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fcble · 1 year

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SEA CHANGE — noun. a profound or notable transformation.

Nothing of him that doth fade, / But doth suffer a sea-change / Into something rich and strange. — The Tempest, William Shakespeare

In which Byeonghwi loses a friend. FEATURING: Lim Byeonghwi, Kim Gicheol, Lee Jaeseop, Andrew Han WORD COUNT: 3.8k WARNINGS / NOTES: Smoking. Drinking. A direct sequel to First Love, would definitely recommend reading that first 👍.

FROM: UNKNOWN, 11:18 PM why are you an idol? byeonghwi???

Byeonghwi stares at the texts on his phone, chopsticks stilling over the takeout container he’s sharing with Mingeun. That’s his name. He’s an idol—he debuted last week. His hand hovers over the block button. It seems much too early for him to have stalkers or fans or stalker fans. While he stares, two more texts arrive. One of them is a series of question marks. The second one reads, it’s gicheol. should have said that first.

Byeonghwi doesn’t want to believe it. It’s been about a year and a half—a year, four months, and six days to be precise—since the last time they talked.

tell me something only we would know, he sends back.

we used to hang out in the rail tunnel. you told me there was supposed to be another development there until the project was abandoned.

His phone clatters to the table. Mingeun glares at him. Normally, he intimidates and maybe even scares Byeonghwi. Right now, nothing he could say or do would sour Byeonghwi’s mood.

He takes one more bite, then pushes the container closer to Mingeun.

“You can have the rest,” he says with his mouth full. Byeonghwi doesn’t wait for a response—or even a glance—before he scoops up his phone and tosses his disposable chopsticks.

In the privacy of his own bedroom, he looks at the messages again. What do you say to someone you haven’t talked to for some time, but thought of every day? Can they pick up where they left off? Byeonghwi has thought about this day for months. All the questions and witty opening lines seem to have left his brain.

i missed you, he types. Then he deletes it. why did you stop talking to me? He deletes that one too. are you mad at me for achieving your dream? i thought about you every day. i miss you. Delete, delete, delete.

While he’s worrying about what to say, Gicheol sends another message. i have to go. i’ll explain everything when i can. tell me what you’ve been up to. what’s being an idol like?

Byeonghwi thinks he doesn’t have much to share. Then he starts typing. He tells Gicheol about moving to Seoul, his days spent awkwardly in Andrew’s tiny apartment, hiding himself and his stuff from the landlord’s occasional visits, before they moved in with the rest of the group.

a debut is an accomplishment, he writes, but a lot of things stay the same after that. It’s only been a few weeks. He doesn’t know what authority he has to say that. He doesn’t tell Gicheol about how high the tensions run between them sometimes: Mingeun and Haksu have to stay on opposite sides of the dressing room or they’ll come to blows, Haksu spent a week sleeping on the couch of the other dorm for reasons still unbeknownst to Byeonghwi, Andrew managed to make Jaeseop snap with his holier-than-thou attitude.

In turn, Gicheol gives his full story in bits and pieces. His texts come at all sorts of time of day, with no reasoning or schedule. Byenghwi responds whenever he can, which isn’t any better than Gicheol’s timing. Sometimes days or weeks pass before either of them respond. Gicheol explains that he’s using a burner phone, one that he shares with a few other trainees. They rotate who’s responsible for hiding it every week. He tells Byeonghwi not to write anything too personal, on the off chance someone else reads the messages, or his agency confiscates it.

i memorized your number now, Gicheol says at one point. we don’t save contacts in here. i thought i knew it. i didn’t learn what it really was until i went home and asked ㅊㅇ. i’ve sent so many messages to wrong numbers.

He abbreviates Chaewook’s name to his initials, but Byeonghwi understands what he means. Byeonghwi wonders why Chaewook never mentioned it.

you went home? he sends back. If only he had stayed. Byeonghwi’s gone home for Chuseok and Seollal, and he’s never seen Gicheol.

halmeoni died a few months ago. i was there for the funeral. The words are short and succinct.

i’m sorry, Byeonghwi types back.

It takes Gicheol so long to write back that Byeonghwi thinks he’s left. It happens sometimes: he’ll disappear in the middle of a conversation and come back to continue it days later.

you don’t have to be.

The words are colder than Byeonghwi expected. He thinks back: did Gicheol ever have a good relationship with his grandmother? He can’t recall him doing anything other than stealing her cigarettes.

let’s not talk about that, Gicheol sends.

Byeonghwi listens to him. He always does.

Gicheol’s company keeps him under lock and key. It isn’t until he debuts—slightly over a year after Byeonghwi—that he gets a small amount of freedom. Byeonghwi lives with too many people, and, for some unknown reason, is apprehensive about introducing his friend to his group members. He invites Gicheol to the Zenith Entertainment building under the cover of night instead.

Byeonghwi watches the road from the dance practice room. Mingeun and Eunsu are usually the last to leave, but today, Byeonghwi had assured them he could clean and close up the room. They probably expected him back hours ago. He’ll deal with their questions and scrutiny when he gets back. For now, he’s much too excited by the prospect of seeing and talking to Gicheol in person again.

A celebrity van slows to a stop below him. Byeonghwi doesn’t wait to ensure it’s Gicheol. He flies down the stairs, taking them two or three steps at a time, until he bursts out into the cool night air.

Gicheol stands on the sidewalk, leaning against the car, speaking to whoever is driving. He steps away as Byeonghwi approaches, face partially illuminated by the dim light of the copywriting sign.

Unable to stop himself, Byeonghwi throws his arms around his friend’s neck, panting slightly from his run. Gicheol hugs him back, and Byeonghwi feels his heart swell as if it’s about to burst. To his surprise, he can feel Gicheol’s shoulder blades through the fabric of his jacket.

They stay like that for a moment, until Gicheol manages to muffle. “Hwi, I can’t breathe.”

Byeonghwi lets him go. He studies him, piecing together the Gicheol from his memory, the Gicheol from the music video he spent hours poring over, and the Gicheol that stands in front of him now. He looks older and tired and worn-out. Byeonghwi chalks the first one up to the years that passed since the last time they saw each other, the second one to his debut promotions, and the third… He’s not sure where the third one comes from. He thinks back to how he felt after his own debut promotions. Byeonghwi was tired, definitely, but he was carried through it with the contagious energy and excitement of his group members. Maybe Field Day doesn’t have that luxury.

The van beeps politely. Gicheol waves as it begins to pull away from the curb.

“Let’s go up to the rooftop,” Byeonghwi says, tugging Gicheol inside.

He uses his phone flashlight to illuminate the path to the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor.

“The elevator doesn’t go all the way up,” Byeonghwi says. “We have to take the stairs outside.”

He leads Gicheol through the deserted fifth floor to the stairwell. “The copywriting agency has the first two floors,” he explains. “Zenith is on the third and fourth. Taein-nim is trying to buy out this one too. I don’t know where he gets the money from, or why we’d need all the space.”

It’s then that Byeonghwi realizes how much he’s been talking. It was never like this before. He remembers listening to Gicheol talk much more. Even in their text conversations, Byeonghwi is more of a listener. He pushes away the discomfort. He misses talking to Gicheol, and now he has more words than he knows what to do with. That’s all it is.

He puts his shoulder into opening the rooftop door. It creaks open, hinges protesting the entire time.

“Barely anyone comes up here,” Byeonghwi says apologetically. He has to do the same thing to get the door to close. “It’s mostly the copywriters on their breaks.”

Gicheol turns in a small circle. Byeonghwi doesn’t know what there is to see. It’s dark—the only sources of light are the moon and the streetlights down below. The rooftop area is fenced in and completely devoid of any furnishing, other than two uncomfortable stone benches.

“It’s nice,” Gicheol says eventually.

“You don’t have to lie,” Byeonghwi says, perching on the edge and leaning back against the rail.

Gicheol sits next to him. “It is,” he insists. “DCAF doesn’t have anything like this.”

“Your company fucking sucks.”

Gicheol looks surprised. Byeonghwi rarely swears. He feels strongly about this, though. Gicheol’s company limited his contact with everyone else, didn’t debut him for over two years, replaced Byeonghwi’s friend with this hollow version of him, and—

“Have you been eating?” Byeonghwi asks. Remembering how he could feel Gicheol’s shoulder blades when they hugged, he takes in the way Gicheol’s clothes seem to barely hang onto his frame and how his cheekbones are so pronounced it makes his whole face look sunken.

“Enough,” he says. He reaches into his jacket pocket. Byeonghwi knows exactly what he’s reaching for.

Gicheol retrieves his cigarettes. The packaging is still new and shiny, like he just opened it. The branding is different, Byeonghwi notices. These are Camels. It was always Marlboro when he used to steal them from his grandmother.

He fumbles the box open, and offers it to Byeonghwi first. Byeonghwi doesn’t have the heart to tell him he only used to smoke because Gicheol did it, because he wanted to say yes to everything Gicheol asked for. That, and no one in Fable is forthcoming with their cigarettes like Gicheol is.

So he takes one.

Gicheol holds one in his mouth while he finds his lighter in his other pocket. “Like old times,” he says through closed lips.

Byeonghwi nods. He watches Gicheol cup his hand around the end of his cigarette and light it, the small ember burning like a beacon in the dark. Gicheol passes him the lighter and he does the same.

He’s almost forgotten what it’s like. He holds back a cough—he’s better than that—as he’s warmed from the inside out. It’s a feeling that often goes hand in hand with the time he spends with Gicheol.

“Congratulations on your debut,” Byeonghwi says.

Gicheol takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t feel very different.”

He doesn’t need to be told that. He also doesn’t think he should say he knew that first. Byeonghwi still feels like the same person who left Jecheon a little over two years ago, that same naive, idealistic kid chasing after his friend. Back then, he didn’t know if he wanted to be Gicheol, or be with him. Back then, he didn’t have the vocabulary or experience to fully explain how he felt.

He’s working up the courage to admit all of this, when Gicheol suddenly says, “Why did you become an idol?”

Byeonghwi can’t give him the same cute answers he gives in every show where he’s asked the same question: he started learning how to dance with a friend, and discovered he liked it and was good at it. He thinks about what he told Taein—he could want to be an idol, eventually. He doesn’t know when that will be true.

“It was because of you,” he says before he loses his nerve. “I did it because I like you.”

Gicheol’s expression is inscrutable. Byeonghwi’s heart is thumping so loudly in his chest he’s surprised Gicheol can’t hear it. He wipes his free palm on his pants. The paper of his cigarette is damp where he’s holding it.

“If I could go back in time, I would tell you not to do it,” Gicheol says.

It’s too late for that. It’s too late for his feelings to change. Byeonghwi is here, he’s been an idol for a year. He’s not going to quit because he’s asked to.

“If I went back,” Byeonghwi says, “I’d do the same thing every time.”

Gicheol clearly missed the part where he confessed. Byeonghwi doesn’t remember who he was before he met Gicheol. He doesn’t know who he’d be now without him either.

“How long have you thought that?” Gicheol asks. “Don’t you think it’s a bit weird?”

His words pierce Byeonghwi through the heart. He doesn’t think it’s weird at all. It takes him a moment to piece together an answer that won’t completely alienate his friend. In the beginning, he was content to be friends with Gicheol. It was somewhere else along the way that his feelings shifted to that all-consuming fire within him, all for Gicheol’s attention and company and heart. And all of that happened before Byeonghwi was aware of it, before he realized his friendship with Gicheol had a different tone from his friendship with anyone else. He can’t say any of that.

“A while,” Byeonghwi says vaguely, regretting bringing it up in the first place. He changes the subject. “I know it’s hard—training and being an idol—but I like that it brought us back together again.”

“How can you say it’s hard?” Gicheol asks. “It was so easy for you. You passed your first audition. You debuted before me. You never worried about your agency going bankrupt or that one small mistake could mean you’ll never debut when you spent so many years trying. You don’t have a fucking nicotine addiction encouraged by your fucking company because it helps you lose weight.”

His words pour out in a torrent. Byeonghwi is at a loss. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

Gicheol steps closer, waving his cigarette through the air, forcing Byeonghwi back against the railing. He feels the cold metal press into his back.

“Then what? In what way did you mean it? Nothing could have been harder for you than it was for me.”

He stares unflinchingly at Byeonghwi, as if daring him to respond. Then Gicheol backs down. He drops his cigarette butt to the ground and crushes it under his heel. “That’s what I thought. My manager will be back soon.”

Byeonghwi watches the ember disappear into the darkness. He wants to say something. His mind races, trying to think of anything he could say to rescue the situation. He wishes he could turn back time.

“I don’t think we need to see each other again,” Gicheol says, like they’re going through a break-up. In a way, it is. Byeonghwi's never lost a friend like this before.

He swallows the lump in his throat. He’s never argued with Gicheol and he’s never been able to tell him no. He’s not going to start now. “If that’s what you want.”

He leads Gicheol back down the stairs and the elevator in darkness and silence. Gicheol’s manager is already idling by the curb. Byeonghwi watches him climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t even say goodbye.

As the van pulls away, Byeonghwi stands under the copywriting sign, staring at the remnants of the cigarette he forgot he was holding. It’s his last remaining connection to Gicheol. It’s a piece of trash. He can’t bring himself to throw it away.

By the time he reaches his front door, Byeonghwi’s entire body feels leaden. It takes all his effort to put the key in the lock and turn it. The lights are still on inside. It isn’t surprising. Byeonghwi figures at least one person has to still be awake.

He plans on slipping by as quietly and gracefully as possible. So it’s almost shocking for him to see Jaeseop and Andrew at the kitchen table, surrounded by a veritable pile of beer bottles.

Byeonghwi drops the keys to the building on the table. Mingeun will probably want them back in the morning.

“Hey, hyungs,” he says. It’s supposed to come out bright and cheerful. His voice sounds flat, even to him.

Jaeseop regards him curiously. “Long night practicing?”

“No.”

“Then what?” Andrew asks, and that’s when Byeonghwi realizes he’s walked straight into their trap.

Andrew motions for him to sit, and Byeonghwi complies. Then Andrew takes an unopened bottle, braces the cap against the table’s edge, and slams his palm down once on it. The bottle cap pops off and disappears somewhere onto the ground. He slides the bottle across the table.

Byeonghwi stares at him.

“I used to drink a lot,” Andrew says.

“You still drink a lot,” Jaeseop says.

Byeonghwi takes a sip. It’s lukewarm and bitter. He doesn’t understand how Andrew can stand this. Grimacing, he pushes the bottle away.

Andrew points his bottle at Byeonghwi. "Talk."

There's nothing he hates more than talking about things that require depth and thought, things that aren't lighthearted and simple and clear cut. He's always been afraid of judgment and cruelty and his own looming feelings of guilt. He's still not sure where that last one came from.

But he should be able to talk to Andrew and Jaeseop. They've fed him and housed him and made sure he graduated high school and acted almost as his parents for the last two years. At the same time, the weight of Gicheol's rejection weighs him down, leaving him feeling trapped and suffocated.

"I met a friend," Byeonghwi says, slowly and deliberately. He isn't sure how much he wants to tell them just yet.

"A good friend?" Jaeseop asks.

"Yes." He answers that immediately. Another moment passes before he adds, "We used to be. It's been some time since we saw each other."

"With good feelings?" is Andrew's question. Byeonghwi never expected to hear those words out of his mouth. Then he takes in the two empty bottles next to Andrew, the third one he's still working on, and the slightest red tinge in his cheeks.

“You’re acting differently recently,” he continues, tongue clearly loosened by the alcohol. Andrew can be forward, but he never leads like that. There’s always a build-up of a conversation longer than a few sentences. "It's obvious. Something's going on."

Byeonghwi feels exposed, laid bare for his two group members to see. He thought he was better at hiding his feelings. Gicheol's obliviousness is nothing short of a miracle.

"So?" Jaeseop this time. He doesn't seem nearly as far gone as Andrew.

Byeonghwi shifts in his seat. The wound feels too fresh for him to talk about it. He can't relive Gicheol's words again, can't say them out loud. That would make them too real.

"I wanted—" he starts and then stops. What did he want? Was he stupid enough to think Gicheol would return his feelings? Idealistic enough to think he wouldn't completely destroy their relationship?

He tries again. "I thought—" The rest of his sentence is lodged in his throat. I thought we could be friends. I thought we could pick up where we left off. I thought it would be like nothing happened. I thought I could pretend I didn't change. I thought I could pretend he didn't change.

"Rejection, then," Jaeseop says with a sympathetic nod.

Andrew reaches across the table and pats Byeonghwi on the arm. "It happens to all of us. You'll get the next girl."

Byeonghwi thought he was content to let them say whatever they wanted to say, whatever they thought would console him after whatever they thought happened to him. Now he thinks he needs to clear some things up. He watches a single drop of condensation slide down the side of the bottle in front of him.

"My friend isn't a girl." He has to force the words into being, deliberately shaping each syllable with his teeth and his tongue and his lips. He watches the reactions of Jaeseop and Andrew closely, trying to gauge if they'll act like Gicheol, and maybe he's burned another bridge and maybe he should run.

"The next boy," Andrew says, correcting himself automatically.

"You're gay?" Jaeseop says. It comes out like a question.

Byeonghwi rotates the word in his mind. He knows what it means, he just never thought it would apply to him. He nods hesitantly. If the shoe fits, he supposes he should wear it.

He finds his voice. "You don't think it's weird?"

That statement gives them pause. He watches Jaeseop exchange a glance with Andrew—or try to, at least, because Andrew is otherwise preoccupied with opening another bottle.

"Why would I think that?" Jaeseop asks, and Byeonghwi feels himself sag with relief.

Andrew's latest bottle cap clinks to the ground. "Yeah," he says, almost belatedly. “Why?”

Byeonghwi can’t put it into words. Maybe he’s ashamed of himself, or ashamed of the way other people might view him, especially when those other people are Jaeseop—almost renowned for his stringent refusal to break up with his girlfriend to be an idol—and Andrew, who’s only ever talked about and expressed interest in women.

Cheeks burning, he looks anywhere but at the two of them. “I don’t know.”

Andrew pushes the neglected bottle towards Byeonghwi. “You should drink. Get over him.”

“That was his friend,” Jaeseop admonishes. He knocks Andrew’s hand away from the bottle. “Don’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

Byeonghwi doesn’t want to be treated like a kid. He’s an adult. He can make his own decisions. So he reaches over Jaeseop’s arm for Andrew’s cheap American beer and holds his breath as he gulps it down.

Maybe Andrew's right. Maybe he needs to move on—Gicheol obviously has. Maybe he shouldn't have let him define so much of his life and their relationship.

But Byeonghwi can't unlive his life. And if it weren’t for Gicheol, then he wouldn’t be here now, in Seoul, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation, his silence taken as a sign of agreement to a change in topic.

It isn’t until he’s alone a few hours later, after Haksu emerges from his bedroom and asks Andrew to please open bottles quietly with a bottle opener instead of loudly with their dining table and Andrew and Jaeseop finally leave, that Byeonghwi takes notice of the pervasive scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. It never used to bother him—he’d head home after a long day with Gicheol and his parents never cared, so he never cared. Now, he gets it. It’s faded to a certain acrid staleness that makes his nose wrinkle and his head ache. He retrieves his last cigarette butt from his pocket, scattering ash over his bedroom floor. Then he opens his window as far as possible, and tosses it out into the night.

#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ writing. ]#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ byeonghwi. ]#ficnetfairy #fictional idol community #idolverse #kpop oc #idol oc

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