Dongwoo crumbles another sheet of paper into a lump of failed emotions; he tosses it aside like all the others. He picks up a dictionary, Japanese, and abandons it an hour later for an English one.

He pretends he slept that night.

Ink threatens to spill.

I can’t do everything.

Ink begins 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.

It’s Dongwoo’s job to rap.

This means it’s Dongwoo’s job to memorize thousands of words in hundreds of languages, in the hope that one of them will sound nice in the blank he’s drawing when he tries to piece together enough words to finish this four measure.

He rips this one up. It’s worthless.

Ten seconds later, he’s trying to piece it back together. He knows better than this, but he’s just so frustrated, so tired, so exhausted. Dongwoo wants to give up, to cap the pen and close his books and crawl into bed, just to get half an hour of rest before the next day.

A light turns on. He hears the whisper of a wince. The sound of gauze being thrown away.

He keeps writing.

It’s Dongwoo’s job to memorize everything so Hoya doesn’t have to. Because Dongwoo would be devastated if Hoya did more than he already does.

Sungjong hovers over Dongwoo’s shoulder; the smile on his face is so bright, so innocent, so soft. Dongwoo forgets the angst filled words on the paper for a moment.

“Hoya!” Sungjong’s voice sings. It’s not the rich chocolate seduction of Sunggyu’s voice, but it’s just as sweet. Hoya strides into the room on that sugar high. “Look at what Dongwoo’s written! Isn’t it brilliant?”

Sungjong pulls the page beneath his current draft, the beautifully printed completion of last night, and pretends the bleeding ink of his angst filled rap isn’t there. Dongwoo is so thankful that almost forgets that Sungjong doesn’t understand the Japanese characters written on the page, and neither does Hoya.

“Dongwoo’s so smart,” Sungjong smiles. “Why don’t you study Japanese with him for a while? I’ll go get Myungsoo?”

Sungjong leaves for Myungsoo’s room, but he doesn’t come back.

Dongwoo’s supposed to be writing, but his mind won’t come back.

Because when Hoya’s sitting by his side, not dancing on that injured leg of his, and rolling his tongue in ways far too sensual for a language class, Dongwoo can’t complain.

That night, Hoya drifts off to sleep in Dongwoo’s bed, a Japanese dictionary inches from his fingers and his eyes too tired to read it.

Dongwoo crawls out of bed, pulls papers from his desk. The ink bleeds.

There are no ripped pages tonight –Dongwoo can’t risk waking Hoya up –and in one shot, there are beautifully printed words set upon his desk.

The ink is dry by morning.

It’s a first.

When Infinite-H’s formation is confirmed, Dongwoo freaks out a little. There are so many words to write, so many feelings to express, and so little time to do it in.

Hoya’s arms envelope his body. “It’s okay. We’re in this together.”

And with that, it’s enough. It’s enough to trigger enough tears that night to blot Dongwoo’s river of ink. And somewhere between the swamps of salt and the wells of ink, there’s a story more real than any other Dongwoo can tell.

Because it’s real.

It takes three minutes and forty eight seconds for him to stop the tears long enough to uncap a pen that isn’t leaking ink everywhere, and pull out papers that aren’t coated in salt.

It takes three minutes and forty eight seconds for him to jot down the chorus, and three hours to cut the rest of the song into three minutes and forty eight seconds.

It takes once glance at Hoya to remind him why he wants to share those three minutes and forty eight seconds of story.

Dongwoo never sings that song for Hoya, partially because he refuses to sing when INFINITE has two obsessive vocals with nuclear voices. But more importantly, Dongwoo doesn’t sing that song because he doesn’t need to.

“Wake up,” he whispers, first in Japanese, then in English, and finally in Korean. Hoya stirs a little the last time. “I want to show you something.”

Hoya’s finger linger over the beautiful brushstrokes. His lips whisper the words he’s so afraid to actually say. Because that’s exactly what this song is.


All the words they’re too afraid to say.


But Hoya’s okay with that. Hoya’s okay with being afraid. Hoya’s okay with Dongwoo being afraid. Because they’re afraid together.
 

They’re afraid for each other.


They’re afraid of losing each other.


It’s hard being the rapper, but it’s harder without you.

Hoya sends the interviewers that y, but somehow soft, smile that he always does. “What do I find attractive?” His fingers frame his face, his index tapping the side of his chin as he pretends to think.


Dongwoo? He chuckles.


“I don’t know why,” Dongwoo looks over at him. “But I’ve been really attracted to people who can speak multiple languages recently.” Dongwoo looks away quickly, but not quickly enough to hide the flush creeping up his face.


“I’m really horrible with languages, so I’m always impressed when someone speaks languages really well, or learns really fast, or just has really good accents.”


Dongwoo’s ears are still pink when he gets home, his fingers desperate for a pen and his mind desperate for paper. One emotion after another, one language after another, one confession after another. It all makes its way onto that single sheet of paper, bleeding with beauty.


Tonight is another night of dictionary flipping.

“Come to bed.” It’s Hoya’s voice, soft and coaxing. Dongwoo wants to give in.

“I’ve got a thought.” Hoya arches an eyebrow. Dongwoo pens some more words quickly. “I don’t want to lose it.” Hoya huffs and turns away.


Dongwoo knows a lot of languages, but tonight, he sets the dictionaries aside.


Because this is a language only his heart knows, and no other could express it as well.


He wakes with one arm thrown around Hoya, a pen still in his hand, and pen marks on his face from rubbing his eyes with said pen still in said hand.


There’s a flurry of paper.
 

Dongwoo knows a lot of languages, but there’s only one he needs.


Dongwoo writes a lot of songs, but there’s only one he needs.


Dongwoo has a lot of supporters, but there’s only one he needs.


So Dongwoo wakes each day, with a dictionary under his pillow and too much energy in his system. He’ll let the others believe he slept last night. He’ll let the others believe the ink dried last night. He’ll let the others believe whatever they want to believe.


As long as he can keep Hoya sane and by his side.


It’s hard being the rapper.


But it’s harder to see you hurt.