Ship/Member: soonwoo Major Tags: idolverse Additional Tags: hoshi-centric, is there even a "you" amongst the funhouse mirrors, something something gender Permission to remix: Yes
A/N: a spiderfic, shocker
***
Once, knees rubbed raw from floorwork and an ache between his eyebrows from too many sleepless nights, Soonyoung slurred at Wonwoo over cheap GS25 makgeolli:
If it doesn't happen in two years, then it's not meant to be. I'm not gonna be one of those washed-up types that sticks around while the trainees get younger and younger, you know? If I burn out, it's gonna be brief and like, blinding-your-eyes kinda bright.
Wonwoo had just hummed and taken another silent sip, giving him nothing, as per fucking usual. Soonyoung remembers finding it frustrating—his habit of measuring words like he didn't have many to spare.
But what was it he wanted, exactly? Pretty platitudes of comfort and reassurance? Brutal honesty, sticking a pin into his pipe dream?
An empty promise? (Hey, if you leave now, I'll come too.)
Perhaps saying nothing was better after all.
It takes two years and seven months, but Soonyoung debuts.
And then debuts again.
It's different. It's shocking. His mother calls him a quarter of an hour after the MV release, gushing about how cool he looks, how fucking dashing, my sweet boy. The kakao chat with his high school friends blows up in tiger stickers; tigers winking, doing the splits, tigers with fire coming out of their eyes.
Filming had sucked the life out of him through the nose, but despite it all, the final product is a triumph. He'd gotten to wear the stacked platforms he picked out, the ones that made his legs skyscraper-long. The choreo is solid, Jihoon's track even more so.
(Wonwoo didn't come to watch. He texted Soonyoung, though: a succinct good work today.)
The feedback for his solo-work is overwhelmingly positive. He couldn't be more satisfied.
Except, well.
In a boardroom full of people who owned his balls, Soonyoung had held up the fabric. Given a little twirl to simulate how it might move. Plain black and past the knees, it was boring, suburban; nothing you'd look at twice on the rack—but in his grip it'd felt like a molotov, glowing and white-hot. Waiting to be thrown.
They'd laughed that polite, uncomfortable laugh of theirs and said, Hoshi-yah, one step at a time, yeah?
After work, (after the team has projected key Naver screenshots on the white screen, after two hours of pointers on his updated Q-rating and how they can make the most of this wave,) Soonyoung locks himself in their dorm bathroom and stares at the person in the mirror.
They stare back. Kwon Soonyoung, Seventeen's Hoshi. Hotel rooms and horanghaes. Heels, skirts, black nail extensions. Hands around his neck.
If—when—he burns out (brief, blinding-your-eyes kinda bright or a slow fizzle, forgotten), wouldn't it be something if a better Kwon Soonyoung rose from the ashes? A Kwon Soonyoung who knows who he is. A Kwon Soonyoung who can say it with conviction.
His thoughts speed around the cramped space, ricocheting off tile and glass, leaving plaster holes in their wake.
Then there's a knock on the door, and they fall silent. Benched, for now, because Wonwoo is here.
His glasses are smudged like he's been fussing them too much. They're horn-rimmed today, with a loose-link chain that has to be pulled back over the crown of the head, then let to rest on the nape. Perfect for tugging from behind—a bridle, a leash.
Soonyoung wants to take them off him, give them a good wipe. Perch them on his own nose and see what they see. What does he look like through Wonwoo's eyes?
"What is it?" he asks, leaning against the door, an attempt at casual. Wonwoo doesn't speak when he has nothing to say. Doesn't really seek people out unless it's important.
It must be important.
"You looked good," says Wonwoo, and keeps his eyes open as he leans in. His gaze sets Soonyoung aflame.
[FILL] when you look at me
Major Tags: idolverse
Additional Tags: hoshi-centric, is there even a "you" amongst the funhouse mirrors, something something gender
Permission to remix: Yes
A/N: a spiderfic, shocker
***
Once, knees rubbed raw from floorwork and an ache between his eyebrows from too many sleepless nights, Soonyoung slurred at Wonwoo over cheap GS25 makgeolli:
If it doesn't happen in two years, then it's not meant to be. I'm not gonna be one of those washed-up types that sticks around while the trainees get younger and younger, you know? If I burn out, it's gonna be brief and like, blinding-your-eyes kinda bright.
Wonwoo had just hummed and taken another silent sip, giving him nothing, as per fucking usual. Soonyoung remembers finding it frustrating—his habit of measuring words like he didn't have many to spare.
But what was it he wanted, exactly? Pretty platitudes of comfort and reassurance? Brutal honesty, sticking a pin into his pipe dream?
An empty promise? (Hey, if you leave now, I'll come too.)
Perhaps saying nothing was better after all.
It takes two years and seven months, but Soonyoung debuts.
And then debuts again.
It's different. It's shocking. His mother calls him a quarter of an hour after the MV release, gushing about how cool he looks, how fucking dashing, my sweet boy. The kakao chat with his high school friends blows up in tiger stickers; tigers winking, doing the splits, tigers with fire coming out of their eyes.
Filming had sucked the life out of him through the nose, but despite it all, the final product is a triumph. He'd gotten to wear the stacked platforms he picked out, the ones that made his legs skyscraper-long. The choreo is solid, Jihoon's track even more so.
(Wonwoo didn't come to watch. He texted Soonyoung, though: a succinct good work today.)
The feedback for his solo-work is overwhelmingly positive. He couldn't be more satisfied.
Except, well.
In a boardroom full of people who owned his balls, Soonyoung had held up the fabric. Given a little twirl to simulate how it might move. Plain black and past the knees, it was boring, suburban; nothing you'd look at twice on the rack—but in his grip it'd felt like a molotov, glowing and white-hot. Waiting to be thrown.
They'd laughed that polite, uncomfortable laugh of theirs and said, Hoshi-yah, one step at a time, yeah?
After work, (after the team has projected key Naver screenshots on the white screen, after two hours of pointers on his updated Q-rating and how they can make the most of this wave,) Soonyoung locks himself in their dorm bathroom and stares at the person in the mirror.
They stare back. Kwon Soonyoung, Seventeen's Hoshi. Hotel rooms and horanghaes. Heels, skirts, black nail extensions. Hands around his neck.
If—when—he burns out (brief, blinding-your-eyes kinda bright or a slow fizzle, forgotten), wouldn't it be something if a better Kwon Soonyoung rose from the ashes? A Kwon Soonyoung who knows who he is. A Kwon Soonyoung who can say it with conviction.
His thoughts speed around the cramped space, ricocheting off tile and glass, leaving plaster holes in their wake.
Then there's a knock on the door, and they fall silent. Benched, for now, because Wonwoo is here.
His glasses are smudged like he's been fussing them too much. They're horn-rimmed today, with a loose-link chain that has to be pulled back over the crown of the head, then let to rest on the nape. Perfect for tugging from behind—a bridle, a leash.
Soonyoung wants to take them off him, give them a good wipe. Perch them on his own nose and see what they see. What does he look like through Wonwoo's eyes?
"What is it?" he asks, leaning against the door, an attempt at casual. Wonwoo doesn't speak when he has nothing to say. Doesn't really seek people out unless it's important.
It must be important.
"You looked good," says Wonwoo, and keeps his eyes open as he leans in. His gaze sets Soonyoung aflame.