Sungyeol stumbles into the room with vinegar enhanced food.

His eyes don’t show the red of late night practices, of desperate attempts to improve his vocal range, of pretending he’s alright. He pretends he can taste the vinegar.

He pretends the others aren’t pretending.

It’s hard being the choding.

“Geunyoreul jikyora,” Sungyeol’s voice cracks. It always does. His fingers pound against the piano. They always do. The white piano ivory leaves red twins against his palms. It always does. He doesn’t feel the pain.

Nowadays, he never does.

“Geunyoreul,” his voice cracks again.

Perhaps he feels some pain.

The pain of failure.

Sungyeol is the last one up tonight. It’s strange. There isn’t the heavy pounding of Hoya’s footsteps in the practice room. There isn’t the scritch scratch of Dongwoo’s pen against paper. There isn’t the boom of Sunggyu’s vocals. There isn’t the hum of Woohyun’s still recovering chords.

So tonight, there is Sungyeol.

There is the soft squeak of unconfident vocals, trying notes for the first time. There is the thump of unconfident feet, clacking rather than gliding across the wooden floors.

Sungyeol collapses into his bed. He has two hours before the alarm rings. He’s okay with that. When his alarm goes off three hours late, Myungsoo’s perfect hangul tacked over the offending machine in pink, green, and yellow sticky notes, Sungyeol remembers that Myungsoo isn’t.

Sungyeol is sitting at the piano stool, wasting time.

Honestly, he doesn’t know how better to explain it than that. He isn’t playing piano. He doesn’t have the skill for that. He isn’t singing. He doesn’t have the skill for that.

Sungyeol is just wasting time.

He’s been wasting time.

Crack.White ivory. Red palms. No pain. Sungyeol keeps wasting time. But at least, as he counts the red marks against his palms, now he knows time is passing.

Sungyeol doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he sees Sungjong. Sungjong’s bright eyes, even more innocent than when he started. Sungyeol wonders how that’s possible, when all they’ve seen is hurt, is hardship, is pain.

Sungyeol doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he sees Sungjong. Sungjong’s bright eyes, reflecting someone other than himself. Myungsoo’s bright eyes, reflecting someone other than himself.

Sungyeol doesn’t realize how one late night practice has bled into another, how one vocal crack has bled into another, how one lie has bled into another until he wakes him with the cold wooden floors against his back and the ivory of his eyes gives way to red.

Sungyeol isn’t hurt.

Sungyeol doesn’t feel hurt.

Sungyeol just feels failure.

And he’s failed.

The piano sheets are scattered about the bench. The ivory taunts him with its purity. The wood shines with a glossy sheen. The black keys accentuate the white, and the finish creates an overall polish.

Sungyeol is not the piano. He does not belong with the piano.

Sungyeol is laying against the floor, wasting time.

He’s been wasting time.

Myungsoo wakes to a pile of bananas and a happy smile. The smell of vinegar is so strong, he can’t help but smile. He dutifully takes a bite, watches s horror, and even forces a bite towards Sungjong.

Sungyeol smiles for the first time that week.

He’s too busy watching Myungsoo’s smile, hearing Sungjong’s laughter, to watch, to hear, to smell, to feel, to taste. Myungsoo laughs. Dongwoo laughs. Hoya laughs. They all laugh.

Sungyeol laughs.

Sungyeol pretends he can smell the vinegar.

Sungyeol pretends he can taste the vinegar.

But this bitter taste has become so common, so constant, he can’t pick it out anymore. This bitter smell has become so common, so constant, he can’t pick it out anymore.

“It tastes horrible!” They laugh. And they laugh. And it’s so much more wonderful than vinegar could ever be horrible.

So Sungyeol doesn’t mind the taste of vinegar, doesn’t mind the smell of vinegar.

He’s used to it anyways.

This laughter. He’s not used to it.

And it’s all he can do.

He takes another bite. They laugh. Sungyeol isn’t wasting time. Myungsoo’s eyes smile. Sungjong’s eyes twinkle. Sungyeol isn’t wasting time at all.

So why is he still laying against that cold wooden floor tonight?

When the others head for bed tonight, courtesy of Sunggyu’s demands that everyone get to bed and shut up so Woohyun can sleep, Myungsoo stays up.

Sungjong stays up.

“That vinegar was horrible.” Myungsoo laughs. Sungjong makes a face. “No really hyung. You really love him a lot.” Sungjong makes a face. It’s not so funny this time.

But even then, Sungjong can’t hate him. Can’t hate Myungsoo, can’t hate Sungyeol, can’t hate anyone. Because it’s hard alone.

Sungyeol knows this. Sungyeol hates this. Sungyeol hates how comforting the cold floors are against his back, when it’s a warm back he longs for. Sungyeol hates how black and white the music is, when it’s those colored vocals he longs for. Sungyeol hates how much time he wastes, when all he wants is to give back to the people he loves the most.

But he’s still hating when Myungsoo tip toes into the room, a blanket in his arms and a drink in the other.

“Everything’s alright?” Myungsoo asks. But he doesn’t need to.

Sungyeol nods. And he doesn’t need to. Because Myungsoo’s pretending. And Sungyeol’s thankful. So Sungyeol will keep pretending that he doesn’t know when s are pretending.

When s are pretending to fall for his pranks.

When s are pretending they don’t see his pain.

When s are pretending they love him.

Sungyeol’s voice cracks again. He can’t get this right. Maybe he never will.

But when Myungsoo and Sungjong are lying in a very uncomfortable pile around him, sleep-fighting over control of the blanket, Sungyeol doesn’t mind so much.

He’s immature. He’s always been. He always will be.

So he won’t see the love that’s there. He can’t see the love that’s there.

But on nights like tonight, he can’t help but feel it.

So when his voice cracks tonight, he crawls over to that pile of uncomfortable warmth and fights over control of the blanket. And that’s exactly how the hyungs find them the next day, a scream building in Sunggyu’s throat and Hoya immediately wrapping Sungjong in any object that might provide warmth.

The tears that come from his eyes taste bitter.

Like vinegar.

But at least, today he can taste it.

Because it’s hard being the choding.

But I can do it for you.