Ship/Member: Wonwoo, Seungcheol Major Tags: accidental invisibility, loneliness Additional Tags: none Permission to remix: Yes
***
When Wonwoo was little his mother used to call him her little mouse. Quiet as one, she’d laugh, her voice full of love as she reached to pinch his cheek or tousle his hair. She never made it sound like anything bad.
He isn’t really sure when it changed.
His voice went first, words drying up like dirt from an over planted field, crumbling to dust to be carried away by the wind. He didn’t even notice at first, so used to keeping his mouth shut that he couldn’t say when it first happened. When he opened his mouth to make a sound and nothing came out at all.
No one really seemed to notice — he was already so silent, after all. It wasn’t like anyone ever expected him to say anything anyway.
He started disappearing next, like it was the natural next step. First silent, then invisible. He remembers his sixth grade teacher staring right through him to call on the girl who sat in the seat behind him, like Wonwoo wasn’t there at all. It was a relief, at first — he always hated to be the centre of attention.
But he got lonely soon enough. There were things he wanted to say, he realized, but by then it was already too late. By then it was already like he didn’t exist at all.
His audition had been a last resort, a final act of desperation. Can anybody see me? Anybody at all?
He hadn’t expected the answer to be yes.
*
Seungcheol couldn't say when it happened the first time. He can't really remember the details clearly — everything from the time before they debut blurs together into one anxious lump in his mind, and he's usually happier if he doesn't think about any of it.
Maybe it wasn't until after their debut. Seungcheol had been counting heads in the room, not because they were going anywhere but out of a compulsive urge to make sure everyone was accounted for, a habit already even back then. He remembers counting to eleven and freezing as he came up short, a twist in his stomach as he doubled back to recount. It was Wonwoo who was missing, he realized belatedly as he restarted the count. Where could he have gone?
But when Seungcheol looked again there he was, sitting just behind Soonyoung, listening intently to whatever the members in front of him were saying.
“Wonwoo-yah,” Seungcheol asked, and Wonwoo looked up, startled. “Did you just come back?”
Wonwoo's brow furrowed, then, like he had no idea what Seungcheol was talking about. He shook his head silently, skinny elbows tucked in and knees pulled up to his chest. He certainly looked comfortable, or at least it seemed like he'd been in that position for a while. Seungcheol wasn't sure it was possible for someone that skinny to ever feel comfortable sitting on the hard practice room floor.
“My bad,” Seungcheol said, laughing a little to try to make it seem less weird. “I must have just missed you before.”
He didn't believe it, though. Despite what he said Seungcheol was sure, all the way down to his bones, that the first time he looked Wonwoo had been gone.
A few weeks after he took his hiatus he sent Jeonghan a message about it, once he’d separated out the fears twisting through him like vines enough to identify this one in particular.
keep an eye on wonwoo, he sent, no preamble or explanation. Jeonghan sent back a single question mark, but he disappears sometimes was all Seungcheol could come up with.
There was a long pause, the ellipsis on the screen appearing and disappearing as Jeonghan typed and deleted his response, over and over again.
i know was all he sent back, finally, and then, i will.
One of the vines loosened as Seungcheol stared at Jeonghan’s message, a tiny lessening of the pressure on his chest.
One of the vibes loosened, but there were still so many left.
*
It started changing when Wonwoo became a trainee, and then for real after debut. With twelve others he could still disappear, but it got harder and harder. Even when he stood at the back someone turned toward him, more often than not, their attention keeping him from fading away.
Some days, if enough time has passed since the last time it happened, Wonwoo manages to convince himself it was never really real at all. He just made it all up, surely — there’s no way a person can really disappear. It seems so absurd.
But then it will happen again. A staff member will look right through him to speak to Vernon instead, or Wonwoo will open his mouth at a group meeting only to close it again, soundless, nothing coming out of him at all. He’ll try to answer the phone and greet his mother with dead air.
“How do you do it?”
Seungcheol’s question comes out suddenly as they’re waiting for Wonwoo’s computer to restart, unexpected enough for Wonwoo to turn and stare at him in confusion. It’s quiet in Seungcheol’s room, no sounds filtering in from the rest of the dorm either.
“Do what?”
Seungcheol laughs, then, a nervous flush crawling up his cheeks. It makes Wonwoo nervous too, even though he’s still not completely sure what Seungcheol is actually talking about.
“When you disappear,” Seungcheol says. His words are awkward, a little clumsy but still sincere. “How do you do it?”
Wonwoo stares at Seungcheol as his meaning sinks in. Seungcheol’s eyes are wide as he stares back, full of so much emotion it makes Wonwoo uncomfortable.
“What do you mean,” Wonwoo says carefully, his shoulders already starting to draw inward. If Mingyu were here he would nag him to sit up straight.
“You don’t have to pretend,” is all Seungcheol says. “I know you do, sometimes. I’ve seen it.”
Seen what? Wonwoo could ask, only he doesn’t think he wants to hear Seungcheol’s answer. Could Seungcheol really tell? For how long? No one’s ever noticed before, or if they have they haven't said anything — not even Soonyoung.
It seems so pathetic, suddenly. Embarrassing.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, Wonwoo could answer, but he respects Seungcheol too much to lie to him outright.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly rather than denying it, his cheeks burning at the admission. He can’t look at Seungcheol as he speaks, keeping his gaze focused on the keyboard in front of him instead. His computer is back on, now, but it would be too awkward to ask Seungcheol if he’s ready to play again. “It just happens.”
“Oh,” Seungcheol says, voice faltering a bit like he doesn’t know how to respond to that. Wonwoo doesn’t know how Seungcheol should respond, either. He wishes he’d never brought it up.
“Does it hurt?” Seungcheol asks, finally, and Wonwoo jerks his head up to look at him, surprised. The denial forming on his tongue dies at the look on Seungcheol’s face, wide-eyed and earnest. Seungcheol gets like this more often, ever since he came back. Like when he asks them how they’re doing he really wants them to answer.
No, Wonwoo could answer, and it would be true. It doesn’t hurt him, when it happens. It doesn’t feel like anything at all. It really doesn’t happen that often anymore, anyway. He’s been doing so much better.
That’s not what Seungcheol’s asking, though, and the words can’t make it out. They lodge at the back of his throat, sour, and Wonwoo nods instead. It makes him swallow hard, thinking of the confusion in his mother’s voice when she called and he couldn’t answer. It did hurt.
It does hurt.
Seungcheol’s eyes are full of sympathy when Wonwoo lets himself look up, his gaze heavy and impossible to escape. Wonwoo couldn’t disappear from under it even if he tried. When he speaks his voice is very quiet.
“Where do you go?”
“I don’t go anywhere,” Wonwoo says honestly, his own voice hardly above a whisper as he offers a weak little shrug to go with it. His shoulders are still hunched over, like he’s trying to protect himself. “I’m always just here.”
Seungcheol keeps staring at Wonwoo, focused, like he’s searching for something. Wonwoo feels himself wilting even further under his gaze, but he doesn’t turn away as Seungcheol’s mouth opens then closes again, like he can’t find the right words. Like Seungcheol is the one who’s voice has been snatched. His hand twitches on the desk in front of him, as though it wants to reach out.
“I’ll find you, then,” he says, finally. “If you’re still here. I’ll keep looking for you.”
[FILL] translucent when i'm looking at myself.
Major Tags: accidental invisibility, loneliness
Additional Tags: none
Permission to remix: Yes
***
When Wonwoo was little his mother used to call him her little mouse. Quiet as one, she’d laugh, her voice full of love as she reached to pinch his cheek or tousle his hair. She never made it sound like anything bad.
He isn’t really sure when it changed.
His voice went first, words drying up like dirt from an over planted field, crumbling to dust to be carried away by the wind. He didn’t even notice at first, so used to keeping his mouth shut that he couldn’t say when it first happened. When he opened his mouth to make a sound and nothing came out at all.
No one really seemed to notice — he was already so silent, after all. It wasn’t like anyone ever expected him to say anything anyway.
He started disappearing next, like it was the natural next step. First silent, then invisible. He remembers his sixth grade teacher staring right through him to call on the girl who sat in the seat behind him, like Wonwoo wasn’t there at all. It was a relief, at first — he always hated to be the centre of attention.
But he got lonely soon enough. There were things he wanted to say, he realized, but by then it was already too late. By then it was already like he didn’t exist at all.
His audition had been a last resort, a final act of desperation. Can anybody see me? Anybody at all?
He hadn’t expected the answer to be yes.
*
Seungcheol couldn't say when it happened the first time. He can't really remember the details clearly — everything from the time before they debut blurs together into one anxious lump in his mind, and he's usually happier if he doesn't think about any of it.
Maybe it wasn't until after their debut. Seungcheol had been counting heads in the room, not because they were going anywhere but out of a compulsive urge to make sure everyone was accounted for, a habit already even back then. He remembers counting to eleven and freezing as he came up short, a twist in his stomach as he doubled back to recount. It was Wonwoo who was missing, he realized belatedly as he restarted the count. Where could he have gone?
But when Seungcheol looked again there he was, sitting just behind Soonyoung, listening intently to whatever the members in front of him were saying.
“Wonwoo-yah,” Seungcheol asked, and Wonwoo looked up, startled. “Did you just come back?”
Wonwoo's brow furrowed, then, like he had no idea what Seungcheol was talking about. He shook his head silently, skinny elbows tucked in and knees pulled up to his chest. He certainly looked comfortable, or at least it seemed like he'd been in that position for a while. Seungcheol wasn't sure it was possible for someone that skinny to ever feel comfortable sitting on the hard practice room floor.
“My bad,” Seungcheol said, laughing a little to try to make it seem less weird. “I must have just missed you before.”
He didn't believe it, though. Despite what he said Seungcheol was sure, all the way down to his bones, that the first time he looked Wonwoo had been gone.
A few weeks after he took his hiatus he sent Jeonghan a message about it, once he’d separated out the fears twisting through him like vines enough to identify this one in particular.
keep an eye on wonwoo, he sent, no preamble or explanation. Jeonghan sent back a single question mark, but he disappears sometimes was all Seungcheol could come up with.
There was a long pause, the ellipsis on the screen appearing and disappearing as Jeonghan typed and deleted his response, over and over again.
i know was all he sent back, finally, and then, i will.
One of the vines loosened as Seungcheol stared at Jeonghan’s message, a tiny lessening of the pressure on his chest.
One of the vibes loosened, but there were still so many left.
*
It started changing when Wonwoo became a trainee, and then for real after debut. With twelve others he could still disappear, but it got harder and harder. Even when he stood at the back someone turned toward him, more often than not, their attention keeping him from fading away.
Some days, if enough time has passed since the last time it happened, Wonwoo manages to convince himself it was never really real at all. He just made it all up, surely — there’s no way a person can really disappear. It seems so absurd.
But then it will happen again. A staff member will look right through him to speak to Vernon instead, or Wonwoo will open his mouth at a group meeting only to close it again, soundless, nothing coming out of him at all. He’ll try to answer the phone and greet his mother with dead air.
“How do you do it?”
Seungcheol’s question comes out suddenly as they’re waiting for Wonwoo’s computer to restart, unexpected enough for Wonwoo to turn and stare at him in confusion. It’s quiet in Seungcheol’s room, no sounds filtering in from the rest of the dorm either.
“Do what?”
Seungcheol laughs, then, a nervous flush crawling up his cheeks. It makes Wonwoo nervous too, even though he’s still not completely sure what Seungcheol is actually talking about.
“When you disappear,” Seungcheol says. His words are awkward, a little clumsy but still sincere. “How do you do it?”
Wonwoo stares at Seungcheol as his meaning sinks in. Seungcheol’s eyes are wide as he stares back, full of so much emotion it makes Wonwoo uncomfortable.
“What do you mean,” Wonwoo says carefully, his shoulders already starting to draw inward. If Mingyu were here he would nag him to sit up straight.
“You don’t have to pretend,” is all Seungcheol says. “I know you do, sometimes. I’ve seen it.”
Seen what? Wonwoo could ask, only he doesn’t think he wants to hear Seungcheol’s answer. Could Seungcheol really tell? For how long? No one’s ever noticed before, or if they have they haven't said anything — not even Soonyoung.
It seems so pathetic, suddenly. Embarrassing.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, Wonwoo could answer, but he respects Seungcheol too much to lie to him outright.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly rather than denying it, his cheeks burning at the admission. He can’t look at Seungcheol as he speaks, keeping his gaze focused on the keyboard in front of him instead. His computer is back on, now, but it would be too awkward to ask Seungcheol if he’s ready to play again. “It just happens.”
“Oh,” Seungcheol says, voice faltering a bit like he doesn’t know how to respond to that. Wonwoo doesn’t know how Seungcheol should respond, either. He wishes he’d never brought it up.
“Does it hurt?” Seungcheol asks, finally, and Wonwoo jerks his head up to look at him, surprised. The denial forming on his tongue dies at the look on Seungcheol’s face, wide-eyed and earnest. Seungcheol gets like this more often, ever since he came back. Like when he asks them how they’re doing he really wants them to answer.
No, Wonwoo could answer, and it would be true. It doesn’t hurt him, when it happens. It doesn’t feel like anything at all. It really doesn’t happen that often anymore, anyway. He’s been doing so much better.
That’s not what Seungcheol’s asking, though, and the words can’t make it out. They lodge at the back of his throat, sour, and Wonwoo nods instead. It makes him swallow hard, thinking of the confusion in his mother’s voice when she called and he couldn’t answer. It did hurt.
It does hurt.
Seungcheol’s eyes are full of sympathy when Wonwoo lets himself look up, his gaze heavy and impossible to escape. Wonwoo couldn’t disappear from under it even if he tried. When he speaks his voice is very quiet.
“Where do you go?”
“I don’t go anywhere,” Wonwoo says honestly, his own voice hardly above a whisper as he offers a weak little shrug to go with it. His shoulders are still hunched over, like he’s trying to protect himself. “I’m always just here.”
Seungcheol keeps staring at Wonwoo, focused, like he’s searching for something. Wonwoo feels himself wilting even further under his gaze, but he doesn’t turn away as Seungcheol’s mouth opens then closes again, like he can’t find the right words. Like Seungcheol is the one who’s voice has been snatched. His hand twitches on the desk in front of him, as though it wants to reach out.
“I’ll find you, then,” he says, finally. “If you’re still here. I’ll keep looking for you.”