«­-(¯`·´¯)-««

Kim Jongin, age six. Easily startled.

In the days when screams were king, such a footnote would’ve been encouraging. Things are a lot different now though, and instead, Junmyeon sees a warning more than anything – they can’t scare kids anymore after all. Frightened children don’t laugh easily, and Junmyeon already has a hard enough time doing his job.

While waiting for the light over the closet door to turn red, Junmyeon fluffs the fur around his neck one more time, smoothing down his floppy ears as well. I’ve got this, he reassures himself as he twists the door handle and enters Jongin’s bedroom, smile wide and friendly.

“Jongin! Guess who!”

As expected, there’s a sleepy little boy in the room, wearing puppy-printed pajamas and a pout. He rubs his eyes and squints at Junmyeon without a hint of amusement on his face, unfortunately.

“A big bunny?” Jongin asks, blinking blearily as he takes in Junmyeon and his infamous dudumchit pose.

“Not a bunny,” Junmyeon insists, not quite sure what a bunny actually is, “I’m a monster. But a nice one. A funny one – the funniest!”

Jongin grudgingly chuckles, and just his smile’s enough to light up all of Monstropolis.

Success.

Jongin's hands are folded behind his back as he hunches over, as if to make himself smaller. An impossible task, considering the way he currently towers over all three of his older brothers, his head nearly banging against their ceiling. Jongdae glances between Minseok and Junmyeon and wonders which one will address the very large, Jongin-shaped elephant in their living room.

"What have we said about accepting food from Baekhyun?" Junmyeon starts sternly, crossing his arms. He's got that disappointed look Jongdae absolutely hates, that he only resorts to when he knows his usual genial approach won't get him anywhere.

Minseok nods his head in agreement, standing firmly in support of their second eldest. "You ate a mushroom off the ground. It probably wasn't even washed." He sounds more upset about that than Jongin's glaringly obvious disobedience, honestly.

The pout on Jongin's face is more pronounced than ever after his scolding, and not even because of his new size. "If I didn't, Jjanggu would've finished it off!"

"Jjanggu?" Jongdae asks, his heart sinking. His face pales as he's answered by a bark that echoes far too loudly and the sight of a giant black puppy nose outside their window.

Most people take one look at Junmyeon -- at his tiny frame and smooth hands and large glasses and thick sweaters -- and immediately deem him unworthy of his trade. Nevermind that he's been in business for years, that he's accrued even the most unnecessary of certifications. Just because he isn't all rippling abs and ninety kilos of pure muscle covered in a healthy layer of sawdust doesn't mean he's not good at his job.

"It's just that you're so small. And you look like you'd cut your hand off with your own table saw," Chanyeol explains unhelpfully, which is exactly when Junmyeon starts to shove him out of the store. "No, wait, ajusshi-"

"Hyung."

"But aren't you like a hundred years old--"

"Hyung," Junmyeon emphasizes, his smile even more strained as they widen enough to expose his fangs, "Don't make me repeat myself, Park Chanyeol."

It's not much of a threat to be honest. Chanyeol's family has a long history of being regulars -- high paying and loyal, everything a craftsman could dream of barring having to deal with constant reminders of their scion's personality faults -- and Junmyeon couldn't lift a finger against Chanyeol himself even if he wanted to, except maybe to flick at his forehead.

However, on most days, it doesn't seem like Chanyeol is actually aware of that little fact. Whether he understands exactly how much power his family wields in Seoul's Underground still isn't all that clear even after years of knowing each other, but Junmyeon has no idea how else they explain getting away with all of Chanyeol's accidents besides the three B's: bribery, blackmail, and beatings.

"Your order will be ready in two weeks. I'll send an email," Junmyeon says, polite and formal as always.

"Two weeks?!" Chanyeol asks, as if that wasn't the usual amount of time it took Junmyeon to take care of one of his orders, "But hyung, what am I going to do with them until then? They won't have anywhere to sleep!"

"You'll manage. This isn't your first time. I have confidence in you," Junmyeon recites, just like every other time they've gone through this mess because of Chanyeol's lack of impulse control.

As soon as his, admittedly best, customer has been shoved past the threshold of the store, Junmyeon withdraws his hands. His security system will handle the rest. He watches with no small amount of satisfaction as Chanyeol knocks on the glass doors with the saddest of puppy dog faces.

"Park Chanyeol, you are no longer welcome here," Junmyeon states very clearly, sealing the deal and the wards. Chanyeol's face somehow manages to look even more miserable, so he adds a quiet "for now" to soften the blow. But it doesn't change the fact that their business has been settled and Chanyeol no longer has a reason for loitering in his store.

Thankfully, there's enough history between the two of them that Chanyeol knows better than to push his luck by even attempting to make it past the wards, so it's little surprise that he doesn't bother sticking around the storefront long after that. Even he has to abide by the laws of invitation, no matter whose spawn he is. And now that Junmyeon can finally hear the poppy music playing over his speakers once again, he can relax. Mindless idol music really is a pleasant alternative to Chanyeol's boisterousness, almost sounds like a reward for having dealt with his fellow vampire for as long as he had.

He gets maybe an hour to himself, swaying back and forth to the beats of each song and mouthing the words silently as he takes a seat and starts drafting up the designs for his latest commissions. More often than not, business is always this slow -- carpentry isn't exactly a highly sought after craft nowadays and not many people appreciate a properly made coffin anymore -- but during times like this, he can't say he really minds it too much. A century is a long time to get used to slow days.

The first draft of the latest set of caskets is almost done, and he's just starting adjust the dimensions to fit the size of Chanyeol's latest recruits when the bell above the front door chimes. The only thing that stops him from quickly sliding his designs away and out of sight is the familiar view of two young men walking in. Instead, he leaves the papers where they are -- it's not like neither Jongin or Sehun don't already know what he's working on. It doesn't even feel like that long ago when he first made their very first coffins to sleep in.

"Hey, hyung!" Jongin greets first, grinning more widely with each step he takes closer, "Guess what?"

"If this is about Chanyeol turning another couple of people into his new lackeys last night, I'm already working on that," Junmyeon answers dryly. He glances once more at the papers on his counter and resists the urge to sigh. Like population control in Seoul wasn't already an issue without the rest of them having to worry about guys like Chanyeol going around and accidentally gnawing on necks whenever they felt like it.

His guess is easily dismissed with a shake of Jongin's head. "No, it's not about that. You know that new guy who works at the art store down the street? The dimple guy?"

"Jongin..." Sehun groans, already tugging at his friend's arm roughly, like that'll hold back the news Jongin's all too eager to share, "you weren't supposed to tell anyone."

"You never said that," Jongin says quickly before yanking his arm out of Sehun's grasp and speeding over to Junmyeon's side. "But hyung, you know who I'm talking about, right?"

It takes a moment -- Junmyeon's seen a lot of faces in his time, so many that sometimes it gets difficult to tell one human neighbor apart from another -- but eventually his memory stumbles upon the memory of a human with a soft lilt to his voice and a sheepish smile whenever he got his words mixed up. Ah, the dimples and v-cut necklines man who dropped by the week before.

"Zhang Yixing," he finally remembers, "what about him?" He hopes the guy isn't any trouble. The last time they had a hunter move into the neighborhood had been such a hassle. He still owed Kyungsoo a rather large favor for taking care of the man before anyone in their community had been staked. It'd be preferable if he didn't have to go calling their pest control guy in again.

Jongin glances over at Sehun who fixes a weak but warning glare on him. If he had enough blood in him, his cheeks would probably be nice and pretty and pink like Junmyeon's last snack. "Well, let's just say Sehun has been in the mood for Chinese take-out lately," he laughs, slapping a hand wildly on Junmyeon's shoulder as Sehun looks like he wants to die a second death.

Water, 35 liters. Carbon, 20 kilograms. Ammonia, 4 liters. Lime, 1.5 kilograms. Phosphorus, 800 grams. Salt, 250 grams. Saltpeter, 100 grams. Sulfur, 80 grams. Fluorine, 7.5 grams. Iron, 5 grams. Silicon, 3 grams. And trace amounts of fifteen other elements.

Junmyeon is certain that while those are the correct measurements of the elements required to make an average adult human body. He's also certain that Oh Sehun was composed of both more and less than a such a cheap shopping list.

"But how do we account for his soul?" Jongin asks during their trip to Central. He trails behind Junmyeon, his steps slow and sluggish as he waits for Junmyeon to appraise yet another vial of saltpeter. They've spent the past few weeks visiting the finest apothecaries the nation could offer, window-shopping for the best ingredients money could buy. Only the richest -- and, of course, the State Military -- could afford such exorbiant prices, but for Junmyeon it might as well have been pocket change.

Like Sehun would have accepted being recomposed of sub-par materials simply bought from a local market.

One thing that Junmyeon's vast fortune couldn't buy though was the one thing Jongin had always been most concerned with, always bringing it up in their conversations ever since Junmyeon had finally let him in on the plan he'd spent the past seven years researching and preparing for. The human soul had always been a tricky thing to work around, but surely Junmyeon could figure something out now that he had Jongin on his side.

"Maybe if the two of us put a little more energy into the transmutation," he answers softly, but with very little confidence. He holds the vial of saltpeter closer to his eyes, examining it once more before setting it back on the shelf with a frown. With so many impurities, there's no way it'd hold up in an actual human transmutation. "Although I should still probably provide the bulk of it."

It's only right after all. It's Junmyeon's responsibility, Junmyeon's fault.

He reaches out to take Jongin's hand, already ready to head back over to the store's supply of lime, but Jongin manages to slip right out of his grasp and walk over to the display himself. Nineteen year old Jongin is a lot different from twelve year old Jongin, but at least that much hasn't changed.

"This looks good," Jongin comments, leaning over the display with his back facing Junmyeon. He's grown so tall, his shoulders so broad and muscled. Junmyeon wonders if Sehun would have grown up the same way, sprouting up like a particularly handsome sunflower. Always looking away from Junmyeon. "I think you should buy it."

And Junmyeon listens without even looking at the cost of the lime, eagerly pulling out his wallet and walking over to the clerk on his own. It's a small price to pay, comparatively.



Junmyeon's family owns an estate out in Resembool, one of the few properties to survive the town's bombing by Ishvalan terrorists in retribution for the civil war. That had been years ago, when Junmyeon had been a child and safely spirited away to Central for the time being. Despite the fact that his father had landed a solid position teaching at the capitol's top medical school and his much older brother had found himself a place in the Amestrian military academy, Junmyeon and his mother had returned to the family home once the conflict had ended.

That had been when he met Zitao, Jongin, and Sehun.

In spite of their age difference, Junmyeon thought of them as his friends. Maybe Zitao felt the same way, but Jongin and Sehun had always insisted on referring to him as their glorified babysitter. It wasn't too much of a stretch -- Junmyeon was the one to pick them all up from their houses in the morning and walk with them to the town's school-house, and a majority of his early adolescent years had been spent happily keeping an eye on them for their parents.

"Don't you ever get tired of this?" Jongin asked as he laid in the grass a healthy distance away from where Junmyeon was stretched out. Zitao and Sehun had been rolling around on the ground closer to the river and attempting to toss each other into the water, although Sehun's strategy seemed to involve more slumping on top of Zitao's body like a heavy rock than any actual force. "You're so old, and you're still hanging out with us kids."

"That's because I like you kids." Which was true. Junmyeon probably liked the three of them most out of all the people in his life.

And as he sat on one of Resembool's grassy banks, listening to Zitao and Sehun's playful yelps echo through the air and watching Jongin's hair ruffle in the summer breeze, he realized he'd do anything for them.

The year Junmyeon turns fifteen, Sehun collapses with very little warning in Junmyeon's house. So little warning that by the time Junmyeon finishes frantically telephoning his father in Central for medical advice -- because surely, surely, one of the top doctors in the country could easily fix this -- Sehun's been pronounced dead by the town's doctor for reasons Junmyeon still doesn't quite understand.

Everything about it is painfully short and frighteningly quick, passing through at whirlwind speeds before Junmyeon can even begin to understand anything.

By the end of the week, he's already watching Sehun's coffin close for the last time. Zitao is crying into his shoulder, his tears soaking through the brand new suit Junmyeon's mother had ordered just for the occasion. For the first time in a long while, Jongin is holding his hand of his own free will. It's smaller and less warm than Junmyeon had expected.

Junmyeon sleeps over at Jongin's in the weeks after, his own house haunted by all the memories of Sehun lounging around the house while petulantly asking for things, as well as the few times Junmyeon had refused him. Regret lingers in every corner, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees Sehun's face and finds himself wondering what he did wrong that day.

"You didn't do anything," Jongin says quietly each night, his voice steady and almost reassuring. He never reaches for Junmyeon's hand again though, and in the darkness of the room, Jongin's eyes accuse him instead.

He's right -- Junmyeon didn't do anything. He didn't do anything when Sehun had collapsed, when Sehun had laid there on the ground as his life slipped away.

"I'll figure something out," Junmyeon promises, more to himself than to Jongin or even Sehun. His fists tighten in the blankets, and he hears Jongin sigh before they drift off to sleep.



Alchemy.

That's the solution, or looks to be it anyway. Junmyeon finds out about it when a young man clad in the same blue military uniform as his brother comes into the town, flashing a silver pocketwatch at anyone who asked.

"Alchemy can be used to fix anything," the soldier had said, sitting in Sehun's chair as Junmyeon's mother fetched him a glass of tea, "for a price."

Junmyeon knows all about prices, even if he's never had to worry about paying for them. Not everything has a price -- if Junmyeon could buy alchemic talent, he would have done so immediately instead of struggling with the simplest of transmutation circles and chemical break-downs for so long -- but there are a lot of things Junmyeon can buy. Rare and expensive alchemy texts and the time and patience of the best alchemists willing to tutor him.

"Fifteen's a little old to start learning," one of them notes, looking over his glasses at Junmyeon like he's trying to break him down to his bare elements, "and you're saying you've never even tried before?"

Junmyeon flushes in embarrassment, his hands clenched into tights fists underneath the desk.

"I have motivation now. Determination."

If nothing else, Junmyeon proves that much. Jongin, who takes to coming along to Junmyeon's lessons now that one playmate is six feet under and the other has thrown himself head-first into his family's automail business, takes to the lessons much more quickly, already advancing well past Junmyeon by the end of their first year, but Junmyeon keeps at it.

"It feels good," Jongin says as he presses his hands to a transmutation circle drawn in the dirt. Blue light flares from the circle, and from the ground arises a life-size puppy chiseled out of rock. It looks suspiciously like one of his own dogs. "Having something to do with my hands. No wonder Zitao decided to take up automail. It's nice not feeling useless."

"Idle hands," Junmyeon replies as he, too, draws the now familiar alchemic runes into the soft earth. He tries for a different transmutation and winds up with a rough, rock goblet filled with water drawn up from the soil. Not too shabby.

While Junmyeon doesn't improve by the leaps and bounds Jongin does, he progresses at a steady rate. By the end of his sixth year of study, he's certain that he's almost ready, and on the sixth anniversary of Sehun's death, he gathers Jongin and Zitao and lets them in on his plan.

"Didn't you tell me human transmutation is illegal?" Zitao asks, now staring at Junmyeon with suspicion. He's nineteen and towers over Junmyeon now, and his disapproval is intimidating. Jongin, who is almost as tall and grown, stares at him with the same intensity.

Junmyeon bites his lip. "But it's Sehun." He knows his voice is heavy with desperation, but for good reason. With each year he struggles with alchemy, more of his memories of Sehun fade with time. How long until he forgets the sound of his awkward laugh, or the way his eyes narrowed whenever he grinned? Junmyeon doesn't think he can afford to wait any longer.

"Fuck, hyung. Was that the whole reason behind this?"

Jongin looks almost disappointed in him. Junmyeon can't even look at him when he silently nods.

He hears Jongin tell Zitao to leave, something about how they had to talk about this alchemist-to-alchemist, and as the front door closes, he braces himself. He tries to tell himself that nothing Jongin says to him can shake his resolve now, not after years of working up to this point -- but Jongin's previous words echo in his ears, speaking of nothing and uselessness.

Jongin will always hold power over Junmyeon, the same way Sehun still does from beyond the grave.

"You think you already know everything you need?" Jongin asks from the door, and Junmyeon can hear him slowly walking back over.

Junmyeon nods again, for some reason too nervous to open his mouth. His throat feels so dry.

He hears Jongin sigh again, just like that night so many years ago, and even with his eyes closed he can see the shadow Jongin casts as he stands over him.

"I wish you'd told me when we started this," Jongin mutters, and Junmyeon looks up in shock, "You know I want him back just as much as you do." He almost reaches out for Junmyeon's hand again, but stops himself just in time. "Let's do this, hyung."



They set up their purchases in Junmyeon's basement.

His mother has long left the Resembool estate, beckoned back to Central's bright lights and socialite circles, and with his brother still in the military, the running of the estate falls on Junmyeon's weak shoulders. He's a lenient master though, and when he tells the few servants he keeps around that they have the week off, no one is surprised.

"No disturbances," he promises Jongin as he lets him in through the front door, "just you and me."

Jongin just brushes past him, complaining of the summer heat.

It's cooler in the basement, where they spend hours drawing out the transmutation circle the two of them had worked to develop. Junmyeon had done most of the planning, combining various other circles he'd come across in his studies until he felt he had developed the perfect one, while Jongin was in charge of making sure the actual construction of the circle on the basement's hardwood flooring was perfect. It's almost midnight by the time they finish, chalk dust all over their hands and their nerves racing.

"Remember what I told you," Junmyeon says as he wipes his hands on his pants, "don't put in too much energy. Let me handle it, I just need you to help me visualize Sehun and direct the transmutation."

Jongin is silent, and Junmyeon's almost certain he'll argue back. He's gotten more contrary over the years, although he has been following Junmyeon's lead for the past year.

"Are you sure this will work, hyung?" Jongin finally asks. His voice is so small.

Of course Junmyeon isn't absolutely sure this will work out. He's tried to calculate all possible rebounds and problems, but human transmutation is illegal for a reason and it's not like there's very much research available about it to anyone who isn't a State Alchemist.

But that doesn't mean he can't try.

"Not at all," he says honestly. "So this is your last chance to back out, Jongin."

A part of him hopes Jongin will take it, that Jongin will walk out of his house and take up a proper profession like Zitao has. Use that to cope with the death of his best friend, a wound that was never allowed to properly heal as long as Junmyeon kept promising hope he couldn't even guarantee.

But there's another part of Junmyeon that knows he can't do this alone. Jongin probably knows it too.

"I'm not a kid anymore, hyung," and Junmyeon knows that already. "I can handle this, too. Probably better than you can."

Junmyeon chuckles bitterly, because that's probably true.

Only it's not. As the room flares in dark purple light, both of their hands positioned firmly on the transmutation circle, Junmyeon realizes just how wrong the two of them were. He hears Jongin's scream amidst the crackling of the sparks in the room and realizes that neither of them were ready for this.



Junmyeon wakes up to a blinding white. There's no end in sight, and when he sits up, all he can see is a giant stone door hovering a few meters away from him with the impressive engraving of a tree of it.

So you're awake.

He turns around to find a white silhouette, whose outline is surrounded by an aura of black particles. It's seated quite casually on whatever counts as the floor for this place.

"Who are you? Where's Jongin?" he asks it, feeling dazed. His head hurts, and his memory up until that moment is a bit of a blur.

The silhouette shrugs its shoulders at him. I am what you call the world. Or perhaps the universe, or perhaps god, or perhaps truth, or perhaps all, or perhaps one. And I am also you. It doesn't make much sense, if anything it makes Junmyeon's head spin even more.

And then he hears the doors behind him creak open.

Welcome, you fool, who doesn't know his own place.

The last thing Junmyeon sees are those razor sharp teeth pulled back into a wicked smile as the tangle of shadowy limbs tear into his body and drag him through the door. The silhouette's lips move one last time before he finds himself in complete darkness, centuries of knowledge being shoved into his mind until he feels like his head is going to burst, but even as he fights to block out the pain, its last words echo mockingly in his ears.

Seven years of hard work, good job, Junmyeon.

Junmyeon kisses two strangers before breakfast and Sehun over his morning coffee. Sehun's lips are always warmer than anyone else's, even when leaving his own that much cooler -- but never quite enough to chase away the memory of a real spark, of another pair that've been seven years gone. He's long since acquainted himself with this familiar bitterness, but that doesn't stop him from trying to wash away the taste of Sehun's lips with copious amounts of coffee.

"I'm insulted, hyung," Sehun deadpans as he pulls back into a pair of patiently waiting arms, missing how Youngho rolls his eyes.

"If anyone should be insulted, it should be Youngho," Junmyeon laughs as he watches them. He pours another packet of sweetener into his mug, stirring until every last granule dissolves. "People don't typically take well to their partners kissing others."

Youngho smiles, lips drawn tight. Junmyeon understands all too well, recognizes the insincerity when Youngho jokes, "You should just take Sehun hyung off my hands." His arm tightens around Sehun's shoulders and Junmyeon aches. His own shoulders sag under the phantom weight of a boy with lanky limbs and horrible morning breath, pressing down and kissing him underneath doorways until Junmyeon barely had the energy to stand, let alone kiss back.

He takes another sip of his coffee. It still isn't sweet enough, but he smiles anyway.




Hospital visits are routine for Junmyeon, who drops by multiple times a day to help out with lethargic patients in-between his shifts at the neighboring research facility. Zitao once called him 'kind', Jongdae fondly adding 'saintly'. It's nothing like that though; all Junmyeon does is graze some stranger's lips with his own, praying there aren't side effects.

"Junmyeon," the receptionist greets when he follows Sehun into the lobby, a proxy while Youngho's in class. She looks surprised -- probably is surprised -- to see him. He'd dropped by two hours prior and usually didn't have enough energy to make it back for another three, feeling sick and stiff with unreleased tension.

"I'm just here as a visitor," he assures her. Sehun holds up a gaudy get-well card, sprinkling glitter everywhere. Junmyeon had offered to buy a professional one, but Sehun had laughed in his face and spent the money on snacks instead.

Junmyeon doesn't know the story of the guy they're visiting, barely recognizes his name from Sehun's ramblings. People end up here for several reasons, some Junmyeon is more familiar with than others.

Sometimes, it's easier not to know.

"I'll stand out here," he says once outside the door. He spends enough time in these rooms already, still recalls the prickle of starched bedsheets against his fingertips, more tangible than the feeling of loss. The sterility of the hallway is more to his tastes, despite the chill. "I don't even know him."

"Jongin's the shy one, not you, hyung," Sehun laughs, eyes crinkled. He tugs Junmyeon's wrist with all the energy he'd swiped from him earlier and storms into the room. "Jongin! What's u--uh."

The boy leaning over the bed jerks away, as startled as Sehun's bedridden friend. They look embarrassed, the way they're both shrinking into themselves with twin expressions of shock. Junmyeon can't blame either of them really -- it's happened to him several times.

"Kyungsoo," he calls out, recognizing his fellow volunteer, "sorry for interrupting."

Kyungsoo coughs into his hand, an awkward chuckle slipping out. "It's fine, Junmyeon hyung. Jongin and I weren't as compatible as the doctors hoped anyway." Jongin looks down at his sheets miserably, still flustered, much to Sehun's amusement.

"Always said Jongin was too picky," Sehun laughs, "I don't know how Moongyu hyung put up with him for so long."

Another name Junmyeon doesn't remember, but it's not hard to connect the dots. "Your partner?"

"Not anymore."

Junmyeon recognizes that tone. The slump of Jongin's shoulders, the hurt on his face. Most patients wind up here because of temporary separations from their partners, whether out of necessity like business trips or due to petty arguments, stubborn pride. This is not the case.

This is more like his case.

"How about letting me try then?" he finds himself saying. He grabs the clipboard at the foot of Jongin's bed, flipping through the pages to find Jongin's particular wavelengh. He finds a series of graphs and spikes suggesting Jongin's an extremely fastidious receiver. "Sehun wasn't kidding about you being picky, but my energy's pretty indiscriminate. It's worth a shot?"

Jongin looks mutinous at the suggestion, folding into himself.

"Hyung's right," Kyungsoo says, "He's a pretty compatible guy. It could work." There's a gleam in his eyes as he glances between them. He then proceeds to drag Sehun out, catching Junmyeon's eye once more before shutting the door.

"We don't have to do this," Junmyeon immediately offers, meaning it. Rejection's routine, practically tasteless nowadays -- yet his heart pounds when Jongin bites his lip, deliberating.

"But you think it'll help." More than defeated, Jongin sounds cautious. He exhales and closes his eyes. "Fine."

He tenses, barely flinching as Junmyeon settles on the bed and cups his cheek. It's not until Junmyeon's close enough to kiss him that Jongin shudders, his lips parted as Junmyeon presses down feather-light -- the bare minimum for transferring energy.

But there's more. A spark that doesn't come just from the transfer.

A hand grasps his sleeve, tightening as Jongin kisses back with sweet lips. Junmyeon doesn't resist his pull, doesn't break away until Jongin's moan cuts through the haze because for the first time since Cho Kyuhyun had kissed him good-bye years ago, bitterness doesn't linger on his lips, in his heart. He'd almost forgotten the taste of anything else.

He wants seconds.

"Does this mean I can't kiss hyung anymore?" Sehun asks sullenly from outside. The smack of Kyungsoo's hand against his arm echoes, but all Junmyeon registers is Jongin pressing thin fingers against his lips and the familiar, unparalleled warmth of belonging to someone again pulsing in his own.

"Lean a little closer to the others, Kai sshi. And smile," the photographer repeats, gesturing at his own mouth encouragingly, "we have probably two memory cards filled with nothing but your sour faces. We're going for casual now. Fun, even." From behind him, Junmyeon is pulling up the corners of his mouth and showing off a wide, goofy grin, silently trying to either instruct Jongin on how to smile or give him a reason to.

Jongin coughs into his hand when Junmyeon abruptly crosses his eyes, more ridiculous than actually funny. His lips barely twitch even as the other members scattered throughout the room laugh with varying degrees of amusement.

"No good, Junmyeon hyung," Jongdae chirps from somewhere on his right. His giggling isn't very loud, but Jongin can feel the mattress shifting underneath him, the tiny breaths Jongdae exhales in-between each bout of laughter as they land on the side of his neck. Even in a heavy knitted sweater that covers more skin than he wore in half of the teaser videos they've already filmed, Jongin feels himself shiver.

"Yeah. No good," he echoes quietly, his voice drowned out by all of the noise in the room.

The photographer takes a few more shots of Jongin cringing as he, Lu Han, Zitao, and Jongdae awkwardly pose on the bed before abruptly throwing up his hands and stalking off. It's a bit offending how he goes storming off while ranting about no-name rookies with no experience loud enough for everyone to hear. A couple of the other photographers who are working on taking shots of the others -- Kyungsoo holding a pillow in unusual positions, Baekhyun and Minseok squatting in front of a wall -- turn to look, but Jongin is used to attention and critique and scrutiny.

Or at least he should be, after years of going through it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jongin watches Zitao get up quietly, probably still trying to decipher all of the photographer's words; seeing as the man had sprinkled some less-than-appropriate language throughout his rant though, he probably wouldn't get too far. There's the tell-tale sound of Jongdae plopping down on the bed properly, and already Jongin can feel him pushing everyone else off as he tries to stretch and claim the entire mattress for himself. Meanwhile Lu Han lightly shoves Jongin off of his chest once the photographer has completely left the room, but before the stylists start making their way over to fix any stray strands of hair or reapply make-up.

"That asshole," he groans, massaging his own shoulder with too much fuss for it to be taken seriously, "he should try having Jongin's fat head on his chest for twenty minutes."

"Jongin's head isn't fat, Lu Han," Junmyeon chides from beside the abandoned tripod, although he abruptly amends an appeasing "hyung" when Lu Han turns to him with a raised brow.

Jongdae laughs from behind him -- it seems like he's always laughing at something Junmyeon or Chanyeol or Baekhyun say -- and Jongin braces himself. Even though he and Jongdae have rarely gotten to talk since their debut had been announced, he knows that whatever's coming won't be nice.

"Junmyeon hyung is right, Jonginnie's head isn't fat," Jongdae says, smiling brightly at Jongin when they make eye contact. He almost looks innocent. "If anything it's too small."

Jongin feels his face burn when they all laugh, especially when even Zitao, who apparently pieced together Jongdae's words, joins in with the others.

"I'm glad you three are all gonna be in M. In China," he mutters darkly as he sets aside the prop book they'd been using in the shot. He draws his knees up and hugs them to his chest. "If only you'd take Junmyeon hyung with you."

He hears Lu Han and Junmyeon laugh as they walk over to the stylist noonas for touch-ups, in addition to the soft shuffling of Zitao's feet as he also wanders away. It's just him and Jongdae alone on the bed in their own bubble of silence as the rest of the room carries on with the photoshoot, shutters clicking and cameras flashing and instructions being doled out from every corner. Everything Taemin's ever described to him through late-night texts, everything Jongin's dreamt a real photoshoot would be like ever since he walked into SM all those years ago for his first audition.

As he watches a stylist noona tie back Yixing's hair on the other side of the room, he feels something nudge against his side. When he looks over, he sees Jongdae's knee pressing repeatedly against him.

"You don't honestly think you're gonna get rid of us that easily, do you?"

Jongin's lips curl into a pout -- the only other expression he seems capable of managing today besides poker faces and frowns -- and he bumps back against Jongdae's legs with his side.

"A guy can dream, can't he?" Jongin says quietly, a bit petulant.

Jongdae's laughter is loud and bright, just like his voice during the few times Jongin's poked his head into the recording studio during one of M's recording sessions. Something sweet, to be savored. Jongin is sure he'll sound exactly the same at the upcoming music festival SM is letting them perform at.

"Don't lie, Jongin-ah." Jongdae lowers the pitch of his voice so that he sounds like a bad imitation of Junmyeon, or one of their managers, or maybe even Kris. It really is that horrible. "It's a bad habit," he continues, and Jongin decides it's probably Junmyeon.

"You're a bad habit," Jongin replies immediately, but even he cringes at how dumb he sounds.

But Jongdae doesn't call him dumb, doesn't do anything but laugh more and smile brighter. Probably exactly what that dumb photographer meant for the concept of their photoshoot.

He should do well in China, Jongin thinks a little wistfully. He would have done better in Korea, hamming it up on the local variety shows and crooning in their native tongue as Jongin danced carefully choreographed circles around him, but he can probably make it in China. Jongin's rarely visited the country, but he can't think of anything there that could muffle Jongdae's voice or dampen his smile besides his own inability to speak the language.

And even then, Jongdae's the real golden boy -- persistent and stubborn and ever-improving. Not many people debut out of SM with such a short training period. Jongin would know.

"How long do you think it'll take the photographer ajusshi to simmer down?" Jongin asks.

He watches as Jongdae shrugs, propping himself up on one elbow and resting his chin in the palm of his hand. "About as long as it takes for you to relax and take a few pictures," he chuckles. There's no maliciousness in his tone -- he's spent far too little time in the crowded corridors and busy practice rooms of the SM building to have developed the need for thick skin and a sharp, sometimes cruel tongue -- and it's a relief that the only insinuations Jongin has to look for are playful in nature. We are one, Junmyeon says all of the time when it looks like egos are about to inevitably clash. Maybe Jongin should believe in him as much as Jongdae always seems to.

"You don't understand, hyung," Jongin says, "it just all feels so surreal. It's so weird." It's weirder still to talk to Jongdae of all people about this, but in all of the chaos in the room and with Jongdae gazing at him with features that seem softer than usual underneath the studio's bright lighting, the words slip out like the drumming of Jongin's fingers when he hears a particularly attractive beat. Instinctive, easy.

"It's time to stop dreaming and starting doing," Jongdae tells him quietly, uncharacteristically serious in both appearance and tone. He reaches out for Jongin's hand, stroking the back of it soothingly. His own hands are a lot less calloused from a lack of practice -- even though he's older, he's leagues behind in experience compared to Jongin, but that's okay and Jongin doesn't try to pull away.

Jongin still feels small, still feels young as Jongdae hums quietly to fill the silence between them. He feels like himself rather than just a kid lumbering around in Kai's clothes and make-up, posing stiffly for cameras he's not quite used to yet and dancing to impress the world instead of just his reflection.

"Man," Jongdae continues in that soft tone of his as Jongin closes his eyes and focuses on the small circles Jongdae is rubbing into his skin, ready to listen to whatever else his hyung has to share, "I... sounded really cool! Right?"

Jongin snorts before bursting into laughter.

"I sounded like a real idol -- my friends are never gonna believe me," Jongdae keeps going, the pitch of his voice rising with his mood. He sounds ecstatic as his gaze leaves Jongin and he stares off into space dreamily. "Super Idol Chen. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it, Jongin?"

"Oh my God, hyung," Jongin wheezes, taking back his hand from Jongdae's grasp and slumping onto his hyung's stomach. He tries to catch his breath, but even when the laughter starts to fade, he can feel the smile sticking to his face. "Junmyeon hyung and his dumb jokes are rubbing off on you. We're doomed."

His hand lingers on Jongdae's thighs, and he can feel the rise and fall of Jongdae's body underneath his cheek with each breath Jongdae takes. It's a moment both casual and intimate as Jongin curls his fingers around the curve of Jongdae's legs.

"I wish you were in K," he whispers quietly after a few moments of silence. He doesn't know who he would exchange for Jongdae -- doesn't want to think about it, because Kyungsoo is a great roommate and Sehun's one of his best friends and Baekhyun's fun too and almost every memory he has of SM involves Junmyeon and Chanyeol hanging around and he can't imagine either of them missing from his future either -- but he thinks it would have been nice to have Jongdae to perform with on stage, to sit with in the company car as they drive from schedule to schedule, to talk to late at night in K's dorm.

He probably wouldn't have minded Jongdae's hand in his as they bowed on stage, holding tightly to each other as Jongdae's bright laughter echoed in his ears over the roaring of any crowd, no matter how big.

"You're starting to sound like Tao," he hears Jongdae chuckle, "he cries in the dorm every night at the thought of the twelve of us being separated. Are you gonna miss me, baby Jonginnie?"

Jongin hears the click of a camera in the distance, but for the first time that day he doesn't mind it. Jongdae's body is so warm beneath his head.

"Of course not," he lies with a smile.
 

Jongin breathes in the steam rising around him. He rests his head against smooth glass, letting the spray of hot water wash away all signs of the day and watching as the droplets race down the paths forged by his hard-earned sweat. When he's like this -- hidden away behind a frosted door, shut off from the world of cameras and fans and never-ending dance practices -- it's easy to forget everything.

All it takes to break the illusion is one word.

"Jongin?"

He groans at the interruption, at the shadowy figure approaching from beyond the door. Eventually, he can see the dull orange of Joonmyun's stupid sweater through the glass. The faint outline of hands appear, cupped around a pair of eyes Jongin doesn't bother meeting.

"Is your back okay? You're supposed to take it easy."

Jongin holds back the growl in his throat, but not the scowl on his face. The glass can only hide so much from someone who's known him for five years.

"I'm fine. I'm done."

Even the running shower can't drown out the sounds of resignation, of a retreat. Jongin watches the last of the water slip through his fingers and into the drain.