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Wooyoung loved to dance. No… that wasn’t quite right. Wooyoung lived to dance. His mother made it a habit to jokingly tell the family that he danced before he even attempted to crawl. In the backseat of her minivan, strapped tight into a carseat, a nearly newborn Wooyoung swayed and bobbed to the swelling strings and pounding piano of Rachmaninoff. And in that moment, his mother knew that the young boy was born to move like thread through a needle along the hem of an adagio.
His childhood years were painted with shades of pink for ballet shoes, purple for bruised toes and heels, and yellow for the hot and shining glow of the stage lights that followed his every move upward. And up and up and up he went. Taking the steps to the top of the dance world three at a time. A prodigy unmatched in his dedication to forms, practices, and techniques. So focused on a goal just outside of his reach that he missed the mundane yet beautiful aspects of youth like bike rides, first kisses, and summer days spent lazing about.
His firsts were rushed and harsh. Pushing himself to experience life in slivers alongside a years-long effort to reach the front of the stage. To have a name at the top of the ticket. Stolen kisses and fast romances that broke before they began. Minutes long visits to his now old and forgetful mother instead of hours like she deserved. Three contacts in his phone if you didn’t count emergency services and the local dance academy.
He was alive, awake, and breathing but he was not living life fully, conscious, or absorbing that which makes life worth living.
Wooyoung lived to dance, so when he slipped on an abandoned newspaper on the steps leading down to the subway--his lone, fleeting thought as he tipped over was I’d rather die.
And he almost did. But instead--he ended up alone in a cold hospital bed with only a slight concussion, scrapes and bruises, and a bent pinky. The doctors assured him in soft tones that though there was some swelling on his left ankle...it was sure to go down with rest and alternating ice and heat.
The swelling did not go down.
He ended up back in the clinic just a few days later when he realized that he could barely limp from his bed to the bathroom only a few feet away.
A completely torn ligament , the doctor said morosely, and badly damaged cartilage. I’m afraid that, barring invasive surgery, there’s no recovery for this kind of injury.
Wooyoung doesn’t even risk the surgery. He had learned years ago that his body didn’t respond well to anesthetics or antibiotics, and the chances of full recovery from the surgery were so low that he didn’t think it was necessary to even take the risk. What a waste of time for those doctors, nurses, and aides. To take valuable time from their already hectic schedules to heal a body that barely wanted to heal itself.
Over time, the swelling went down and the pain grew less pronounced. He could walk without issue and even found himself doing simple dance numbers in his apartment from time to time. But he’d never really dance again. Not like he did for his whole life.
Do you know what is more painful than a completely torn ligament in your ankle?
For over ten years, Wooyoung had practiced for five hours a day. Every day. Even on holidays. Do you know what five times three hundred sixty five times ten is?
Eighteen thousand, two hundred, and fifty hours.
He had spent almost twenty thousand hours alone in his apartment, the studio, and practice halls over the past decade. All to be able to dance.
Wooyoung lived to dance, so when he couldn’t dance anymore, he decided to die.
It wouldn’t be immediate. His mother was near the end of her life, and he still had a few things that he wanted to do before the end. But rest assured--Wooyoung didn’t plan to live another ten years hearing music that he couldn’t dance to.
“Another one?”
Speaking of music, he had been living in this insanely tall apartment building for years and never realized there was a bar with live music on the ground floor until just this month.
The man in front of him looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here, and Wooyoung couldn’t blame him. Serving the world’s saddest idiots drinks for hours on end couldn’t be fun.
“Why not just bring the whole bottle? We both know I’m not leaving for a while.”
The man just nodded with a frown and left to find Wooyoung’s drink of choice. Some cheap, brown liquid that hurt and tasted awful but worked like bleach on a stain to erase his thoughts if only for a few hours.
When the man returned, Wooyoung poured himself a finger of whiskey and spun around in his barstool to watch the stage. It was a slow night in the lobby, and the performer in front of him might be the reason for that. A small girl, gorgeous in all the wrong ways, sat behind the house piano and cried into the microphone about how wrong life had gone.
“Amen!” Wooyoung slurred loudly while tipping his drink in her direction.
This was his eighth night in a row at the bar, and he was beginning to recognize the regulars. Their names slipped from his mind the moment he learned them, so he kept a register of fake names in his brain for when he got bored.
Monica- Sad singer on stage. Uncomfortably thin. Artificially so. Pretty features shaved and painted on like a porcelain doll that shattered and needed to be glued back together again. Eyes especially sad when stealing glances at Jungkook.
Jungkook- Named after none other than the Jungkook from BTS. A sometimes mopey, sometimes brightly shining young man that seemed to always have a new girl on his arm every night of the week. Always stole glances at Monica when he knew she wasn’t looking.
Mr. Peanut Butter- A tall, pretty man that never seemed to stop smiling. Named after the humanoid dog character from Bojack Horseman. Played guitar with a smile and sang only happy tunes. Wooyoung believed his music reawakened the marriage of Thelma and Louise.
Thelma and Louise- A frail, older lesbian couple whose wrinkled skin held years of scars and tattoos that intrigued and mystified Wooyoung. Beautiful and catty, the pair kissed as much as they cursed each other. Their love was bizarre and incredible to behold.
There were so many others, but Wooyoung was too tired to care anymore. Just too tired in general. He drained the bottle of whiskey within the hour and almost did a full spin on his way out the door to Mr. Peanut Butter’s latest happy track before his ankle twinged and stopped him in his tracks.
The ride up the elevator to his empty room was a long and quiet one that only served to remind him of the hellish climb to the top of the dancing world that he had endured. And the doubly painful fall that seemed to never stop.
Wooyoung avoided the bar for the next week. Only hurrying past when he heard the jangly guitar and bouncy voice of the tall, blonde man that seemed to have never experienced any misfortune.
It was on day eight of his attempt to abstain from the apartment building’s bar that he heard his voice called while attempting to board the elevator.
“Wooyoung! Can you hold the door for me?”
It was Mr. Peanut Butter. Dressed in a black and white houndstooth suit with bright pink accents on his tie and handkerchief. His hair was slicked back handsomely to expose his clear, dewy face that looked mildly distressed.
Wooyoung glanced at the doors that had started closing and willed them to close faster. Though they tried, the well dressed man’s long legs tried harder and he slid between the closing doors just in the nick of time. As he leaned over to catch his breath, he panted out, “Guess you must not have heard me. It’s me Yunho! I perform down in the lobby sometimes. We talked like two weeks ago.”
Wooyoung bit the inside of his cheek and suppressed an eyeroll. “Ah, yeah. Guess I didn’t recognize you. Sorry.”
His palms began to sweat as Yunho stood to his full height and grinned at him excitedly. “That’s okay, man! I’m just glad I got here in time. I haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been?”
“Just dandy. And you?”
“I’ve been great! Did you make it outside today? It was so toasty. Guess a full, wool suit wasn’t the best idea. But I wanted to make a good impression!”
Don’t respond. Don’t respond. Don’t respond. You’re only one floor away.
Yunho’s excited smile caught his eye and he couldn’t help but ask, “A good impression?”
“For my job interview! I told you about it when we talked the other day. I didn’t get it. I never do. This is my fifth interview this month. Can you believe it?”
Wooyoung’s face fell further at the confession. He turned completely in Yunho’s direction. “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.”
Yunho just smiled and shook his head. “It’s okay! Always something better if you just keep looking. That’s the way I see it.”
Wooyoung snorted incredulously and looked away just as the elevator dinged. The doors opened, and they both stepped out at the same time. Wooyoung felt his face fall again as Yunho fell in step beside him.
“Don’t you remember? I live just a few doors down from you. You can always come over if you want to hang out. I’m new around here, so I don’t have a lot of friends yet.”
Wooyoung reached his door and fumbled with his key. He was aware of Yunho’s presence behind him as the key slid home. He slid inside and was about to close the door when Yunho said, “I hope you’ll come see me play again at least. It seemed like you liked it last time. You were even dancing.”
“I wasn’t dancing.” Wooyoung replied tersely while attempting to shut the door again.
“You were. I saw you. There’s different kinds of dancing. It was with your face and your upper body, but it was dancing. It made me really happy.”
Wooyoung gritted his teeth, took a breath, and responded slowly, “I really have to go now. Good night.”
“Good n--”
The door was slammed shut before Yunho could say another word. The apartment that felt far too large just hours earlier now felt like a funhouse experiment. Shrinking in on him and wavering and flashing at the edges. Protrusions like arms and legs in perpetual plie falling from the walls and ceiling. Spotlights gleaming on every spot in the room except where Wooyoung stood.
His breath stuttered and shook in his chest as his mind forced him to watch a distorted version of himself climb step after step to the top of the dancing world. His body bent, bruised, and broken as he stumbled to center stage, unable to crawl let alone dance. In his ears, the harsh tones of Rachmaninoff echoed over and over as he dragged himself helplessly to the edge of the stage. The burning hot stage lights opened sores along his exposed skin as he used all of his will to crawl then kneel then stand.
Wooyoung.
He swallowed hard and nearly screamed as his ankle bulged and wobbled beneath him. The bones and muscles and tendons of his foot and leg undulating and jumping in time with his throbbing heart.
Please don’t do this, Wooyoung.
His skin prickled with hot and cold bursts as he stumbled along blindly. Seeing only the darkness of an abandoned auditorium. The loud, raucous cheers and taunts and laughter of an audience both disgusted and entranced.
Hey...it’s going to be okay. We can figure this out.
He fell to his knees and took a deep, shuddering breath. His tears felt hot against his wind whipped skin. His fingers dug into cement beneath him.
Just please come down from there.
Another deep breath, a horrid sob racked his body like a physical jolt. That voice was familiar. He had heard it before. His fingers and palms flattened to the cement below him and he realized that it was wet. Everything around him was wet.
A song started to play. Quietly at first then growing with each passing second. Wooyoung recognized that sound. His damp cheeks lifted and his shoulders swayed.
“That’s it. Can you hear my guitar, Wooyoung? It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”
With a gasp, Wooyoung immediately opened his eyes, rolled backwards, and flattened himself against the soaking wet concrete below him. The guitar continued playing softly behind him; a voice joining the soft strumming singing nonsense words. Taking deep gasping breaths, Wooyoung raised himself up slowly to look out over the ledge. The ledge of the roof of his almost one thousand foot tall apartment building.
His wet eyes looked behind him to find Yunho just inches away strumming his guitar solemnly.
“You okay?” He asked softly. Scared that any movement or sound could send the crying man over the edge again.
Wooyoung nodded and fell to the ground again. Curling into the fetal position, he watched as Yunho sat down on the ground beside him and continued playing his instrument.
“Do you want me to stop playing now?”
“Please don’t.”
The rain had slowed to a light drizzle that felt calming and cool on Wooyoung’s flushed cheeks as he steadied his breaths. Yunho’s foot tapped out a slow, hypnotic rhythm that danced along the chords that his hands created. Wooyoung found himself bobbing his head against his will. He started to unfurl his limbs and sit up to watch Yunho play his guitar. Just for him. Not to be the best. Just to play.
“Are you feeling a little better?”
Wooyoung nodded again and wiped at his cooling cheeks again.
“Do you want me to keep playing?”
Wooyoung nodded one more time.
“Would you like to dance?”
Wooyoung didn’t smile, but he also didn’t frown when he nodded his head and got back up on his feet.
And though it wasn’t Pavlova. Nor was it Fred Astaire.
He took a deep breath and he danced.