Baekhyun can’t play the guitar.

He picks the instrument up from Chanyeol’s side of the room, fingers flitting over the metal bumps of the fret board, but he doesn’t know how hard to press. He plucks the strings but doesn’t understand how forceful his strums should be. He slides along their varying thicknesses only to hear scratchy dissonance. He doesn’t grasp the concept of riffs or arpeggios or chords even when it's broken down for him in unsophisticated terms. He doesn’t know how to read the simplified tabs, no matter how simplified they may be.

His roomie pats his back, saying “Hey, it’s alright. We’re still rookies. You’ll get there soon.” He plops down next to him on the bed and offers a trademark grin. “You could join a class when we go back on break,” he suggests like any friend would. But Baekhyun knows that Chanyeol doesn’t really care— he’s just a nice person trying to be nice about things he doesn’t understand the depth of. And the man isn’t ready to accept such meaningless consolation from merely a band-mate.

Baekhyun suffers from funneled senses. He only hears what he wants to hear, sees what he wants to see, feels what he wants to feel. Everything else peripheral becomes secondary, becomes little unimportant background details in his life. The words and actions of people talking to him become minor features once he sets his mind to something.

Chanyeol could well be talking to the walls as he relates a story about a distant cousin who takes guitar classes close to Baekhyun’s hometown.

He shrugs off the other’s hand and switches on his laptop, ready to watch more tutorial videos, in hopes of learning something, anything, today. Even when he’s well aware that weeks and weeks of doing the same has led him to nothing.

The person in the video moves his wrist with so much ease, fingers dancing over the notes, voice humming along to the song in the back of their throat. They act out the function of creating beautiful music with such glaring effortlessness that it burns in the pit of Baekhyun’s stomach like well-matured jealousy.

Because Baekhyun with all the music running in his blood, all the harmonizing lessons he took from his sunbaes, all the important advice he filed into different cabinets of his brain… Baekhyun with all of that cannot understand where to pull out that ease, that skill from. He doesn’t know what muscle or what bone in his body is responsible for it, so he doesn’t know how to control his incompetence.

He can do nothing with a guitar.

Baekhyun can't dance at all, either.

Kai tries to help-- in the practice room, out of pity. He tries to play teacher, tries to be kind and understanding, helping his hyung out with concepts like grace and co-ordination. And the elder tries to follow as obediently as possible, too. When Kai spins, he spins. When Kai jumps, he jumps. When Kai does a body wave, so does Baekhyun. He imitates the flick of each wrist and the flutter of every finger. He imitates every twitch of every muscle with miscroscopic precision.

But that's all he does-- follow. When Kai fumbles with footwork, so does Baekhyun. When Kai produces messy popping sequences, Baekhyun does the same. When Kai throws his water bottle at the mirrors in frustration, the elder almost replicates the action with added fervor.

Scared to fall out of line, scared of bending too much or stretching to far out, he plays it safe; like a child walking with its hand held tightly in a guardian's. He can't wander away too far on his own, can't skip over to a new find with curiosity. He doesn't allow himself to be free, to practice everything with effortlessness by willing his body over his mind. Afraid that he's doing everything completely wrong, Baekhyun freezes one step before he crosses the line of perfection.

And that is where he misses the point.

Because dance is all about freedom, about letting yourself out of self-built restraints. Dance is about expression and movement and gestures; it is about exploration and discovery outside one's physical and mental boundaries. Dance is an art, and it needs the dedication of an artist.

There is no perfection to be molded into, only raw emotion.

Baekhyun is not an artist. His shoulders are too rigid, his arms flail a lot, his knees are a little knobbly, his feet shake mid-step. He is no artist, he just imitates what he sees ahead of himself, reflected in the looking glass of their dance hall.

"You need to take a few deep breaths," Kai suggests. "You're too tense, hyung..." he motions for the other to sit down so he can have is shoulders massaged. "You need to loosen up a little. Be free, be... be full of emotion. Spill out whatever you're feeling, don't back it up or everything you do will look choked. You have to let the audience in. If you're too tense, even the best teacher in the world wouldn't be able to help you."

But Baekhyun shakes his head-- both, to the suggestion and the invitation. "No, I just... I just need some water," he replies, making his way to the cooler, taking a few long sips and then returning to his spot on the floor; returning to a pointless rehearsal of emotionless dancing.

It obviously ends up as nothing special.

Baekhyun likes to believe he is a proficient singer.

Kyungsoo points at a street performer with an interested smile and they quietly make their way towards the spot. The young girl stands on a sidewalk with no musical accompaniment and a voice that booms and echoes against the sides of disinterested buildings. A bowl meant for alms sits half-filled with coins, the blue edge of a lone thousand won note peeking out from between all the unwanted zinc and aluminum. But that’s just spare change. That’s not even close to complimenting her lovely singing. People don’t gather around to listen either; they simply pass by carring on with their lives like they’ve all suddenly gone deaf.

It leaves Baekhyun dumbfounded because he has never heard such a vibrant voice on these colorless streets. He meaningfully looks at his band-mate and receives a shrug in response.

Covering the distance over to the girl, who flashes him an anxious look, he lowers his face mask with a smile and joins into her song. She looks surprised for a second but then smiles upto her eyes for the rest of the number. Accenting her sharps and buffing over her flats, repeating her solemn regulars while leaving all the important high notes for her to belt out straight from her soul; Baekhyun bolsters her confidence until she is as high up as the clouds with no intention of coming back down.

Slow tunes accelerate as their individual sounds dance and twist together in the wind. They sing three more songs together, and at some point he hears camera shutters go off from possible fans that recognized his unmade face. It doesn’t matter, he knows what he’s doing. He’s sure of himself. His voice is like a buttress that can’t be shook or pushed apart. It is strong and steady enough to stand the test of centuries. He sings with every cell, every neuron, every fibre in him and then some more. He sings hard enough to make his voice disappear.

The girl grins at him between each song and it’s a wonderful feeling to see her giggle when they’re done. She thanks him shyly, he shakes his head. At the end Baekhyun bows low to her, leaving a thin roll of notes in her bowl before taking leave.

“What was that?” Kyungsoo asks him when they’re walking back to the dorm after their short excursion. He doesn't sound very playful in his inquiry, neither does his face seem particularly pleased with the display... what's vsible of it, at least, is disgruntled.

“Just…” Baekhyun shrugs, still feeling warm from all that liberating singing.

“Well, you could’ve blown our cover.”

“What’re we, spies?”

“No, we’re idols. And we could get in trouble for stepping out of line like that.”

He frowns, confused. “What's the point of our singing then…?”

Kyungsoo shrugs again and this time the shadows under his eyes appear darker. “Not much, I guess.”

“If I’m good at nothing what good am I?”

“You’re useless, hyung,” Sehun lisps, dragging his feet along the flooring after a long nap. Another schedule has been cancelled because of snow. Another day will be spent doing nothing but hope they are allowed to go home to their families soon.

Baekhyun pays no heed to the maknae’s insolent response, he continues to rant to himself. “If I can’t play the guitar, if I can’t dance, if I can’t even sing… what the hell am I doing in this place? Why am I here and why did I volunteer for this?”

“Because you’re dumb,” comes another response in Sehun’s lazy, impertinent nasal tone. He grins wide as he settes across the kitchen island from the elder, a plate of something unidentifiable defrosted and now leaking all over his plate. “We’re all dumb, we signed without reading the whole document. Now we’re prisoners to these corporate s. We’re doomed till the end of time. Oh, look at the time—” he suddenly changes the subject of his pointless ramblings, skipping over to the television set and clicking it on.  

A random cartoon plays on the screen. Baekhyun loses interest after the first ten seconds.

The microwave indicates it’s still mid-afternoon on a Thursday and rabid honking in the streets tells him people are stuck in traffic. He cards his fingers through his dye-roughened hair. Tiredness seeps out of him when boredom makes home in his eyes. His fingertips are scabbed over from pressing into guitar frets, his calves and thighs ache from the night-ong rehearsals all week, his throat is itchy when he swallows.

“If I can’t do anything I’m worthless…” he mumbles. “If I can’t be good at anything at all, nothing is worth trying. Learning guitar is a waste of time, learning to dance is a waste of time, trying to sing because it makes me happy… maybe that’s a waste of time too. Maybe I should quit,” he considers in a whisper. “Quit everything.”

“That’s it!” Sehun cheers from the living room, and it is unclear if his shout is directed at Baekhyun’s self-pity or the way some ridiculously clothed ninja boy is jumping from tree to tree with villains on his trail. But either way, it seems like the right response. The elder lets his head fall heavily onto the table before him, hoping against hope that the snow never clears and he is stuck in this dorm for the rest of his life.

"Quit life."

Baekhyun is like a stuck record.

So when they are in Thailand again, promoting the new album, being interviewed in an unknown tongue, having their pictures taken everywhere they go, he just flows with the wind. Kai has learnt new phrases this time and keeps chattering non-stop with their MCs at every show, regardless of grammar, but Baekhyun doesn’t listen. Chanyeol and Kyungsoo are always eating and trying out new local food, voicing their wish to be on a cooking show like their sunbaes, but Baekhyun doesn’t notice.

It is all very exciting, just like the first time, and it feels good to be back amongst people who appreciate them for their work. Wherever they go, the atmosphere is warm, emotionally as well as meteorologically. But Baekhyun doesn’t feel any of it. He doesn’t see Sehun’s phone as the maknae points animatedly on its screen guard, shoving it under everyone’s nose to grab their attention. He doesn’t register how they decide, on the youngest insisting, to go see a live puppet show. And so, he doesn’t protest despite his fatigue from all the promotional activity and difficult syllables and spicy food.

But Suho is prominently there, present as little dots in his vision, all smiles as usual. He wakes up early, drinks water straight from the glass jug and Baekhyun watches from his seat on the sofa as it drips off his chin, splattering over his shirt. Later, the leader stands under the breeze of a fan to dry himself off, fanning the cloth as if it’ll dry faster. He walks out of sight and back into it, smiling again at the lead singer, before making his way into the balcony to stand under an obnoxiously loud bronze wind-chime.

Baekhyun observes every tiny detail like Suho is a science experiment.

Taking his mug of coffe with him, he joins the eldest and looks at him while the man gazes out at the rest of the quiet street. “I like being away from the cold,” he muses out loud. “I like how easy and effortless it is to be happy when the sun is shining. Don’t you?” he suddenly turns to the younger and slides close enough so their shoulders bump.

Baekhyun sips quietly from his mug. A zephyr rustles nearby leaves, lovingly brushing the fringe off his forehead. He wants to breathe it in, wants to let it soak into his skin and revitalize what he has lost in the recent months. But he’s now afraid. Of trying, of taking that necessary step forward, of twisting the doorknob and peeking in only to find darkness.

“Hmm,” he grunts nonchalantly.

But he doesn’t move away because Suho is still talking, and the way his jaw moves during, there’s something very graceful about it. Like a strip of wet cloth lazily billowing in the wind, or a whorl of dust dancing by the window sill. Baekyun notes all of its intricacies, seeing its subtle shifts and tilts when the other man turns to look at him or away from him. He sees the faint outline of bone under clear skin, its layers altering in brightness every time a vowel is pronounced.

“… it makes a big difference to the human psyche, isn’t that interesting? Psychology is so interesting, really I wish I had more time to read about it. Maybe on the plane ride back I could…” he rambles as if to himself. His lips are creased and chapped from every time their stretch over his face; the corners of his eyes are wrinkled from grinning a lot. His left eyebrow lifts over a stressed syllable, like a silent teasing invitation of some kind. He looks over fleetingly and then kills the eye contact before Baekhyun notices.

But Baekhyun does notice, and he clutches the wrought-iron railing hard to keep himself from reaching out.

“Don’t you agree?” Suho catches him unawares.

He blinks around them to look for answers but finds none. So he pushes away and walks back to his earlier perch, distancing himself from everyone and everything once again. Baekhyun quits another conversation for meaningless silence.

His arms burst with junk food.

After a quick payment to the vendor the entire collection of snacks somehow ends up in Baekhyun’s hold. Popcorn spills to a side when he almost loses grip of the large tub meant for Chanyeol alone to consume. He manages to juggle three sticks of cotton candy until a box of chicken wings and nachos each is piled over the already excessive amounts of food. He wobbles af if losing balance but Suho occasionally rests his palm in just the right place to avoid a disaster.

Beautiful faces and colorful clothes surround them but they don’t reach him. He is a funnel again, and this time the opening is so tiny, barely a trickle gets out. He wants to be alone, but the leader won’t allow it. He won’t leave his dongsaeng's side no matter how Baekhyun attempts to evade him. He is awake and alive but every moment is a faint hammer, a fading beat that can easily be brushed aside in favor for silence. For loneliness. 

"What's bothering you?" Suho asks out of nowhere. The band often jokes about him being the "umma" but it is Baekhyun's secret belief that the leader is extremely motherly and caring; more than he really should be in a purely professional relationship like theirs. He is too involved in his band-mates worries and troubles, he is too selfless and understanding where selfishness wouldn't be warranted.

Now, from his hiding place out in the open, Baekhyun looks up at Suho smile at him and carefully pull him out of the covers.

"What makes you think I'm bothered?"

"You've been silent for too long," the elder smirks. "I'm not used it, so it's a little worrying."

"I'm sorry for making you worry, then..." Baekhyun scowls as he maneuvers his way through the throng of tourists and locls alike who've gathered to see the puppet show. He is almost at the audience stands when a palm presses into the side of his waist. He freezes up, unable to muster up the courage and turn to look at the other.

"You know that's not what I'm talking about," Suho whispers by the shell of his ear. His touch disappears at that and they quietly make their way to the seats. 

For the rest of the evening Baekhyuns head pulsates with the elder's words. He can't concentrate on the shadow puppets and he can't understand head or tail of the story. On his left Kyungsoo lets go of chuckles occasionally and on his right Jongin chomps noisily on popcorn despite Chanyeol's protests against sharing. Ten thousand different thoughts dance inside him, swirling madly while he tries to rein each one in so he can understand better. But he struggles and loses his grip each one every single time. His mouth opens and closes in heavy sighs that don't fog anything besides his own mind.

At one point a loud cheer goes up through the audience that he doesn't follow, but at least it is successful in breaking his daydream open long enough for him to escape.

"So, hyung, what did you think?!" someone nudges his ribs whien they're making their way out of the amphitheatre. A few of the audience members weave around towards the stage to speak with the puppeteers holding their flat toys up out of the shadows. When a second nudge almost knocks him off his feet he turns around and signals testily with his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, it was fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yes, just fine, now can we please leave?!" he forcefully barges out of the place without waiting for a response. He doesn't make it very far until he is violently twisted around and swallowed into a hug. He doesn't know why but the action pries out every bit of stress residing in him for the past few months. He sobs as it flows out of him, drenching his cheeks and leaving blotting Suho's clothed shoulder with droplets of wetness. Sometimes he can't help the things that string the two of them together but he thanks all his stars that the other can see each and every one of those things. Because what other reason would prompt him to consoloing ellipses on Baekhyun's back while he shudders and shakes from anxious tears.

The suffocating blocks inside him wash away one by one when Suho hushes him and waves for the others to leave them alone for a while. And this is how they stand tightly wound together in each other's hold, in the middle of a sea of people.

A stylist noona dresses them up, paints their faces and twirls them around one after the other when doing their hair. Baekhyun feels like a pile of numb flesh in her chair. Once or twice she worriedly bends over him and inquires after his well-being. He doesn’t know whether to nod or ignore her so he does a mix of both gestures. It comes out looking like an odd twitch. She ends up far from reassured.

A set of headphone slides into his ears. Voices screech, drums bang, guitars wail, cymbals hiss. The ache slowly dampens within his chest. He closes his eyes when a pair of palms massages their way along his shivering arms. He nows who the touch belongs to, he knows instinctively. But he doesn’t push it away or brush it off. It’s welcome after the frightening impersonal treatment the stylist puts him through. He sinks lower into his seat, caring nought for how it’s ruining his hairstyle—the fans will like whatever they see, anyway.

“You OK?” Suho whispers like he’s talking to a fragile piece of glass.

“Now…” Baekhyun assures. “I am now.”

“Good,” the leader smiles as he pronounces his relief. A few minutes later his chin nuzzles its way into the curve of the younger’s neck. “That’s good to know.”

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