Jongin has always been a little on the selfish side of things; his world revolves remotely around the things he wants and needs and likes – he shifts and molds and tunes his self into all those things that form a circular like sphere around him; his world is small and simple and his alone.  He likes his space and his area; room for him to move, and dance, and breathe, and think clearly into the openness of space that fluctuates around him with each move he makes, each turn he spins, he dance steps he perfects.  He is a dancer; that is who he is, and what he is, and all he really knows – outside of that he is just a little boy, half scared of the world but mostly angry at everything around him.

Jongin pushes himself beyond the boundaries of sanity, reaching and grasping and suffocating on lack of air as he dances just a little bit longer, forcing his legs a little bit further, shutting down his mind and ignoring all the pain and aches and exhaustion that settles deep into his gut.  He knows nothing but pure motivation and determination – there is a goal he must reach, a goal he’s been struggling for all his life.  All those years, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds will not be for nothing – all the time and work and sweat and blood and tears he has sacrificed will not be in vain.  He will find that star, he will reach that moment in the spotlight – and until he does, he will keep grasping on the ends of perfection just out of reach, always so very close to the edges of his fingertips.

Perfection is always just out of his reach; so close he can practically taste it – yet still so far away.

Jongin finds comfort in the vibrations of music as they echo around an empty dance studio, he watches each step in the mirror – evaluating, critiquing, breaking down and tearing apart each move he makes before rebuilding it, repairing it, perfecting it.  He repeats a move on an endless loop until he is halfway proud of it, and then he practices it for another handful of hours until it is as close to perfection as he can possibly achieve.  His hands shake with frustration more times than not, and his eyes narrow in concentration – mouth set in a firm line, smile long since forgotten.

He has perfected the art of ignorance; he avoids most of the other trainees, he avoids confrontation and attachment and camaraderie – he has no use for useless, worthless friendship full of forced smiles and faked laughter.  He is much more comfortable in his speechless world, surrounded by the beats and vibrations and melodies that loop and twist and turn and flow through his mind before they explode out of his fingertips and feet.  He creates something out of the music.  A prodigy he’s heard whispered, a genius he’s heard as well – but he sees none of that in his moves; they are still sloppy and raw and not enough.  So he stays locked within the dance studio longer; trying to live up to expectations he pretends he knows nothing about because ev