Chapter Text
Doyoung’s clocked down four shots of espresso and a pot of black coffee for the day by the time he reaches the offices again after lunch, a new personal best.
Or worst. He can’t tell. Maybe it’s a little bit of both, because it took him an extra five minutes to write up the most mundane, routine insurance email of his life just from the shaking, but he doesn’t have any other coping skills left that he can trust to adequately prepare him for the afternoon other than dangerous over consumption of caffeine. So here he is.
Which makes him a hypocrite, absolutely, but he’s been at this for five years now. These appointments never get any easier or less nerve-wracking than the first, and he’d rather turn his veins into Starbucks dark roast than make that obvious on the surface. It’s better to sacrifice some sleep rather than pile his stress on someone gracing him with their time and money. Especially when said time and money is hinged on the hopes of his expertise being able to make something both horrifying and unspeakably awkward somehow seem as normal and routine as afternoon tea. Caffeine it is.
He feels terrible for praying they’ll be late, but that’s the Hail Mary he’s giving to his empty cartoon psychologists of the 20 th century mug. Like most requests, this one isn’t granted. The clock hits one, and the bell of the main lobby chimes followed by a brief shuffling of feet before both sounds grind to a halt, the universal sign for ‘lost newcomer’. A newcomer that is now, for the next sixty minutes, Doyoung’s responsibility. Time for guiding to proverbial lights, or whatever.
With his best professional smile pinned to his face, Doyoung counts down from three, opens the door, and turns the corner into the waiting room. It’s empty aside from a lone, young man on the couch up against the window, shoulders squared and gaze set off somewhere to the side near the water cooler. One of the single-serve paper cups is full in his hand, though he makes no move to drink it.
He looks up at the sound of his footsteps, and Doyoung’s hand twitches, because the nerves are back and surging like never before. But it can’t be, so he smiles wider, looking somewhere over his newest client’s shoulder. “You must be Yunoh?”
The corners of his mouth pull up, unsure, but with a hint of something resembling warmth. “Please, call me Jaehyun. Everyone else does.”
“Absolutely.” Doyoung smothers the tinge of guilt that’s threatening to surface, because he sort of remembers something about that on the briefing Dr. Kim sent him, but he also pretty much just barely skimmed it. He doesn’t like to know too much before he can put a face and a story to it all. He crosses the room to stand at Jaehyun’s side, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jaehyun. Dr. Kim Dongyoung.”
Jaehyun’s lips fall into a line, humming like he isn’t quite sure how else to react. His arm is stiff, and he bows as he stands, taking a small sip of his water. “Nice to meet you, too.” He hesitates, caught on the first consonant of his next words. “Dr. Kim.”
“Call me Doyoung,” he replies, adjusting the knot of his tie, his Adam’s apple brushing against his knuckle as he swallows to mask a cough. “Everyone else does. My office is just around the corner, feel free to grab a seat wherever you’d like.”
Jaehyun gives another small bow, following tightly in his shadow right outside his door until Doyoung emphasizes his words with a flourish, the boy (he has to be at least eighteen, but Doyoung blinks twice and from a certain angle he hardly looks any older) stepping in just far enough for Doyoung to flip the ‘please knock’ sign on the handle to ‘in session—do not disturb’ and swing it shut.
He expects Jaehyun to still be standing in the middle of the room looking vaguely lost, but Doyoung pivots on his heel and Jaehyun’s settling into the isolated armchair in the center of the room, the one Doyoung usually works from. He’s a little surprised, but not bothered. The couch is more comfortable, anyway. Jaehyun’s patient while he gathers his notepad and a single manila folder from his cabinet, masking any annoyance that might exist pretty damn well as Doyoung fumbles around for a pen. He reaches back for the folder first and takes his seat across from his newest client, crossing his legs with a snap.
Sticking his tongue out, he balances the tab on the side of his finger just long enough to scratch off the writing and put ‘Jung, Jaehyun’ in its place. He clears his throat and places his notepad on the opposite side of the single existing paper already in the file, the briefing from Dr. Kim, adding the date and time to the top of the blank sheet. There. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.
Doyoung folds his hands, takes a deep breath in, steadies his gaze, and begins. “I always like to start with some icebreakers, nothing too serious. I just think it’s helpful to know why the other person’s here, so you know I’m being transparent and I know a little bit of what you’re looking for. Does that sound good?”
Jaehyun clears his throat, and Doyoung still doesn’t look at him yet, not really. Instead, he lets his eyes glaze over just enough to blur him while seeming to fix on him, a time honored and true skill he utilizes liberally despite never thinking he’d need in university. “Sure, whatever you need to do.”
“I’ll start.” Doyoung clicks his pen and sets it down with a flick of his wrist that’s just as second nature as this monologue. He wipes his palms on the leather. “Let’s see here… I have a bachelors in neurology and a masters in clinical psychology from Yonsei. I’ve been practicing psychotherapy for about nine years now, including my residency. I started in hospitals, you know, like wards and that sort of thing. But I’ve found that this,” he gestures between them vaguely, flinching away from Jaehyun’s knitted eyebrows. “Is what I really love doing. I feel like it makes more of a difference, at least with where my strengths are.”
He pauses before he moves on, like he always does. It’s not a silence he expects to be filled, but Jaehyun shifts, cocking his head to the side with a nod, thoughtful. “I get it. It’s probably hard to work in a place where your work never seems to pay off.”
Doyoung cracks a smile at that, and he lets a tinge of bitterness show, because it’d be condescending to try to hide his reaction when Jaehyun just revealed he’s astute enough to give that observation in the first place. Exactly, that’s exactly it . “I just never felt like I knew anyone I saw. Private practice allows for a better relationship between doctor and patient.”
“Right. That would be your thing.” There isn’t any judgement behind that, just a statement. Doyoung runs an open hand down the length of his thigh, hard. He makes a mental note to turn up the air conditioner when he’s done.
“I did specialize in relationship therapy, at first,” Doyoung admits, pretending to write down something on his notepad that’s more than just a vague squiggle of distress. In the breath before his next sentence, he decides to just set it down. “But I started to feel like a lot of what I was seeing couldn’t be addressed in that framework. I did some research on my options, and this is what ended up making sense to me. It’s what I feel I can best provide, what I think is important.”
He pauses again, but Jaehyun is quiet this time, attentive. Doyoung shrugs to himself and moves on. “I got my license about five years ago, and it’s been the full-time focus of my practice since I’ve been at this office. In terms of expertise, I’m…”
“The best qualified sex therapist in the Seoul metro area,” Jaehyun finishes, blinking up at him. Doyoung tries so, so hard not to be obvious about staring straight at his shoes. “I know. It’s all on your website. You got your Ph.D. from Seoul National last year. I did my research.”
“I just think it’s fair you hear it from me,” Doyoung frowns. He leaves his website maintenance to Mark the Grad Student 9 times out of 10, on account of Doyoung hardly being able to figure out how to turn on his iPhone without needing professional assistance. “I’m glad you did, though. Do your research, I mean. That’s smart. But that’s not really what I was trying to say.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jaehyun leans back, pulling at the sleeve of his hoodie. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
Something hot and heavy drops in Doyoung’s gut but he swallows it back, because he’s memorized this part too. Just another line in his script. He can do this. He’s a professional. It’s all work, and there’s nothing more or less that he’s responsible for other than the facts. It’s not his problem how Jaehyun takes it from there, nor is it his personal concern. It’s not. It’s not . “In terms of expertise, I prefer to disclose what I can provide up front and let you decide what fits best for you as we discuss your goals. Does that sound fair?”
Jaehyun considers this, shifting his legs. “Alright.”
Doyoung leans an elbow on his knee, spreading his fingers across his cheek and he finally, finally forces himself to look Jaehyun in the eye. He just has to take the plunge before he can catch something in his throat and blow it. “I prefer dialectical behavioral therapy as a framework. My background in relational counseling is a bit more diverse, so it’s become kind of a mess of things over the years. I tend to play it by ear and design the approach based off what you respond to rather than label it. If your concerns are more physical in the scientific sense, I don’t have a background in it. You’re better off with Dr. Nakamoto. He does a lot of what I do but more… technical. You know?”
“Yeah, he was an option, too.” Jaehyun pushes a lock of hair behind his ear, and Doyoung squashes down every single coherent thought that isn’t a list of his credentials so hard it made his head spin. “I liked the sound of you better.”
“I think I’m a little easier to talk to,” Doyoung shrugs, letting a smile drift across his face before falling neutral again. “The main difference is that I take a more experimental approach. My sessions tend to be more indirect, and a lot more informal. I’m not the ‘lie on the couch and tell me how this makes you feel ’ type. I’ve always found that sort of thing plays out boring and dry, no offense, so my methodology is by default way more active and hands-on. But if just talking it out is what you end up really liking, that’s awesome. The most important part of my job is finding what works for you, but it’s my legal obligation to disclose my full boundaries. As I’m sure you know, I’m also licensed in sexual surrogate therapy.”
Jaehyun’s voice tightens, words hitching the second he opens his mouth. Doyoung closes his eyes, only reopening them after he’s accepted that. “I know. Suho told me all the details.”
“No one is going to force you to use it, especially not me. But it’s on the table.” Doyoung reaches for his notepad, fingers slipping over the pen and damn it, why does he always forget to fix the air before these things? “The only thing I want to know is if it’s going to be a treatment path you’re interested in exploring.”
A thick, tangible silence follows. Jaehyun uncrosses his legs while Doyoung forces his back straight and shoulders open. Professional. Calm. Jaehyun’s reply is quiet, but steady. “I’m not sure yet.”
“That’s fine.” Doyoung has no idea how he feels about that as a person, but he never lets himself think about it long enough to decide. He just writes down the answer, neutral. “You don’t have to make that decision now, and you can change it at any time. You define and control your boundaries, always.”
“Thank you.” He seems genuinely grateful, and his face lights up just a few degrees, a little bit of life returning and coloring his ears. Good. That means Doyoung’s doing something right. He turns his shoulders in like he wants to say something, so Doyoung lets him, patient. “I never know what to say about myself. I never seem to say what you people really want.”
Doyoung scrunches his eyebrows together, leaning forward. “The only thing I want is what you feel comfortable telling me. I mean, it’d be helpful to know why you asked for this referral, or what you think you want out of this, or the role you want me to take on. But if that’s not here today, that’s fine. It really is. You can tell me about your day, what your hobbies are. There’s always time later to get to the deeper questions. If you want it.”
“I finished my graduate degree last May.” Jaehyun begins, voice gaining strength the more he speaks and in it there’s that sliver of hope, that Doyoung might be able to see enough of him to help. He clings to it, writing down the cliff notes of everything he hears. “I’m in the middle of an internship in sound production right now, but my goal is to be a songwriter. I’ve been seeing Suho for about half a year. My ex sort of forced the issue.”
“But you stuck with it.” Doyoung offers, jotting an extra note about that. “Good. That’s good.”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” Jaehyun repeats, like it’s the first time he’s really processed that. Something about him looks so innocent and Doyoung’s chest tugs, hard. He listens, taking in the pink on his cheeks and the reflection of the office lights off his eyes until he can’t look anywhere else but down at his paper again. “I mean, there was a point to it. It’s helped. I see Dr. Ji for psychiatry too, upstairs.”
“Suho still thinks you need me, though.” He scans the file again, but he can’t make his eyes focus enough to actually read it yet, hand still hovering over the notepad when he realizes Jaehyun’s scratching at the back of his neck, quiet. “Or was it the other way around?”
“Mm. The latter,” Jaehyun clarifies, lowering his voice. Doyoung leans in until he’s on the edge of the cushion. “A combination of both, but mostly that. I told him what I wanted, Suho told me what my options were, and your name came up. He said you don’t take new clients often, so I was surprised you agreed.”
“I don’t,” Doyoung replies, matter of fact. He almost rejected Suho’s referral call, and probably would have had it not been for his colleague’s strongly worded email suggesting he give the boy some of his time. That if nothing else, Jaehyun thought he could really help, and that alone was worth pursuing. “But I’ve already been convinced to take you on, so if you want a regular slot with me it won’t be an issue.”
“That was nice of him.” Jaehyun’s tone falls flat as he speaks, but Doyoung refuses to analyze it, at least not yet. “I’m surprised, though. It’s not like it’s even that important. Everyone has problems with intimacy.”
Doyoung considers this for a moment, and really, actually looks at Jaehyun for the first time since he walked into his office. He’s good-looking, attractive enough to write home about even, in a way that Doyoung has to admit to himself is contributing to his nerves no matter how much he wants to deny it. Just from his build, it’s a good bet he’s both decently athletic and decently popular—the combination of a bright disposition (the inherent, stifling awkwardness of an intake session aside) and charming, almost Western-styled handsomeness is the perfect mix to draw attention, especially in a campus setting.
Of course Doyoung’s drawn to him. It’d be beyond transparent if he tried to argue against that. There’s something about the poise and nerves and stitched-together eyebrows of the boy sitting in front of him that commands him in, daring him to learn more. To know his story. To be able to help. He wants nothing more than to help.
“To an extent,” Doyoung agrees with a hum, after he’s let Jaehyun’s words sit long enough in the air. “With everything, there’s a spectrum. Do you take a while to open up, or do you spend years in relationships where the other person has no idea who you are? Do you have more boundaries than most in bed, or do you flinch away from even light intimate touch? Are you open to the occasional casual fling, or do you use sex as a replacement for intimacy, running from anyone who wants more from you? It’s that sort of thing. Even if it’s minor in comparison, it’s still worth looking at improving. Things can always be easier. That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t know how to be close.” It almost sounds like an impulse, the way he all but chokes on it as it tumbles out. Doyoung doesn’t write that down. For some reason he feels like he’ll remember it. “To anyone, not like this. I don’t think.”
“You don’t think.” Doyoung repeats, half as a question, but Jaehyun’s back to drinking his water and looking over at the fish tank Doyoung keeps in the corner of his room, where a clownfish he’s named Wendy passes by the front of the glass. Jaehyun smiles at it, and Doyoung smiles at Jaehyun. The silence isn’t as tense as it usually is at this part of the hour. It almost feels like a chance to breathe.
It’s several minutes before Jaehyun says anything again. Or maybe just a few seconds. It could be an hour for all Doyoung knows. But when the silence breaks, Jaehyun blinks behind thick eyelashes, holding himself up in a way that shows a strength and confidence Doyoung suspected, but hasn’t seen until now. It’s incredible. He’s quiet, but there’s a challenge in him, just a hint, and Doyoung thinks he feels one of his internal organs valiantly try to claw its way out of his throat. “Let’s pretend I said I was interested, how would this look? What would you do?”
Doyoung swallows past the sudden dryness in this throat, gently setting his folder and materials aside item by item. “I’d bring your chair in a little closer. Just a bit.”
Jaehyun hesitates, but after a beat he nods and stands up far enough to pull the armchair a foot or so closer in, folding his hands as he settles back down. They’re still a ways apart, but close enough now that Doyoung could reach out and touch his knee. If he’s inclined to. “The idea is to introduce intimacy, but slowly. No messing with the deep end. Even if you wanted to, I wouldn’t let you. I’d warn you about how it’s a long and awkward process, that it’s not supposed to come naturally. There’s a lot of ways we could go about it.”
“Like how?” Jaehyun says, and he looks so serious, so genuinely curious that Doyoung feels his pulse rise up and pound against his eardrums. He swallows it back with a cough.
“You could put your hand on mine, or my cheek.” Doyoung offers, and he has to bring himself back to where he’s only listening to himself talk, only reading out the itinerary of every other first-day session he’s done in the field and in training. He can’t stare at Jaehyun, can’t say any of it to Jaehyun, and he sure as hell can’t say any of it as himself. It’s all just words, from a doctor to a client. Easy. “Or if that’s too much, we could just sit with our knees touching. There’s no right or wrong way, it’s just about finding what you feel comfortable with and what you think you could work from as a starting point. I would want you to take risks, but I wouldn’t want you to do anything that feels wrong for you. Baby steps and all that.”
“I think I get what you mean.” Doyoung blinks, and Jaehyun’s reaching across the space between them, perched on the edge of the chair so he’s close enough to brush away a few strands of hair that frame Doyoung’s face and ghost a thumb across his cheekbone, purposeful. Doyoung jolts, but keeps any reaction he has shoved inside beyond rolling his shoulders back. He hitches a breath, fixing his eyes so Jaehyun’s face is a blur because Lord, he wasn’t ready. But he has to be, so he is. “Sort of like this?”
Doyoung swallows, nodding in lieu of a reply. His throat is sticky, but he somehow manages to force out his words, praying they don’t sound as unsteady as he feels. “Yeah, if that feels alright.” He hovers his hand over Jaehyun’s right leg, but he doesn’t feel the other boy’s eyes follow it. “May I?”
Jaehyun nods, and Doyoung lets his hand rest just above his knee, chaste and careful. He’s warm to the touch, the fabric of his jeans worn and seams frayed. In the background, a clock ticks, but all Doyoung registers are Jaehyun’s fingers spreading out over his face.
“It’d be something a little like this.”
Doyoung’s career is more or less an extension of the rest of his adult life before it, only now signed, stamped, and sealed with hundreds of training hours, a lot of incredibly uncomfortable workshops, and a really expensive, really time-consuming doctorate certificate to hang on his wall. IPSA approved and all.
Back when he was younger, he didn’t really know what to call it, and if he did it wouldn’t have been therapy by any stretch of the imagination. All the qualification he needed was a bottle of soju and his horrible life-long habit of taking in every stray that took advantage of Doyoung’s overall lack of boundaries and complete inability to say no.
I don’t want to graduate college a virgin . “Alright.”
I just went through the worst breakup of my life . “I’m sorry.”
I want my first time to be with someone I trust . “Of course.”
I can’t tell if I like men . “Okay.”
I want to be with you, but I don’t know if I can commit to anything else. “That’s fine.”
None of it was ever for him. But it seemed to do something for the other person, seemed to heal them just a bit and make whatever pain they were facing just a tiny bit more bearable than before. He likes to think he’s good at understanding what’s making people tick after all the masks and excuses are peeled away. At seeing what they really need beneath the outer layers of their words. Pun maybe intended.
A few fell for him along the way which, all things considered, was pretty good practice for a career in encouraging people to get intimately attached without a chance in hell of it ever being reciprocated. Even if it was equal parts painful and horrifically awkward at the time. All the ones that he felt for never liked him back, which was, in turn, also a situation he’s found himself in once or twice since.
He only wound up forming an actual, real relationship from an arrangement like that once. It wasn’t the worst mistake he’s ever made in his life, but it cracks the top ten list easy. Top five depending on the day.
Granted, it was less that they’d started off having mid-thesis stress sex and more that he and Taeyong were a nightmare together romantically, but that’s neither here nor there. He still talks to Taeyong. A lot. Most days, in fact. Tellingly, he’s the first person Doyoung calls when he gets out of the office, his number dialed in before Doyoung can even unlock the car or throw off his tie.
They make plans for dinner in Itaewon around six, and when Doyoung arrives Taeyong is, predictably, already perched on one of the two-top, high-seated tables by the window, menu in hand and two glasses of water set. He’s as proper as always, ankles crossed and dress shirt still pressed flawlessly after a day’s work, impeccable down to the exact matching centimeter his sleeves are rolled up the length of his forearms just underneath the elbow.
Taeyong is--as he’s always been--picturesque, all sharp edges and soft corners. When he looks up with his wide, bright eyes, Doyoung remembers exactly why he fell in love with him in the first place.
“Ahh, late again, as always.” And exactly why he fell out .
Doyoung rolls his eyes, slinging his jacket over the back of his chair and taking a seat with a huff.
“By two minutes,” Doyoung protests, though he knows it’s futile. It’s a routine with them by now, like a script they read because they must even though they both’ve lost the feeling behind it years ago and only keep the show going out of obligation to nostalgia.
“You have no respect for other people’s time,” Taeyong chastises, but it’s appropriately soulless. “How’d that meeting go, by the way?”
Doyoung shrugs, suppressing a tinge of annoyance at that being the first question Taeyong has for him. “It went fine. They’ll be fine. Any more commentary is illegal, you know that.”
“Not asking for a play by play.” Taeyong replies with a shrug, greeting the waiter as he swings past their table. He waits until they’re alone again before he continues. “I just like to check in, remind you I pay attention to your life.”
Doyoung wants to snap that Taeyong pays way more attention to Doyoung’s own life than he does, but the point is that they both know that already, and he doesn’t want to waste his breath on it. Taeyong looks at him behind a long sip of his water, and Doyoung slouches, falling back a few strides in their little unspoken standoff. “Taeyong, come on.”
He never intended to sleep with Taeyong in the first place, which was the ultimate bitter, irony-scented cherry on top to the entire situation in retrospect. Taeyong found him first, which was strike one, crying on a bench around 2 AM in Myeongdong during the height of his dissertation and the rock bottom low of some of his own, more personal issues. Taeyong, even in looks alone, was everything Doyoung wasn’t, composed and enticing and beautiful, and Doyoung didn’t know what else to do with him but agree to his offer to follow him back to his studio apartment.
Sometimes Doyoung can fool himself into believing there wasn’t really ever an ‘arrangement’ between them at all. Maybe his views on relationships are so warped that he interprets every average half-baked, awkward affirmation of mutual attraction as just another favor to check off. But he really does know better, deep down. Taeyong would never say it, not in words, but what he needed was inspiration. More specifically, inspiration not derived from the weird, incestuous world of music production he understandably had very little interest in tangling himself up in the wrong way with.
There’s something so romantic about being someone’s muse, as long as there’s no false pretenses. Doyoung forgot that somewhere along the line, and that was the problem. It wasn’t anything Taeyong did wrong, it was just... their personalities. Taeyong cares so genuinely, so openly about every detail, Doyoung never stopped to consider that the romance of something so sincere could be secondary to the professional, or even the platonic. Maybe it could have worked if he’d accepted that sooner, but by the time he realized Taeyong loves other people the same way he loves dance or music, Doyoung had already fallen for a side of him that was never really his to claim.
He could have written the book on fucking yourself over, and another on why people like him probably shouldn’t date artists. Two years and nine months of emotional intensity, small-scale city loft cohabitation, really weird sex, and alternating belief that Taeyong was both the worst and best thing that had ever happened to him can be summed up in two words— never again .
It isn’t in the same way anymore, thank God, but he still loves Lee Taeyong with every bone in his weak, useless body. And that’s reciprocated, whether either of them like it or not. They’re in it for life, because at the end of the day, Taeyong is his best friend.
Sometimes Doyoung thinks he might be legitimately addicted to suffering.
The way Taeyong’s looking at him now used to drive him up a damn wall when they were together, like he’s staring straight through him rather than seeing him as he’s actually there. As it stands, it mostly just makes him feel exhausted, knowing he can’t win. The only thing he can do is brace himself for Taeyong twisting his arm around every caveat of the Hippocratic oath with a smile on his lips, a Cheshire grin already half-hidden behind his glass of water.
Doyoung considers himself a moral person, he really does. He’d die before he’d say anything to anyone that a patient has told him in confidence, something that could trace back to them, or any details of a session. No exceptions, no slip-ups, no compromises. But sometimes the rest makes him feel like he’s going to explode. “They’re young. Really young. It’s weird to see anyone not at least a few years older than me.”
“Right, right,” Taeyong nods, attentive. For some reason, Doyoung’s craving a straight bottle of soju, but Taeyong never gets more than a shot, and for what it’s worth, he’s a good influence. He holds up the number two at whatever Taeyong orders to drink, and something light for dinner. Somehow, part of him feels uneasy. “You have that whole desperate housewives thing going on.”
“I’d like to consider the ‘midlife sexuality crisis’ referral my specialty, but yeah,” Doyoung shrugs, twirling a chopstick between his fingers absentmindedly. “There’s lots of people that benefit from something… out of the mainstream like this, but this one’s a little out of left field. In a good way, though, I think. Like a challenge.”
Taeyong raises an eyebrow and his lips part just a little, right at the exact moment dozens and dozens of lesser people have asked the inevitable and predictable question that always surfaces when an acquaintance learns just what a ‘surrogate sex therapist’ does for a living. Are you ever attracted to them?
But Taeyong doesn’t ask. Because Doyoung loves him, and part of the litmus test for his love is knowing what questions are both appropriate and worth his time, and when to sit down and shut up. But he’s only human, and Doyoung sees that spark of interest, the terms ‘young’ and ‘abnormal’ turning the gears and begging that obvious curiosity.
Normally, Doyoung would take pity on him and reward his politeness. But not with this. Instead, he glances out the window and pretends he doesn’t see it. Taeyong’s expression flickers at that, but if he has any commentary on it he keeps it to himself. “That’s good, then. A challenge is what you’ve been wanting, right?”
Taeyong speaks in his own special code, but Doyoung’s a practiced and fluent speaker. The implications of that are obvious--he’s not hiding his anxiety well enough. Shit. “It’s always hardest at the beginning, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I just hate not knowing what angle I’m going to take yet. But it’ll come together. It always does.”
“No pressure,” Taeyong sings, waving his chopsticks with a flourish. Doyoung mentally fills in the next part before Taeyong gets a chance to continue, and it makes him grind down on his molars. “You’re just changing lives.”
Doyoung’s certain he’s wrapping his tongue around an absolutely scathing and brilliant retort regarding the commercialized capitalist circle jerk that is Taeyong’s job at SM Entertainment, but whatever it is dies on in his lips, a glimpse of untamed brown hair over the other man’s shoulder ripping the thoughts from his brain and his internal organs out of his stomach. All that’s left is a controlled and not at all high-pitched noise from the back of his throat, deflating into a hushed, “Kill me.”
Which, naturally, is his own form of catch-all code for a variety of things, with its current utilization meant to convey, ‘ Someone not meant to be seen outside of my office just walked in and hand me that cocktail list, damn it, because I’m about to hide behind it for the next however long it takes to get out of this place’ in two syllables or less.
Taeyong manages to understand enough to slide one of the drink menus left on the table across to his side, but not quite enough to mirror Doyoung’s valiant attempts to hunch down and become one with the tabletop. He winces out a warning, but Taeyong remains oblivious, Doyoung’s failure to avert his eyes instead directing Taeyong’s curiosity back over his shoulder. By the time Doyoung catches up to the motion, it’s too late, Taeyong twisting around to match up his line of sight straight to perfect, irrefutable evidence that Doyoung exists for the sole purpose of cosmic mockery.
Jung Jaehyun.
Doyoung isn’t addicted to suffering, oh no. Suffering is addicted to him.
Jaehyun’s hunched over the hostess’ podium and half-obscured by another boy he entered with and the guitars strapped to their backs, but the side profile alone is enough to smash any doubt Doyoung has into a million tiny pieces before he can even properly entertain it. Of all the stops in Seoul, there his latest client is. Alive and in the flesh.
It’s too late before it even starts. Any hope Doyoung has of just turning away and pretending like he didn’t notice a thing is dashed the second Jaehyun catches the girl’s eyes with a smiles and oh, God, he didn’t see that in his office. Not by a long shot. Even from across the room, this Jaehyun and the one he met just a few hours ago are the same only in body. This Jaehyun has a smile that reaches the corners of his eyes and straight, broad shoulders with a glow that pulls the light and energy in the room in his direction, every inch of him emitting the sort of rare, natural charisma that can be felt from a mile away. This Jaehyun is brand new.
Nothing about the way he carries himself is small, scared, or unsure. Every inch of him is sleek, graceful, and as hard to look away from as a train wreck. It’s only when Jaehyun turns his eyes up towards the bulk of the lounge that Doyoung finally gets spooked enough to jerk back behind Taeyong, but what’s waiting there for him manages to be ten times worse.
Taeyong blinks, and Doyoung sees one thing and one thing only in that expression. “Hmm. So I was right.”
The weight and judgment of the very truth Doyoung has been trying to banish all day is heavy enough that neither of them needs to say it. Jung Jaehyun is really, seriously attractive.
Scratch everything before. The relationship between Doyoung and suffering is decidedly mutual. “What day is it?”
“Thursday,” Taeyong replies, in the same breath he seems to realize why Doyoung’s asking. They’ve been going to this particular lounge long enough and often enough to know the time-honored tradition of Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday live music hours, where the tables in back left corner fold down, a lifted stage and makeshift sound system pitched up in their place.
For the past few months, Thursdays had belonged to a couple of seriously talented undergraduate theory majors, but Taeyong’s persistent hounding had finally resulted in a shiny little corporate-funded contract deal a month or two ago. They’d been rotating out small startup acts ever since, but none had really stuck the crowd in the right way to keep their booking. Yet.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Jaehyun and the other boy make their way through the crowd and over to the back of the room. They trade words with the manager, and Jaehyun kneels down against the edge of the stage, gingerly snapping the hinges open on his beat-up leather case and pulling out an acoustic guitar, polished and clearly well cared for. Doyoung’s ribcage constricts in on itself.
“That’s really your new guy?” Taeyong whispers, like he hasn’t already missed the moment to be covert. “You’re right. He’s not someone I’d guess would be the type to call you up.”
Doyoung shrugs, figuring nothing else can better convey the existential dread he’s currently consumed with. The only reason Doyoung’s holding back from screaming for the check is the thin, flimsy knowledge that the stage lights create a blind spot in the corner they almost always claim on Taeyong’s insistence—a well known producer in the audience tends to make the acts a little nervous. But that’s the only reason. No morbid curiosity, no ulterior motive. If he repeats it to himself enough, it’ll end up true. It has to. He’ll leave the second they finish eating, making sure hell or high water Jaehyun won’t see it happen. That’s his plan, and he’s sticking to it.
Taeyong leans back, crossing his arms. “I can’t decide what’ll be more awkward for you—if he’s really bad or if he’s really good.”
Five minutes later, Doyoung is resisting the urge to strangle him for that comment.
In the moments that follow, he tries to focus on everything but Jaehyun and his companion setting up. Instead of watching his client, oh God it’s his client , get ready to perform, he forces his attention on deciphering the heavily-accented conversation of some foreigners in the booth over, praying it’ll drown out the sound of their guitars tuning. The anxiety spreads to every cell like a wildfire, and by the time they’re ready, he’s chewing so loudly on his main course it’s only the mic quality that makes Jaehyun’s voice (even his tone is different, Jesus) ring out over the sound of his own teeth.
“Thanks for having us tonight,” he clears his throat, the chatter in the room continuing over him, but falling several decibels to a dull roar, allowing the words to carry. “My name’s Jay.”
The boy at his side introduces himself as Johnny in a slight Western accent, and takes the monologue from there. After a brief bit about their project, the majority of which Doyoung drowns out with loud, unnecessary commentary on the texture of his rice, Jaehyun strikes the first chord, and their set begins.
Halfway through the first song, the verdict is in, and it is 100% the most awkward outcome possible.
He’s fucking incredible .
Doyoung understands music. Not as well as Taeyong, obviously, but he did vocal training all through school and his appreciation for good artisanship hasn’t faded. More than one of Taeyong’s coworkers have drunkenly offered him a job over the years. Chord structure, songwriting elements, melodic progression, vocal technique, overall technicality, and whatever else can be thrown out save for the nitpicky technical stuff only nerds and producers care about, Doyoung is at least well-versed enough in it all to give an educated review. And boy, does he have some shit to say.
His stomach, which had been clenched in anticipation of just another three-cord repetitive acoustic fare, is now tying itself into knots trying to get around just how fast and practiced Jaehyun’s fingers are flowing through chord after chord. It’s his head that’s left with the task of processing the vocals. How kind of his body to divide the labor. Just the rhythmic nuance would be enough—stylistically lazy vocals to match the jazzy, syncopated instrumental, accented consonants on the downbeats all up against a time signature that seemed to be changing every few measures—but it’s the voice itself that truly punches Doyoung in the throat and yeah, he’s super fucked. Beyond.
From the roughness of the tone it’s clear Jaehyun’s had the bare minimum of formal training, if any. There’s no grace to his breathing or transition between registers and on the rare occasion he flips up to falsetto there’s a change of gears that leaves a small, but noticeable break in the flow. He strains a little here and there, nasally when he combines a bright vowel and a mid-range note with a whiny polish on the edges of long phrases, but none of it really even matters. Not with a voice like that.
Taeyong’s hum at a note that drifts slightly flat doesn’t damper anything, not as far as Doyoung’s concerned. If anything, it adds to it. The way Jaehyun sings is rich—beautiful, even—soaring and bursting with natural talent and potential. Doyoung would listen to him sing the phonebook start to finish if all of it was as good as what he’s showing off now.
In the back of his mind, he registers that the boy he’s performing with has a pleasant voice, though less unique and far less strong. He’s leagues better at guitar, though, and the part division in the arrangement reflects it. He sees Taeyong tapping out the rhythm of the second song on the table out of the corner of his eye, sees patrons setting down their food and staring just as blatantly as he is, and knows he should be finishing up so they can leave before the situation gets any worse, but it’s all white noise. As soon as the applause starts up at the end of their opening number, Jaehyun adjusts his microphone with a smile that takes up his entire face, and Doyoung can’t move his eyes or ears away.
“I really do jinx things,” Taeyong mutters, but there’s a light in his eyes and Doyoung doesn’t have to know him half as well as he does to read that look. He’s impressed, too. Really impressed. “Or maybe it’s just your luck.”
“Shut up,” Doyoung snaps, pivoting in his chair away from his smug little eyebrow raise and towards the stage. That’s where he stays, still and silent saving for the tap of his leg, for the next twenty-eight minutes.
Doyoung’s always been kind of a flake when it comes to keeping promises, especially to himself. But there’s something about the way the stage lights shine off the wood of his guitar as he effortlessly weaves in and out of more genres he can name in a voice he knows by the increased agitation in Taeyong’s tapping even SM would die for that transcends their situations. For those twenty-eight minutes, Doyoung is just one of a hundred in the room with their eyes transfixed on Jaehyun. Simple as that.
The applause that follows Johnny’s thanks to the patrons and their exit from the stage ten songs later is like waking up from a dream. The edges of his brain fuzz in and out until the ringing in his ears subsides enough to turn back to Taeyong, who is looking just as thrown-off as Doyoung feels, but with a hint of concern that sends his anxiety off doing acrobatic tricks all over again.
Doyoung doesn’t even realize he asks what he’s gotten himself into out loud until Taeyong shrugs, plucking a piece of beef off Doyoung’s plate with a hum. “I don’t know, but you better figure it out before I stop caring about whatever it is and invite him to sing for Kyungsoo anyway.”
“You’re the worst friend I’ve ever had, I hope you know that,” Doyoung fires back, and the roll of Taeyong’s eyes isn’t satisfying at all when he still has no clue how to answer his own question.
The rhythm of the last song sticks in his head like glue, and it’s the music that plays in his head as he falls asleep hours later, the wind brushing tree branches against the glass of his window on every other downbeat.
The entire ordeal almost slips his mind, the keyword being almost, until the following Tuesday morning. Over his first cup of work coffee he checks the shared office schedule to see his first hour blocked off manually by Intern Jaemin in alternating color-coded green yellow and red, the labeled caption reading simply ‘Intake – Moon/Ji/Kim’. Five minutes is not enough time to inhale his caffeine and emotionally prepare for the competing energy of his colleagues, but neither is five hours, so he drains as much as he can, grabs his laptop, and leaves a note for Mark the Grad Student that he’ll be downstairs until ten, practicing deep, calming breaths all the way.
He loves Suho and Hansol. He really does. They’re just a little much. Both of them are already in the meeting office when he gets there, which is actually just a renovated storage room they’ve cleared out and put a projector in. They all make bank, more than enough to split a nice new office between them, but there’s something so classic about their dingy little hellhole that it’d feel weird to change. So he crams himself into the corner as usual without complaint, eyeing the other two settled and sipping their morning lattes.
The way they’re both staring at him, side by side at the opposite side of the table, makes him more than a little nervous. Hansol flickers his eyes to his watch before folding his hands, staring at Doyoung with that blank stare he’s so perfected. “So. How are you feeling this morning?”
Like a drowned cat flattened by an 18-wheeler. “Great. Never been better.”
“Good to hear,” Suho chimes in, shuffling some papers around in front of him. Doyoung’s never been able to tell if Suho knows he’s bullshitting him or not, because he always projects the same cheery and vaguely spaced-out demeanor no matter what’s going down most of the time. “We just wanted to get our intake meeting out of the way, if you don’t mind. Will this time work most weeks?”
Doyoung shrugs, nodding in the affirmative. He’ll make it work for his own sanity. “Is this about my…” He debates whether or not to say his name, but gives up halfway through. “Newest client?”
Hansol gives a hum, opening up his laptop. Doyoung follows suit, bringing his out from his bag and clicking through to the notes he’d transcribed after getting home last night, rushed and barely coherent. Jaehyun isn’t the first client he’s had these coordination meetings with, in fact it’s more or less an absolute requirement for every last one he sees, but more often than not the main therapist isn’t someone from their directory. He has a feeling he won’t miss the novel-length emails, but he’s also not sure he likes the idea of his colleagues being the one to probe his interactions more. Not that he has a choice.
“What’s your initial reaction, out of curiosity?” Hansol asks, twirling a pen in his fingers. Suho clicks his once, twice. He writes everything longhand.
“He’s polite, easy to work with so far.” Doyoung clears his throat, focusing against the subsequent sounds of his colleagues paraphrasing him for their notes. “He was reluctant to explain much about why he’s seeking me out, which is alright, but I’m lost as to why you sent him my way in the first place.”
“That’s not surprising,” Suho offers, and Doyoung barely manages to remember he’s probably supposed to be writing some of this down, too. “He’s always been slow to share, I think Hansol would agree.”
“Open up the file I just put in the drop box.” Hansol inclines his head, voice soft. “There’s not much to know on my end. He’s signed a pretty extensive confidentiality release between us, so say whatever you need to.”
There’s two image scans waiting for him in Doyoung’s private drop folder, sourced from Hansol’s own server. The first is an intake form—the one used for their entire office—that, judging from the date, was given to him before him and Jaehyun ever met. The look Hansol gives tells him he knows Doyoung hasn’t touched it, though, so he takes a second to skim down the page.
He’s older than Doyoung expected, but in retrospect twenty-three is reasonable for someone just out of grad school. Financially independent, single, living with roommates, nothing in his basic information out of the ordinary for someone his age. At the time of writing, about six months ago from his signature, there were no medications to be reported, and it isn’t until Doyoung scrolls down to the self-report things start to click together.
Their intake paperwork isn’t extensive by any stretch of the language, but it covers the basics. Hospitalization history, a quick always-sometimes-never on disordered thought patterns, a five-item stress inventory, and a space to disclose why services have been sought out.
He learns in the past five years, Jaehyun has been hospitalized twice—once in what would have been his junior year of university, the second less than a year ago. His handwriting is neat and pristine, all his answers marked in seamless, perfect circles. From there, Doyoung has to pull back, and consider it not as an evaluation, but rather what he’d deduce about a person from nothing but this paper alone.
Serious anxiety is almost certain, taking into account just the stress inventory alone. The rest of it just nails that hypothesis down even farther, on top of hints of something more complex. He strays from answers that come across as red flags, and the overwhelming number of ‘sometimes’ answers wouldn’t be alarming if it weren’t for the ‘always’ marks on the questions that, while to the untrained eye may not raise concern, indicate a real reason for further inquiry.
As for the ‘why’ question, Jaehyun seems to have been honest with him. He was coerced into it by, as he wrote, a close friend. The entire explanation is only a sentence long.
Doyoung drags the file into his own server, and moves for the next one, labeled as medical records. The physical notes are, as expected, vague and brief to keep in line with code, the most relevant only a mention of recurrent back problems, but the mental notes are surprisingly scarce in turn. But that’s probably more due to Hansol being, well, Hansol, than anything else.
General anxiety all but guaranteed , Hansol writes, and Doyoung gives himself a mental kudos for at least getting something right. It’s as hollow as ever as far as victories go. Preliminary diagnosis—bipolar, type two.
He’s on a low dose of a single-channel serotonin agent and a gentle mood stabilizer, one of the off-label ones. He saves this document, too, tapping his fingers against the top of his computer. “Nothing too wild.”
“No, not really.” Suho agrees, and Doyoung turns to him, pulling up the notes again. “For the record, I tried to send him to Yuta first. He’s young and struggles with relationships, he’s barely mentioned sex, so that’s all more his… scene. He was talking about signing the release when he saw your card, asked what you’re about, and demanded to switch. I couldn’t get anything that sounded like a real reason why.”
Doyoung opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “Tell me what you think of him. Be honest.”
“I think he’s strong, intelligent,” Suho begins, catching Hansol’s eye before the latter looks out towards the window, crossing his legs. “A perfectionist for sure. I believe in him a lot, and he’s come a long way. We both like working with him, we really do. But our guess is as good as yours.”
“You’ll be fine taking this, right?” Hansol asks, under his breath and more as a rhetorical question than an actual challenge to Doyoung’s qualifications. Of course he knows they’re already both thinking it. For them, it’s just a routine patient. The only unknown variable in this is him.
It isn’t too hard to read between the lines. For everyone’s sake, he probably shouldn’t fuck up.
Taeyong invites him out again after work. Doyoung glances at his calendar, and tries to make it sound like he’s declining for literally any other reason than that he knows exactly why he’s being asked today in the first place.
He knows better, of course. He always does. But Taeyong doesn’t pester, doesn’t push, and the suspicion Doyoung feels at that is confirmed when he informs him, chipper and bright, that he’ll just ask Kyungsoo on the way out of the studio instead.
It’s not the first time Doyoung’s come to the conclusion that Taeyong knows him too well for his own good. In the end, he decides to go, and predictably gets dragged kicking and screaming back to the very place he wanted so desperately to avoid. They slide into their back corner table just as the sound crew is setting up, but at least that kills the anticipation-related anxiety of having to sit through half a meal beforehand. Taeyong isn’t cruel , at least not down to the bone.
“This is eight types of inappropriate and unprofessional,” Doyoung hisses, stirring the cocktail he broke down and ordered with gusto. Taeyong simply raises an eyebrow, adjusting the sleeves of his conspicuous salmon pink button-down. “I don’t care if he’s a long lost member of TVXQ, I can’t be here.”
“Yeah, sure, but you are.” Taeyong points out, while Doyoung fantasizes setting his studio on fire. “And you’ll be listening to something decent instead of whatever boring garbage opera you usually play.”
“It’s classical , you uncultured gremlin, and it’s not garbage.” Doyoung cringes with his entire body at the first sound of a guitar being tuned. “You forced my hand.”
“Did I stutter? I apologize.” Taeyong rolls his eyes. “You’re just a patron of the arts who’s here with me, someone who builds a career off of it, like the loyal friend you are. As a community member, it’s your right to do so. Feign ignorance.”
“There is so much about what you just said that is both morally and legally deplorable, I don’t even know where to start.” Doyoung wants to throttle him, but it’s only a thin veneer masking how badly he needs to kick his own ass six feet under. He knows better than to succumb to blackmail out of panic, and he can tell by the slight hint of regret on Taeyong’s face he didn’t expect him to honestly be this stupid, either. So what if Satan Management scouts him? He has no stake in that besides a concern for his overall mental health, or at least he has a much bigger in stake in, say, not losing his goddamn license over knowingly and willingly showing up at a venue with a client in the room.
Doyoung legitimately wonders how he’s made it this far in his adult life. He feels something like panic bubbling in his chest.
Taeyong sighs, setting his glass down on the table with a steady hand. “Of course it’s stupid. I was fucking with you, and I take responsibility for that. But I wouldn’t have if it was going to leave you totally screwed. If worse comes to worst, just trust that I’ve got your back.”
“Why do I feel like that’s a terrible decision?” Doyoung mutters, but he knows, on some level, with a little of lying and situational manipulation it’s perfectly explainable. There was no way he could have known for sure.
But the problem, the real, serious problem he’s been trying to repress this entire time is that a treacherous part of him wanted to be here from the start. Wanted to hear him sing again, even if just to really memorize the voice he’s been half-imagining singing every song on the radio, and better than the original artist. It’s a level of rare, captivating talent and he hates himself for that being enough to drill a hole in his ethics to the point where he’d dare step within fifty feet of this place.
He’s torn between shamelessness and running full-speed down the block, so he just sinks as far into the shadows as humanly possible, hugs his cocktail to his chest, and closes his eyes.
“Well, would you look at that,” Taeyong mutters, in that way he does when he’s trying to decide just what he thinks about something, calculating.
“I’d really prefer not to,” Doyoung replies.
“No, I mean actually look.” Taeyong flicks a straw-full of water on his face and Doyoung rubs one eye open with a groan, just enough to see through the lights and haze onto the stage where someone who is decidedly not Jaehyun is adjusting the mic, while someone else who is decidedly not Jaehyun or the boy he was with before tunes a guitar behind him. Doyoung feels functionality return to his vital organs, jolting him forward until he’s sitting up again, back ruler-straight. “See? It’s fine.”
“They’re rotating out the acts?”
“Yes, Doyoungie.” Doyoung takes back what he said about Taeyong not being cruel, because he’s using that voice he only reserves for his least favorite colleagues and small children and he knows how much Doyoung loathes that. “Like they always do. They’ve been doing weekly acts as long as we’ve been going here, haven’t they?”
All the blood in his entire worthless frame pools into his face. He sucks the rest of his cocktail down to the ice cubes before replying. “I guess.”
“The answer is yes, Doyoung.” Taeyong’s looking at him with a mix of pity and amusement that makes Doyoung want to crawl straight out of his skin, but the entire situation is inspiring that sensation without his help, anyway. “Unless they were truly rock-bottom desperate--and this is Seoul, so believe me, they aren’t--they’ll only be here one day a week.”
Doyoung wraps his tongue around about five different replies to that before snapping his jaw shut on, “Oh.”
“What, did you think I would actually do that to you?” Taeyong laughs and shakes his head, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline with a wince. “I thought you were just playing along, you… Good God, I knew you were distracted, but wow. Rookie mistake.”
“I feel like an idiot already, so your input is noted but unnecessary.” Doyoung feels a headache coming on, grabbing Taeyong’s water and stabbing at the ice with his own straw. Taeyong turns away, a glint in his eyes that stirs something deeply uncomfortable in Doyoung’s chest. “No. No, do not give me that look. What are you thinking?”
“Hmm?” Taeyong rests his chin in the palm of his hand, shrugging. “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”
Dread seems to summarize how Doyoung feels about everything in his life at this point.