Hoya
Himduro
Hoya collapses into his bunk bed –the lower one for a reason –with a bag of ice tied to each thigh and another on his back.
He spends five seconds mentally cursing the pain. He takes a minute more to thank the dorm gods for putting Dongwoo in another room, another minute for making Sungjong sleep early.
He spends the rest of the night pretending his legs don’t exist.
Hoya spends the first ten minutes in the morning pretending he slept last night as Sungjong fusses over his skin. I had it glowing before practice yesterday! What did you do to my beautiful skin! The maknae huffs a bit, pouts a bit, and Hoya doesn’t bother to remind Sungjong that skin usually belongs to the person attached to it.
Sungjong usually spends more time on Hoya’s skin than he does anyways.
Hoya spends the next five minutes shoveling as much food into his mouth as he can without cueing s about his all-night dance practice. Dongwoo glares at him, the twinkle in his eyes a little less mischievous than usual, and Hoya knows he’s failed.
You don’t have to practice in place of sleep.
Hoya spends the thirty-five minute car ride sleeping against the car window. The ghost of a smile passes Hoya’s lips, and travels to Dongwoo. Pink hair is paired with a sweet smile, picks up the purple earbuds that have fallen into Hoya’s lap.
Curious, Dongwoo gingerly dons Hoya’s sacred headphones.
It’s loud.
Even for Dongwoo.
The smile disappears.
Hoya wakes in a fluster. The van has slowed, and the atmosphere is silent. But more importantly, the music is silent.
He glares at the purple cable, following its trail past his fingers to Dongwoo’s chest and finally framing the pale cheeks and pink fringe asleep beside him. His expression softens.
“Sorry,” Dongwoo yawns.
Hoya accepts the apology, without asking what it’s for.
Dongwoo doesn’t protest. Perhaps he should protest.
You don’t have to practice in your sleep.
There are exactly three minutes and forty-eight seconds to a camera switch.
This is exactly long enough for Hoya to run backstage –claiming a restroom break –complete Before the Dawn’s choreography, and stroll back to the set as though he hadn’t performed an strenuous activities.
After all, even manager-hyung looked down on intensive practices with injuries.
This time, the gauze breaks, and Hoya has to waste a few precious seconds swapping it out. Three seconds to rip open the package, twenty to secure the gauze, and five more to destroy the evidence.
He checks his watch.
Still enough time if I skip a chorus.
Dongwoo pulls Hoya away during the next camera break. Hoya tries to laugh off the situation, tries to laugh as Dongwoo pushes him against the wall.
His purple jacket –his precious purple –is ripped off his body. “Purple wasn’t invented for you to hide your bruises.”
Three minutes and forty-eight seconds is exactly long enough to count every bruise, and calm the ones that cause Hoya to flinch the most with enough salve to soak through the cloth.
Three minutes and forty-eight seconds is exactly long enough to remind Hoya that he’s not alone.
The camera rolls have been changed.
Hoya walks off with cloudy eyes.
He forgets his jacket.
He forgets his purple.
It isn’t until Sungjong starts sending worrying glances his way that Hoya actually puts effort into his acting. A shoulder roll here, a chest pop here and there. His smile says he’s okay.
Dongwoo’s arms around his waist make it okay.
And for a moment, it feels okay.
Sungjong looks the other way when the gauze breaks and the cameras have to stop long enough for him to rewrap it. Hoya’s thankful.
Sunggyu isn’t so lenient.
Hoya isn’t looking forward to the next break. Hoya isn’t looking forward to Sunggyu flinging him against whatever inanimate object is closest and reminding him that his body is weak. That his body can break.
That his body will break.
Can’t you see I’m trying to forget that fact?
Three minutes and forty-eight seconds. Bathroom. This is time to wipe the tears from his eyes. Three seconds for the package. Twenty to rewrap. Five to destroy evidence.
He comes back to see Dongwoo yelling and Woohyun holding back Sunggyu.
“It’s going to kill him!” And Dongwoo can’t disagree with that. Then what are we going to do? His voice, his deep, charismatic voice, is nothing more than a broken whisper. And for a moment, Hoya becomes a broken whisper, drifting slowly and steadily towards those broken pink lips.
“You’re going to dance again.” And then Hoya isn’t a whisper anymore.
He’s just broken.
Three minutes and forty-eight seconds. “Come with me.” Sunggyu’s confused. Hoya shoots his a glare. “Come. Now.”
Woohyun almost follows, but the flames in Hoya’s eyes tell him not to –tell him that if he ends up using violence, all the muscles in Infinite wouldn't be able to stop him. Sunggyu leaves.
“How’s your injury?” He’s the first to speak.
“Fine.” Hoya spits out. Then he remembers that he’s the angry one this time. He’s the one whose going to be screaming. He’s the one who should be practicing. Not Dongwoo.
And with one glare, Sunggyu knows. He reaches for Hoya’s elbow. Hoya doesn’t wince. “Salve.” Hoya shakes his head.
“Dongwoo.” Sunggyu nods in understanding.
“It’ll be better with two dancers anyways.” Maybe not understanding.
You do it too. And then he’s yelling. “You and Woohyun.” Sunggyu turns back around. “It’s better with two vocalists, isn’t it? But you don’t want him hurt either.”
And not even all the muscles in Infinite could stop this fight.
Woohyun is voted Sunggyu’s nurse for the night. Sungyeol’s actually the one who lost rock-paper-scissors, but that would have been more of a punishment for Sunggyu than Sungyeol.
Hoya refuses a nurse.
Dongwoo knocks on his door anyways.
“I have fresh gauze.” I can wrap it myself. “If you don’t let me in, I’m going to have enough time to practice your dance parts.” The door clicks open.
Dongwoo isn’t sure if he should be happy or offended.
Hoya can’t help but smile when Dongwoo kneels on the floor, a wooden splint in one hand and rolls of bandages in the other. “This feels familiar.”
Dongwoo can’t help but smile. And then he can. “Is that why?” Hoya’s pupils dilate, then shrink. Apparently so. “Because if you practice all night, you just turn purple all over.” Dongwoo presses the splint against Hoya’s leg. No wincing. “But if it’s me, I’ll wake up with broken legs?”
Tears threaten to spill. I can’t do everything. Tears begin to spill. But neither can he. Flurries of paper, white, white with words, white crumbled up and chucked at the trash can, white –but it’s too late at night to be able to tell that it’s paper at all. So just let me do this much.
“Purple is my favorite color.”
Because if I’m purple, maybe you can stay pink.
The fingers skillfully wrap the gauze just tightly enough. “Experience,” he laughs. He laughs because it isn’t funny. So Hoya laughs with him.
Because I can be purple, if I can keep you pink.
Hoya pretends his leg doesn’t hurt when he walks, pretends he doesn’t wince when the pressure caused by the intensive dance break causes blood to break through the gauze, pretends he’s strong enough to be the only one suffering late night dance practices.
It’s hard being the dancer.
But it’s harder to see you hurt.
Comments