Practice didn’t stop even if someone was dying of shame.
He’d sighed in relief to hear vocal training was going smoothly enough, but the problem was the dance. At first, when they saw Sihyeon watching the members demonstrate in person with a face gone chalk-white, everyone simply worried, thinking he must be sick. But even when he was getting one-on-one coaching right at his side, there were moments when he’d flush at the back of his neck or around his ears, halt the movement, and cover his face with one hand. With eyes like ghosts for reading a room, Chan and Sanyoo—and even Rajoon and Euihyun, who were stuck to him like gum while coaching—couldn’t help but notice.
That Lee Sihyeon was embarrassed—right now!
Unbelievable as it was, the sight of Lee Sihyeon squinting as if mortified, beyond embarrassed, was confusing to anyone’s eyes. The usual indifferent face had gone who-knows-where; trying to follow the choreography with a flustered, awkward look, he’d hesitate—pitifully so. It was puzzling for a moment—it’s not like he’s doing this once or twice; counting trainee days, it’s been years—but then they all reminded themselves again that Sihyeon had lost his memory.
Thinking about it, he’d been in a state where he barely even knew his own name, and yet Lee Sihyeon had followed along without a single tantrum or hysterics.
Even if it was work he’d originally done—idol work, acting, even drama shoots—he’d pushed on under amnesia. Other than a furrowed brow or a sigh that sounded irritated, there hadn’t been any particular reaction. You could call it a refreshingly plain, laid-back response.
In fact, the members—ready to shoulder all his past misdeeds from before he “died and came back”—had taken it for granted they’d accept a bout of hysteria if Sihyeon had one after losing his memory. But he’d changed so much you could forget even that, growing careless toward himself and others. They weren’t fools; by now they all knew that Sihyeon accepting them wasn’t simply out of friendly feeling. They’d been by his side for almost a month; there was no not knowing.
If, when Lee Sihyeon opened his eyes, other people had been by his side instead of them—and if those people had behaved like they did—the reaction would’ve been the same. Clinging close, playing at easy familiarity, laying on ticklish skinship. As long as it didn’t cross the line too far, he would surely have just watched or accepted it to a point. Not because there was some particular intention—more because he truly wasn’t interested. It was a reaction completely different from the old Lee Sihyeon, who had had fits if anyone so much as touched him; and yet, in another way, maybe it was the same.
“Wait… just a second.”
In the end, it was Sihyeon’s surrender again.
He could just barely manage through the repeated moves up to the front, but when he saw the demonstration that followed, he went pale again. It was Rajoon’s part—a performance that was pure sex appeal, rolling his hips thick and slow and raking his hair back. “Watch with a fresh smile,” he’d said—then in an instant shifted his expression and rolled his hips, obscene. Sihyeon’s mental state crumbled into powder again. To the point that when Rajoon ran his hand through his hair and grinned slack at Sihyeon, it felt exactly like he was jeering, “Hyung, you’re up next.” Of course, gentle Rajoon would never actually mean that.
Unlike Lee Hajin’s past life, where giving up was easy but retreat wasn’t in the dictionary, now his backpedaling came shockingly easy. One step—he edged back from Rajoon—and thunk, there was warmth at his back. Puzzled, he lifted his head and glanced back. Sanyoo was there, smiling bright.
“Sihyeon, where are you going?”
“……….”
“Practice. We have to practice. Hm?”
“Come on, I’ll help.” He smiled kindly and wrapped an arm over Sihyeon’s shoulders—and Sihyeon had seen that face somewhere. It was exactly the face that octopus bastard had worn after finishing the countless plays he’d run for a whole year, trying to crack Lee Hajin’s skull from behind. In short, a face thinking something no good. Maybe catching the distrust in Sihyeon’s eyes, Sanyoo’s gaze softened even more as he spoke.
“Even if you look at me that cutely, we still have to practice, Sihyeon.”
“……….”
…He’d faintly felt it before, but Lee Sanyoo definitely had a nasty streak. He smiled like he might die of how cute this was, watched Sihyeon’s face twist, and then hauled him along with terrifying strength. Set at Rajoon’s side again, Sihyeon lowered his eyes with a cornered look like he wanted to run—maybe finding that cute, Rajoon rubbed his hair like mad, and Sihyeon’s brow pinched before it had a chance to smooth. He felt teased.
“Hey. Stop harassing him and beat it.”
“Haha, did our Euihyun sulk because I wouldn’t play with him?”
“Why is every hour of your life a harvest of bullshit…?”
Unable to stand it, Euihyun put in a word; Sanyoo replied without changing expression, and Euihyun shot back in a tone of hollow enlightenment, as if his wits had been stripped. It was a serious question—but Sanyoo, laughing lightly, spouted nonsense: “A bumper crop’s better than a drought.” “What kind of insane line is that,” Euihyun started to snap, and Sanyoo, still smiling, began to scratch at him again—until, as always, the warlike growling began.
Should I thank him for peeling off…?
Watching the two of them bark (truthfully, only Euihyun was doing the barking), as if they’d forgotten their original aim, Sihyeon was thinking that when Rajoon, looking flustered at the scene, turned and tapped Sihyeon’s shoulder. “We should practice, hyung.” Gentle as he was, this was where Rajoon turned razor-strict.
Resigned, Sihyeon let out a sigh; Rajoon gave him a small smile and started teaching the choreography again.
To be honest, Sihyeon wasn’t uncoordinated. In an idol group famed for hard, synchronized routines, he had the skill not to fall behind—so of course even the current, embarrassed Sihyeon under amnesia was the same. He might not have realized it himself, but if you taught him one thing, even hesitating, he’d nail the move after a few repetitions. Is it the body remembering? The members thought so, but Sihyeon—Is this how it always is?—was blushingly embarrassed again, so no one said a word. The reason was simple. One: it was cute. Two: it was cute. Three: it was cute.
It made sense. If you suddenly told someone who’d never danced in public to dance in front of others, of course they’d be embarrassed.
Knowing that, they still kept practice going while pretending not to notice his first-time reactions were adorable—that would be a secret taken to the grave.
“Ah, not like that… You have to roll it a bit more slow and warm. Lower your stance.”
At Rajoon’s hands-on guidance, Sihyeon—ears flushing crimson—followed, hesitant, but still timid in posture. “This move, you need to hit it confidently, hyung. Lift your head. Hm?” Rajoon’s voice turned a little stern. Sihyeon didn’t dare answer; he only nodded. Maybe thinking it would be hard to set a proper posture like this, Rajoon, after a brief thought, shifted positions from his spot at Sihyeon’s side.
He stepped directly in front of Sihyeon, facing him, and, hands at his waist, corrected him himself. The embarrassment doubled.
It wasn’t long before Sihyeon lost to the shame he couldn’t bear and thunk—leaned his forehead against Rajoon’s shoulder. “Uh—uh…?” Sihyeon had never been the one to initiate contact, and when he did so naturally now, Rajoon froze and flustered, at a loss. Hyung just… first… his forehead… his forehead… Who knew how long he raised and lowered his hands like an idiot.
In the end, with his face melted to mush, he hugged Sihyeon tight to his chest and said something so doting it made even doting look bad.
“Hyung, it’s okay if you can’t. It’s fine… If it really doesn’t work, I’ll just do your parts too, okay? Don’t worry…!”
“What kind of bullshit is that, you lunatic…”
Euihyun—taking a brief ceasefire in his war—looked over at the sight and said it with a face that truly asked what kind of bullshit that was. It was a time to push Spartan—and look at that. When it came to choreography, Rajoon usually turned cold, unlike his usual personality; but maybe the one exception was in front of Lee Sihyeon—there he was, melting again, cooing. From Leader Euihyun’s vantage, it was beyond ridiculous; it was funny. Ha—he’s got a condition, too, fuck…
That was when it happened.
Chan—who’d stepped out for a moment—walked back into the practice room and, on sight, yanked Sihyeon’s nape out of Rajoon’s arms.
What now. At the sudden hand, Sihyeon lost his balance and stumbled; Chan braced him back against his chest, and, as if in a back hug, lifted a hand to feel his forehead, looking pretty serious. Then he touched his own forehead—probably thinking, seeing how limp Sihyeon was, that he might be sick again. There had to be more normal ways to worry. The leader’s sighs mounted.
“…Does it hurt?”
In Chan’s low, quiet question, Sihyeon, nestled without resistance, gave a small shake of the head. But the worry didn’t clear; now even Rajoon was pressing his hand to Sihyeon’s forehead in a fluster, “If you’re sick, say so,” fussing. If I were burning up, could I escape this hell? Cutting off a finger seems easier. Having taken irreversible, repeated critical hits to his psyche, Sihyeon leaned a little more of his weight into Chan’s hold and closed his eyes. His face looked spent.
“I’m just… tired…”
Time raced by without giving him a second to pull himself together.
Daily, the choreography drills and vocal training, drama shoots, and, on top of that, hospital trips two or three times a week to see Ahyeon—his body withered until it felt like he was barely alive. If it had been Lee Hajin’s original body and stamina, it would have been fine, but with Lee Sihyeon’s, it definitely felt like he was overdoing it. You could tell from the members’ faces—worried at all hours, anytime they could get a chance, to the point of tedium.
But this body that tired so easily—he still couldn’t get used to it.
As if trying to recharge drained reserves, even a longer sleep wasn’t enough; once he went under, he didn’t wake unless someone shook him hard. For Lee Hajin, whose sleep had been short and whose ears were too quick to wake, it was bizarre—and no matter how he tried to fix it, Lee Sihyeon’s body sagged, laughing at him. It was perfectly shitty—but Hajin, quick to give up, had no choice but to give up.
Which was why, at some point, the members’ morning routine had changed in a strange way.
“Sihyeon, wake up.”
The first to come rouse him was, as expected, Sanyoo, who didn’t sleep in. Unlike Chan, who woke at the sound of Sanyoo’s approach because he was a light sleeper, Sihyeon stayed burrowed in the covers, not coming to even at the whisper paired with a gentle sweep of his hair. After a few more tries, when he still didn’t stir, Sanyoo, looking on with pity, found himself patting him as if to let him sleep more. “Really sleepy? Can’t get up?” he asked kindly—and, after getting a full look at sleeping Sihyeon’s face, mumbled, “There’s still lots of time,” and slipped out. No idea why he’d come in at all—but it happened every day.
Next in was Kang Euihyun, who from morning had unleashed a parade of curses at Sanyoo. He walked in with an irritated face and, without preface, stretched out Sihyeon’s sleeping cheek.
“Hey. Get up.”
But he already knew this wouldn’t do it. When Sihyeon’s brow twitched, the stretch hurting, he let go—and kept pestering him a while. Even then Sihyeon didn’t wake. Euihyun checked the time and decided, Well, ten more minutes won’t kill him, then tugged the fallen covers up to tuck him in carefully against the chill and left.
Do they actually intend to wake me…?
Just as that thought hit, Rajoon came in.
“Hyung. Time to get up, hm?”
He knelt by the bed and said it, but his face said the sleeping Sihyeon was too pretty for him to function. He stroked the faintly trembling lashes, smoothed the white cheek, and whispered “Wake up” so softly it hardly made a sound—half gone in the head. Told to wake him, he sat there admiring him instead. If he’d had a tail, it would’ve been flapping. He gazed at Sihyeon for ages until a call from outside made him jump; “How am I supposed to wake an angel like this,” he muttered, and ran out the door.
…They just don’t intend to wake him.
As the time to head to the practice room drew near, the last to return was Chan, who’d gone to wash. Towel-drying his wet hair, he stepped in, saw Sihyeon still asleep, and naturally leaned over the bed.
“…You really have to wash now.”
With that, he flipped the covers back and lifted the sleeping Sihyeon with practiced ease. After shaking him a few times and getting nowhere, he’d realized at some point that toting him to the bathroom like this was much faster. Even if he was thin for average, Chan picked up the adult male like a baby. Setting Sihyeon down in the bathroom, he clicked his tongue under his breath, saying he felt even lighter.
After a morning like that—mind in tatters—Sihyeon finally managed to get himself together, washed, dressed, and stepped out, and the Manager hurried over, looking worried at the lingering drowsiness in his face.
“Sihyeon, are you very tired? Hm? Uh, what do we do? The CEO’s coming today, to give you your new track, so, uh, we have to go right now…”
“…Then let’s go.”
Sihyeon blinked slowly and said it in a drowsy voice. The Manager brightened, then went worried again. The ever-changing face made Sihyeon smile faintly; he tapped the Manager’s forehead with a fingertip. “I’m just sleepy.” Only then did the Manager relax a little. “Really? For real?” He peered around for no reason. The packed schedule Sihyeon had been running clearly had him on edge.
Maybe the Manager’s previous words hadn’t been all bluff; after telling them to rest well, the CEO announced—barely a month later—that a new track was out and he’d be visiting in person in two days. If they’d trusted his words and lazed around, it would’ve been a disaster. Everyone sighed in relief.
Stifling a yawn, Sihyeon climbed into the now-familiar van and took the window seat. Rajoon plopped down beside him, bursting with excitement, bouncing in place. He must be really looking forward to this. Seeing that, Sihyeon let out a sighlike laugh and turned his head. Outside, the landscape had frozen over. Full winter.
It was just as he was thinking it looked like a view where spring would never come.
Sihyeon’s phone—rare to ring—shuddered with three quick vibrations, spitting out the sound of incoming texts. Who? With the number changed, there were barely any who had it; maybe the hospital. He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and hit the power. The black screen vanished; he swiped the lock screen. Over the default wallpaper, the messages icon showed a 3.
Without hesitation he tapped it. All from unknown numbers, none saved. What is it. He touched one with a white fingertip—and three texts popped open.
You shithead, you think changing your number means I won’t know?
D-7
Pay everything you owe—back balance and all.
They were familiar.