms. But the walls are closer and whiter and make Jongwoon feel like everything is closing in on him. And he doesn’t like that.

The second thing is that it’s new and it has no memories. Jongwoon can’t lean against the wall and recall when he had done so-and-so. Or look into the bathroom and remember how he had done this-or-that and it was really funny, or really stupid, or really embarrassing. He can’t look into his closet and remember how he used to put that there, and then one day it wasn’t there because something had happened. Because there’s nothing to take away in the first place.

The third thing is the bathroom. It doesn’t smell like anything. It doesn’t smell like fresh grass and water, it doesn’t smell like fresh grass and water. It smells like Jongwoon. It smells like him. Only of him.

Nothing else.

**

Just like his manager had promised, they don’t stay in Changhung for too long—eventually he packs up as little as he can and they’re in the van, driving to Sunchon. He just really wants to go to sleep at this point, but he listens to his music player and stares out the window, ignoring his manager next to him and the drive in the front.

Jongwoon is glad for this change of scenery; he doesn’t have the expectations that he gives in Changhung. The hotel room is cozy and nice, albeit not homey at all, but Jongwoon can stay for a few days. He performs at some sort of local event, and then spends the rest of the day touring around a place he’ll never visit again. His words come quick, his smiles fake.

Jongwoon knows how to live, alright. He definitely knows how to live.

**

Very, incredibly soon it’s his birthday and his manager and everyone else takes him out. They go out to dinner and sing happy birthday in the dark lit by a large number of candles, though Jongwoon highly doubts there’s thirty or else the cake would be on fire.

Then they turn the lights back on and start dividing up the cake.

Jongwoon thanks the man who’s cutting the cake and eats it. It tastes dull, bland. Jongwoon’s not paying attention when he hears one of the work behind him say, “Hey, Jongwoon hyung—” and the next thing he knows is that he’s turning around and there’s cake on his face.

Jongwoon forces out a laugh. “Very funny,” he says, wiping his face clean as everyone else laughs, as well.

**

Jongwoon sits up in his bed, sweat beading down his face. He can still see the dark ocean rolling with the wind, even though right now he’s awake.

Three hours later, the sight of the sand is still embedded into his mind’s eye.

(There’s nothing on the beach. Nothing. And Jongwoon, Jongwoon is only waiting.)

**

Jongwoon’s working on a tune for a song he doesn’t think will sell well (and will probably receive more than a half amount of attention more than it deserves) while his manager is at the desk beside him, working on his own things. Jongwoon’s not paying too much attention to him—he’s too focused on making his song sound good while still being half-assed. It’s a much more difficult task than one would imagine.

“Oh, Jongwoon, I heard something the other day,” his manager says suddenly, perking up and glancing over at him. “You might be interested.”

Jongwoon doesn’t look over at him.

“Your old roommate was Cho Kyuhyun, right?” Jongwoon doesn’t answer. “Apparently he’s over at Japan now. Tokyo. For his own solo career. Left for there several months ago.” His manager chuckles. “Tokyo loves him.”

**

One of these days, Jongwoon figures, he’ll find a pattern in how my wardrobe is picked out. Jongwoon has never been good at solving and noticing patterns, but today his clothes are especially itchy and it takes all he can not to pick and scratch at them as he sings on the chair, up on the stage.

Besides, this is for a television program and Jongwoon wouldn’t want to seem too jumpy, would he?

When the performance is done, Jongwoon quickly shrugs out of his clothes and pulls on his more comfortable ones. His back is turned to his bag as he looks around for his shoes in the dressing room, when all of a sudden, he hears a strange buzzing. The buzzing sounds awfully familiar.

Jongwoon glances around the room, looking for the source of the noise. He locates it to be somewhere around his bag. After observing and seeing that nothing else on the chair where is bag is sitting happens to be the causal of this continuous buzzing, he finally goes through his bag, searching and feeling around—

—and pulls out his old cell phone, from the bottom.

The number on the caller identification screen isn’t familiar, but Jongwoon knows that he should answer this. He turns the speaker on and says, “Hello?”

“Hello? Jongwoon hyung?” Jongwoon feels like he should know this voice.

“Who is this?”

“It’s, um.” An awkward shuffling of feet. “Sungmin. Lee Sungmin. You probably haven’t heard from me for a while—”

“No, I haven’t,” Jongwoon says very meaningfully. He sits down in a nearby chair so his legs don’t give way underneath him. “Why are you calling me?” He tries to keep his tone friendly.

“Well, um, I was just wondering—was just checking up on you. To see, you know. How you’re doing.”

Checking up on you. The words are extremely familiar. And soon enough, Jongwoon knows exactly what this is about.

“You shouldn’t do things out of pure guilt,” he whispers into the speaker, before promptly hanging up on Sungmin.

**

(Jongwoon idles. The sky is darkening; it hasn’t done this before. There’s nothing in the distance except for the endless blue of the ocean. And nothing has come up. How can Jongwoon expect something to come when it hasn’t, nothing had ever come for all this time? Still, he waits. The sky is clear, bounty for the feeling that sinks into Jongwoon’s stomach.)

He’s startled out of his dream by the sound of Ddangkoma scratching at the wall of his tank. Jongwoon glances at him for a moment, before staring into the darkness once more, his eyes falling on the wall in front of him. They’re only dreams. And Jongwoon hasn’t had nightmares in forever.

But somehow, he feels like these dreams are nightmares. A different sort of nightmares. Perhaps the type of nightmares that he can turn into a happy dream.

Jongwoon shakes these thoughts out of his mind and gets out of his bed, and goes over to his turtles to give them the turtle feed. Ddangkoming and Ddangkomaeng are still asleep, but Ddangkoma looks at him with reproachful eyes. Like he knows what’s going on through Jongwoon’s mind.

“Don’t worry, I’m all right,” he assures Ddangkoma, but Ddangkoma continues staring at him like he knows something Jongwoon doesn’t know.

Jongwoon scoffs at his own thought, and then climbs back into his bed. If he has dreams of anything else tonight, he does not remember them when he wakes up.

**

It’s late September when Jongwoon even remembers anything about his family again (and he feels so old, but he realizes he’s not, not really, when he still has many years to go). So he decides to ring them up and see how they’re doing, just for the sake of doing so and out of guilt. Out of guilt and with nothing else better to do. Besides, he figures that he should let them know he’s doing okay ever since they’ve moved here.

His mother answers on the first ring.

“Hello?” she says, her voice tired.

Jongwoon feels his pulse quicken. “Mom?”

“Oh! Jongwoon!” Something clatters on the other end, but his mother’s voice is still excited. “Sorry, just a busy day today in the shop—how are you doing? How’s Changhung? I saw the advertisements and some of your shows on the television, you look great!”

Oh right. A lot of the shows have been aired to the public. Jongwoon forgets this small detail, for a moment. “Thanks,” he says, leaning against his narrow kitchen counter. “Changhung’s great. Small, quiet—but great.”

“Never like the lives you’ve had before.” His mother’s voice is still breathy. “All—All right then? You’re just living by yourself?”

“Yeah. Nothing like Seoul,” Jongwoon says wistfully, and then figures he should sound a bit happier. “But it’s nice. Making more money. Getting the better end of things.”

“Good,” his mother says, sounding relieved. “So your old roommate was completely okay with you moving?”

Jongwoon’s hand slips off the edge of the counter. “Yeah,” he says. “He was fine.”

**

Even though Jongwoon isn’t cooking for himself nowadays (breakfasts are pastries from the bakery; lunch, whatever he can find while he’s out; and dinner, the small restaurant across the street that has black bean noodles cheaper than any other place Jongwoon has been to before), he figures that he should buy some groceries. Because, you know, he wants to prove to himself and anyone else who asks that he can depend on himself and not on the restaurants that surround him.

This place has no memories here.

Jongwoon spends fifteen minutes wondering where the grocery store is—and then when he finally finds it, he wastes another twenty minutes contemplating what he should buy. Vegetables. Fruit. Tofu. Drinks. Jongwoon has been drinking from the tap for weeks. It probably isn’t very healthy.

Jongwoon wanders around the aisles and picks around at the food. For some reason, grocery shopping doesn’t seem right. He had done it a few times before, back in Seoul. Not too little, but not even close to a number of times until it would be considered normal. Shopping for fresh food, that is. They’ve always just eaten out. At restaurants. But those restaurants are gone.

Other things, however, are not. Jongwoon leaves the grocery store without purchasing anything, and decides to have some Chinese food tonight.

He ends up eating fried pork and steamed rice in a restaurant that doesn’t even resemble anything Chinese, but that’s beside the point.

**

On Wednesdays, Jongwoon goes to the local gym and tries to be someone he doesn’t want to be.

**

Jongwoon does finally get the courage to buy actual food for him to cook for himself, and it’s only when one day he realizes he has nothing left to lose (because he’s never had too much to lose in the first place) does he actually gather up his wits and cooks, for the first time in what, weeks? Months? (Not years, of course, because that would be far too long and Jongwoon would have lost his mind by now, if it’s been years.)

After arriving home from shopping (with lack of anything else better to do; Jongwoon realizes that he might be a stress shopper as well. The prospect, if anything, is amusing), Jongwoon puts the bulky coat that had cost too much, which he had bought, on the couch before going into the kitchen and looking to see what he could prepare tonight. There are a few vegetables, no meat, and some random potatoes sitting in the bottom drawer. Soup then, Jongwoon decides, and then gets to work.

He does a pretty decent job, if he must say so himself. The food just doesn’t taste as good.

**

Winter comes with the lackluster feeling of longing, and suddenly Jongwoon dreads the season more than usual. Not because of the cold, or the possible impending snow—but because it’s another huge reminder that he is alone now. If Jongwoon hadn’t gone to work every day he possibly could ever since moving to Changhung, he’s pretty sure that his voice would die from lack of use.

He wears the bulky coat he had purchased, and the comfort is divine. It’s rather chilling, for Jongwoon, and he puts it in the very back of his closet after the second day of its use.

November passes relentlessly and then it’s December. Jongwoon can see the clouds thickening, and across the street, some families are putting decorations up. Celebrating the upcoming Christmas. Spreading the holiday cheer. Jongwoon feels like an old grump, sitting here in his apartment alone.

So he goes out to the grocery store, in which the cashiers and the workers are oddly kind to him—they probably recognize him, he figures, but are just too damned nice to say anything or offer up dirt to reporters—and looks for something to buy. He settles on holiday cookies.

When he’s outside of the grocery store after making his small purchase, he opens the small clear plastic box and takes out a cookie. It tastes buttery and sweet on his tongue. It feels like paste.

He throws out the rest into the nearby trashcan.

**

Jongwoon’s most recent album—the album he had made last year—suddenly spikes up sales and goes through the roof. It reaches number one on a large amount of charts, and Jongwoon briefly wonders why it’s suddenly gotten so popular. Funny how everyone’s always late to the party.

It’s pretty fantastic, says his manager as they sit in the sitting room of their new managing building. Oh yes, Jongwoon’s manager has gotten his own building now. Given to by his friend. His manager thinks it’s one of the greatest things to have ever happened now that they have a building for their portion of the company his manager his bound to. Jongwoon thinks that the building looks the same as the old one.

He continues going on places and performing the same songs over and over again until his throat feels raw from the excess amount of singing. Jongwoon’s pretty sure that his manager just wants him to feel like he’s actually doing something and saying stuff nowadays, instead of lounging around his apartment, which is what Jongwoon does whenever he’s not at work. In fact, Jongwoon doesn’t even know how he manages to pass time alone. He just does. But anyways, Sunchon and Yosu are, apparently, excellent places to be performing and the numbers just get higher and higher. For the better.

“So,” says his manager, sitting back on his chair and sipping his tea. “Because of this rapid growth, I was thinking—and you know how I don’t do that often—” he breaks off into a chuckle, but only gets a wan smile from Jongwoon “—as I was saying, it’d be good. You’ve been working on those songs, right?”

“Er, yeah,” Jongwoon lies inconspicuously. He still has those songs he had been working on several months ago. They haven’t gone anywhere. His mind is pretty much empty.

“Great. Because I think we’ll need to come out with another album soon.” At Jongwoon’s astounded expression, he explains, “They’re eager for more. They’ll be lapping it up. You’d be making them happier, coming out with new stuff quicker than everyone else.”

So after a few orders from his boss, Jongwoon finds himself sitting on the couch in his living room, still thinking of this new album idea. He’s been working on songs, yes, editing and revising until he’s just changing words and then changing them back and not doing anything productive at all. And he can’t write. What the is he supposed to write about? Love songs just aren’t it anymore. They’re not it, for him.

Jongwoon pops in a few of his old CDs into the small stereo system and chews at the end of his pen as his own voice blasts through the speakers. Every single song sounds the same to him, in terms of lyrics. Even a bit in tune, too. It’s a wonder how no one’s ever noticed it before, that his songs are basically exactly the same. Surely it wouldn’t matter, though, as long as he’s coming out with new stuff? According to his manager at least.

Jongwoon writes. He writes in circles, mindless trains of thought. He writes the same thing over and over again, only in different words and different characters.

**

Holidays come and pass, and soon enough it’s nothing but winter and Jongwoon is surrounded by the bitter cold of the air. He shivers as he runs to the van, and collapses onto the backseat with relief.

“Good,” says his manager from the front, sounding pleased. “You’re here on time.”

“Barely,” says Jongwoon, his teeth chattering.

“You’re here, and that’s what matters,” says his manager. “Your stage is indoors today, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Loads.” Jongwoon’s voice is grateful and sarcastic at the same time.

“Well you should be. Anyways, the production of your last song is almost done, just need a few more edits with the tracking and some autotune with the instrumentals. After that, your album will be ready to go by the beginning of February, and I’m sure it’ll be one of our best.”

“Great,” says Jongwoon, and he means it, he really does. At least, he tries to sound it.

“Meanwhile,” says his manager, continuing on with that businesslike way of his, “we’ll be doing pre-selling promotions, you know? Like personal advertisements. You can sing some of the new songs at concerts as leaks, and everyone will love it. Actually, I was planning on having you start that today, but you look a little scrupled to be doing that right now.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re tired and exhausted. It’s okay, Jongwoon, it’s understandable.” His manager sends him a sympathetic look. “But soon enough, we’ll be working our asses off more than anything. I’ve arranged for some promotion at Haenam next week. I heard it’s supposed to be great.”

“Looking forward to it.”

The day’s performances go smoothly and just as planned, and it’s already four o’clock when Jongwoon arrives at the apartment building in the afternoon, still weary from work. All of this is going to his old bones, and his dreams haven’t been getting any better. He feels like they should, though; they’re not really nightmares, and dreams can’t be that bad. They’re not supposed to be that bad.

Jongwoon picks up his mail from his mailbox on his way in, and rifles through the letters mindlessly. It takes him five minutes to do a double-take at scrawled words on a parchment envelope. Because all the letters he’s ever gotten have been addressed to him in typed font.

He opens the envelope with slightly numb fingers, both from cold and from his shocked daze. The letter is cool as he enters his warm apartment.

Kim Jongwoon—

Just thought I’d invite you to a Super Junior reunion. We haven’t seen each other in ages, and I figured that with the way things went, it’d be in all of our best interests if we saw each other again to catch up. Hope you can make it.

It’s not signed, but he could recognize Jungsu’s handwriting anywhere.

Jongwoon stares at the letter.

**

He’s anxious. His bag is sitting neatly on his lap, but Jongwoon is only aware of himself and the faint buzzing noise inside his head, as a result of nerves. He’s sweating, too. It’s probably not very attractive.

The van continues moving on, heading towards the airport. Jongwoon had told his manager that he had wanted to go back to Seoul for an arrangement—at first, his manager had been disapproving until he learned what it was. He let Jongwoon off easy, and Jongwoon’s not sure if he should have thanked his manager or begged him to not let him go.

Promotions in Haenam are this weekend, but Jongwoon has much more important matters at hand.

They’re at the airport, and then suddenly he’s in the airplane. It’s all a blur to Jongwoon, as he just tries to think of the things he’s done. The things to say. If, really, everyone will make it. He certainly hopes so. (His stomach twists.) It’d be a pain, a bit of a tragedy if they didn’t. Just like old days. And Jongwoon doesn’t want it to be like old days. He wants it to be something new.

The plane lands without abandon, and then Jongwoon’s in the airport, then on the street, hailing a taxi—then, finally, he’s at the restaurant he had been told where all of this would take place. The restaurant looks vaguely familiar, but Jongwoon brushes that thought aside. When he had been living here—in Seoul—he had probably eaten at every restaurant the city had. He shouldn’t be too surprised.

Apparently the restaurant has been rented out for the evening, because as soon as Jongwoon opens the glass door and walks in, he sees nothing but fourteen other men, with the occasional waiters catering out the food and only a few ogling the presence of a broken-up band. Jongwoon half-prays that he remains unnoticed and that maybe he should just go since they seem to be getting on fine without them—but then Youngwoon suddenly perks up and walks over to him, nothing but beaming with his hands in his pockets.

“Jongwoon! You made it!” Youngwoon envelops him into a brotherly hug, and Jongwoon can’t help but cherish the moment. Youngwoon smells lovely, just like an old bandmate should. “Not everyone’s here yet, but it’s great that you’ve made it, right?”

“Yeah,” says Jongwoon, managing a smile. It feels too surreal.

Some of the others have noticed him as well, and come up to him in greeting. Jongwoon’s still a bit… dazzled by the reality of it all that he can’t quite say much other than, “Good,” and, “I’m fine, how about you?” They don’t seem to mind, though; Jongwoon wonders if they’re in the same shocked state as he is. Just like he is.

(Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Jongwoon is thinking—and then he stops and refuses to let himself think.)

Jongwoon accepts a glass of water and wanders around the restaurant, drinking in the scene. It’s strange, to see old friends again whom you’d lost contact with ages ago. Sort of makes you feel incredibly guilty, and yet you just want to stand and stay here forever. Jongwoon says hi to Donghae as he passes him by, and can see Siwon leaning over and roping him into a conversation five years late. Surprisingly, Zhou Mi is talking to Hyukjae (who had arrived ten minutes after Jongwoon) by the bar counter, while Henry’s with Sungmin at one of the restaurant tables. The mere idea sends Jongwoon giddy, and he relishes on the high of togetherness, for a moment.

Ryeowook greets him like an old friend (because he is an old friend), and soon enough awkward introductions are out of the way and replaced by casual conversation, which they fall into naturally. Ryeowook tells him of his wife, who’s at home taking care of their son, and then his son himself. Ryeowook is b with pride. Jongwoon knows for sure that Ryeowook’s son is as stunning as he is, and tells him so.

“Oh, don’t flatter me,” laughs Ryeowook, but Jongwoon can see he’s pleased. Jongwoon can also see that Ryeowook understands a thing or two about him, but he ignores him.

“So what about you?” Ryeowook asks curiously, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth and then placing it on the tray of a nearby caterer. He leans on his hands and peers up at Jongwoon. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know.” Jongwoon waves a careless hand. “Careers and stuff. Album sales have spiked. Going to release a new one soon.”

“That’s good for the sales.” Ryeowook nods understandingly. “Changhung doing you good? That’s where you moved when you left Seoul, right?”

“Yeah. It’s quiet. Peaceful.” Jongwoon keeps his voice neutral, because even he isn’t sure if he likes it or not.

“Good. And…?”

Ryeowook sends a questioning gaze towards him. Jongwoon shrugs, even though after all these years he knows exactly what it means.

“Nothing. That’s it,” he says.

“Right.” Ryeowook doesn’t look too convinced. But he lets the subject slide. “You know, hyung, you could always visit me in Kangjon. It’s pretty close to Changhung, I think.”

“Is it?” Jongwoon glances around the restaurant, almost subconsciously. He spots Youngwoon and Heechul laughing in a corner. They probably kept in touch. The thought makes Jongwoon’s heart flip in his throat.

“Yeah,” says Ryeowook, nodding. “You can stay, too. We have a guest bedroom, and I’m sure…”

Ryeowook continues talking, but Jongwoon tunes him out, still looking around the restaurant. He knows he’s looking for someone, but he fails to admit it to himself. His glances are futile, anyways, because he keeps looking in the same direction and only keeps on seeing Siwon and Sungmin, and then Donghae with Youngwoon and Heechul.

Jongwoon’s jerked out of his reverie when Ryeowook exclaims, “Donghee, you’re here!” and Jongwoon snaps his attention to focus on the newcomer. Donghee is indeed here, and he’s beaming at the both of them.

“Ryeowook, Jongwoon hyung,” he says, inclining his head to both of them in turn.

Jongwoon actually laughs, and it feels better than anything for ages. “Hi Donghee,” he greets, like they’re all five years younger.

Donghee moves and asks them a question, and Ryeowook answers and then soon enough they’re in a deep discussion about the World Cup next year (or maybe it’s this year? Or the next.) Donghee moves a little to step closer to Ryeowook—and Jongwoon doesn’t mean to look in his direction, he swears he doesn’t, but in the place where Donghee’s head had been before, is a perfect view of a familiar man standing to the side, a glass of wine in his hands.

Jongwoon’s breath catches. Kyuhyun is standing there, talking to Kibum, smiling and laughing. Kyuhyun is standing there. There.

Jongwoon wants to flee and cry and shout, all at the same time.

Kyuhyun must have felt someone watching him, because he looks up and glances around. His eyes meet Jongwoon’s almost immediately. An unfamiliar emotion runs through Jongwoon’s veins as Kyuhyun stares at him, and Jongwoon notices that there might be a load of regret in Kyuhyun’s expression as he watches him. Kyuhyun quickly turns back to his conversation with Kibum, but Jongwoon is only aware of the space between them, the several feet and the people and the carpet and everything else in the middle, separating them from each other.

Kyuhyun says something to Kibum and then he turns around. And then his eyes are on Jongwoon. Jongwoon wants to run away and run to him, but he’s standing still in place. He’s nervous and anxious and hell, even excited, and a little bit scared and his heart is in his throat and then Kyuhyun’s walking, walking faster and faster with his gaze trained on him like they’re the only two people in the room and Jongwoon is just staring at him, watching him, aching, waiting, waiting for him—

Then arms are around him and Kyuhyun is holding him, hugging him so close and so tight and Jongwoon feels everything inside of him rush out of his mouth with a sigh. The hug feels like an apology for everything, for everything even though it probably won’t make it up, but Jongwoon thinks it will because he hugs back just as tightly with too much forgiveness and maybe there’s something more, something extra, but it’s okay because Kyuhyun has that extra bit too. His face is in Jongwoon’s shoulder and Jongwoon thinks he might hear some sound come out from his own lips as he buries his head in the crook of Kyuhyun’s neck.

He’s warm and just right and everything is real, so real.

And Kyuhyun pulls back and smiles at him. His eyes are shining. Jongwoon can't tear his gaze away from him.

“Come on,” says Kyuhyun. He grabs Jongwoon’s hand and keeps him close. “Let’s go home.”