the first hours i believed

[disstrack]

Changbin finds himself after the group’s disbandment—thanks to the members themselves.

(Short companion piece to there we grew a nation; Changbin’s side of the story in the two year timeskip after the disbandment and before he met Jisung again.)

//

Author's Notes: I had no intention to expand this universe, but something about the idea of Jisung being an incredibly unreliable narrator in there we grew a nation propelled me to write this piece that is mostly constructed of random moments Changbin has shared with the members, and how they were the ones who helped him piece himself back together—particularly the members who were only in the periphery of Jisung's life (i.e. Felix, Jeongin, Hyunjin), and other figures specific to Changbin's sphere. This is very much a compilation of disjointed scenes made from pure self-indulgence, and isn't as thorough as Jisung's POV, partially because I'd like to think Changbin's perspective is this way—more external revelations than internal ones—and mostly because I only wrote this to get out of my writer's rut.

//

Changbin is the only one who can see Felix off before he boards the plane, which he initially figures is why Felix is sobbing his goddamn eyes out.

“Fuck—Yongbokkie, stop crying,” Changbin tries to soothe him—feebly. Mostly, he’s exasperated, and just a little bit panicked. “I’m sorry the rest couldn’t make it. At least Chan-hyung is already there in Sydney waiting for you, right? He’s such a sap—he’d never push back his entire schedule by a week just to spend time with anyone, but he’d do it for you.”

“Shut up, I know he loves me. That’s not why I’m crying,” Yongbok tells him between hiccups. “I’m just—I’m gonna miss you so much. Everyone. It was great here, better than I ever imagined. You guys were the best thing that could ever happen to me.”

Christ, this kid. “Keep that up and I might start crying too.”

Yongbok laughs. It comes out thick. “So why aren’t you?”

Changbin shrugs. The last time he cried was in their last concert at the KSPO Dome, and he didn’t even realize he was doing it until Seungmin made a joke that he was ruining his eyeliner, like they all weren’t bawling in their own way. Back then, he’d been preoccupied taking note of the faceless crowd that adored them, the distinct features of each of the members as they stood together that he knew he had to commit to memory one last time. Back then, he thought, nothing I could’ve ever done could’ve stopped this from happening. This was inevitable. “I’m saving my tears for when I get back home because I don’t have any more excuse to still live with my parents.”

That makes Yongbok smile. “Thanks for letting me stay with you until I figured out what I wanted to do.”

“You know my parents think you’re family anyway.” And then, even though he knows Felix’s answer: “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Definitely,” Felix says, with the exact same resolve he had the first night they spent in Changbin’s childhood home, lying side-by-side on the floor as he admitted, I don’t miss the fame, though it was good. I definitely miss this. The peace. Knowing that anything’s possible. “My dad’s not getting any younger either. Someone needs to take care of him and the business.”

Until now, Changbin doesn’t really understand what exactly Felix’s dad’s does for a living, just knows it has something to do with animal adoption and shelter and fighting for their rights. It’s where Felix gets his big heart. “Good luck.”

Felix pauses, then gives him a look. It’s scrutinizing, in spite of how puffy his eyes are. “You also need to take care of yourself too, hyung. Since I won’t be there anymore.”

“Yah, who’s the hyung again here?”

“You know what I mean,” Felix teases, and it’s good that he’s in better spirits now. Changbin should feel relieved. Instead, all he feels is the exhaustion that hasn't left him since this morning, since the past few weeks, since the past year. He side-glances at his watch. Felix’s phone rings. “Shit. That’s my alarm. I really have to go, huh.”

Changbin exhales through his nose. Felix isn't coming back to Seoul—at least, not in any permanent way—but that doesn’t mean they’ll never see each other ever again. They’ll visit. They’ll call. Changbin’s not really worried about Felix’s capability to keep that promise. That’s not the problem. Felix knows that. Changbin can see it on his face.

“Changbin-hyung,” Felix begins, and Changbin braces for an apology he’s going to tell Felix he doesn’t want, because he doesn’t want a sorry when Felix isn’t really sorry. But all Felix says is, “I hope you find it.”

“What?”

“What you’re looking for,” Felix explains. “I hope you find it.”

He doesn’t add, again, the same way Changbin doesn’t reply with, I did, Yongbok. It was Stray Kids.

They both know what they mean, and Changbin doesn’t know if it’ll even mean anything.

“Go,” Changbin replies. “And tell Chan-hyung my answer is still a no.”

Felix laughs. It sounds like the melody to a song he'll never sing.

//

The first thing Jeongin had done after disbandment was take Hyunjin with him to Vegas. Changbin had moved back to his parents’ home because Felix needed a place to stay, but he also spent half of his time watching over Hyunjin’s dumb plants and Kkami the 2nd in his Mapo apartment while Hyunjin was gone.

Changbin didn’t dwell on why Hyunjin asked him, of all people, to watch over his place. “Because you’re not doing anything else,” was a weak excuse. He was working out, he was looking after Felix, he was writing music. Sort of. It was mostly camping out in the gym, mainly checking up on Felix when they went to bed since they were sharing his bedroom, and barely making music because everything he made sounded wrong.

He didn’t call Hyunjin out on it, just like how he didn’t question Felix declining Chan’s offer to temporarily move in with him instead while he figured out what he wanted to do even though living with Changbin also meant living with his parents. And Minho had been rather blunt about it anyway.

Jeongin and Hyunjin said they’d be gone for about five weeks. Felix left five days ago. Changbin doesn’t realize that much time has passed until the door opens while he’s buried in Hyunjin’s comforter and someone says, “Oho, did hyung finally kick the bucket?”

Changbin doesn’t reply. His eyes remain closed. Beside him is his laptop loudly playing one of his tracks on loop, because the Changbin an hour ago thought that if he listened to it enough times, he could learn to live with it.

The other person seems to have a different idea, because the song is paused and the bed dips. “Changbin-hyung,” Jeongin starts. Where Felix had been with Changbin, Jeongin has been crashing at Hyunjin’s couch for the time being, making preparations for his enlistment and his plans to travel around the world. Going to Vegas had inspired him, for whatever reason. Changbin doesn’t understand, but at least Jeongin has something to keep him going. “If you really want, I can do the demo for you.”

Changbin shifts. He lifts his head, enough to let one eye peak out. Jeongin looks jetlagged, but he also looks refreshed, like he discovered something new. “But you don’t want to.”

“No,” Jeongin agrees. “But I’d do it for you, just so it’ll sound less horrible.”

He can’t even bring himself to rise to Jeongin’s playful jab. “Don’t bother. It’s not like I can release it anyway.”

Jeongin sighs. He lies down on the bed. “Didn’t you sign into that company Seungmin-hyung’s producer girlfriend recommended? Uh, Concept?”

“Consent,” Changbin corrects. “Yeah.” He signed in before Seungmin would inevitably break up with her and she’d regret recommending Changbin as her replacement. “They’re putting me onboard next week though.”

“Hmm,” Jeongin hums. “Think it’ll help?”

“I hope so,” Changbin mutters, if only because it might help Jeongin feel better. But with the look Jeongin gives him, Changbin knows he’s reassuring the wrong person.

//

Stray Kids reunions are truthfully half-assed at best.

They’re never complete, and they choose the worst timings. It’s much easier to fit one another in smaller units in their ever-growing schedules, hectic in a different way, in a better way, though Changbin has yet to truly understand it. Still, they make an attempt to see one another once every two months. It had been more frequent in the beginning; every three weeks they would try, but it was common for at least two people to be missing. Seungmin would be in Jeju for a photoshoot. Hyunjin was too hungover. Chan had to film for a variety show. Minho had already moved to Gimpo. So many reasons, all valid in their own right, and even if they weren’t, it didn’t really matter.

Changbin never wanted to go. He went anyway. He knew why they were pushing for all these meet-ups even though they didn’t personally need it, so he always came, even if Felix was no longer there to guilt-trip him into joining. Making music was impossible because he was always confronted with what felt like notes that sounded so wrong that it kept him stuck, no matter what he tried to do to change it, and being with the members took his mind off it. Being with them almost made the wrongness make sense, by virtue of them being Stray Kids. He always remembered how even during the worst of times, they always managed to make things work. 

He had asked once, three months post-disbandment, why they were all hovering over him and not Jisung, because they were doing the metaphorical equivalent of dragging him out of bed every day, giving him more reasons to do things, to see them. But it wasn’t just Changbin who wasn’t happy that they disbanded. And whereas he was the only one who was there in every half-assed reunion the group tried to initiate, Jisung was the only one who never showed up.

Chan only said in explanation, “Because the first thing Jisung did after we split was go solo. He’s making a name for himself. He’s doing good.”

“Me, on the other hand,” Changbin prompted.

"The fact that you still keep coming tells us enough," said Chan, but it wasn’t a rejection. It wasn’t him telling Changbin they were going to stop this. "And Jisung—you know him. He'll come to us when he's ready to. We'll wait for him, like we're waiting for you."

They were outside smoking. Well, Changbin was. Chan had a show in two days, but he joined Changbin outside because he looked like he could use some company. The last birthday Changbin had spent with the members, Seungmin caught Changbin smoking a cigarette before their last ever comeback, and instead of scolding him, only said, you know, you’re the only person I know who can look so lonely despite being surrounded by so many people.

Changbin toyed with the cigarette between his fingers and thought about how he wasn't like Felix, who wouldn’t miss being an idol, or Jeongin, who wasn't interested in singing anymore, or even Minho, who wanted the kind of stability that staying famous would never grant him. Changbin wanted a purpose. He wanted to be needed, and he needed it to last.

“Nice way of saying he’s ghosting us,” Changbin replied.

Chan laughed. He wasn’t worried. Changbin didn’t know if he was worried either, when all he felt was tired. But he didn’t remember Chan ever looking this carefree. Somewhere, deep down, Changbin could find happiness for him. At the forefront though was only curiosity.

“Is it weird,” Changbin began, letting the nicotine settle in his lungs. “Writing songs knowing you’re the only one who’s going to sing them?”

“No,” Chan answered. The answer came easy. “Everything I wanted the group to sing, they’ve already sung it. We’ve done it all. I couldn’t have asked for anything more, anything better.”

Changbin placed the cigarette back between his lips and inhaled. It was the most leader-like thing Chan could’ve said, even though Changbin occasionally thought that Chan ought to have been the one most upset about their disbandment because he was the leader.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want us to work together again though,” Chan added.

Changbin grimaced. “Hyung, if I see another performer’s contract with my name on it, I’ll set it on fire.”

Chan was undeterred. “Is that the only reason you didn’t join me in AOMG?”

“It’s because I’m already signed into another company.”

“I’ve been telling you to come with me even before that.”

“Consent is… it has potential.”

“To?”

Changbin relented. “No fucking idea.”

He could tell Chan wasn’t going to let the AOMG thing go, but he didn’t really mind. Chan acting selfishly for himself was to make up for all the years he spent being selfless for the group. And Changbin knew Chan understood his problem, even if he didn’t understand how he felt about it. Chan probably thought a collab would fix everything. But that wasn’t permanent. Chan wasn’t asking because he needed it.

Felix was yelling their names, telling them to come back to the table because Minho decided to grace them with his presence via video call. This was their life now. Chan turned to Changbin and stole his cigarette, flicking off the burning end.

“Hey,” Changbin whined.

“You’re not an idol anymore.” Chan pointed out. “You have no reason to do this anymore.”

“Story of my life,” grumbled Changbin.

Chan only gave him a look. “You should quit smoking,” was all he said.

The frequency of their reunions eventually dwindles with Minho, Felix, and Jeongin no longer in Seoul. It doesn’t mean that Changbin needs them any less—it just means that he needs to start needing other things too, more than the members and their familiar presence. They can’t keep on pulling Changbin back up forever; at some point, Changbin has to remember how he once stood on two feet.

//

Objectively, Consent Entertainment needs him. They need his talent, they need his reputation. But things have to be balanced on both ends, and Changbin still doesn’t know if he needs them the same way, or if he’s just using them to settle. A lot of the trainees there don’t have that idol look, or the spirit. They could be molded to fit it though, to want it, but Changbin knows that’s not what Consent is all about.

Not that he really understands Consent’s agenda. He doesn’t even know his own.

Then he runs into Bang Yongguk. Changbin is in the smoking lounge to have some privacy and Yongguk joins him even though one of the staff had even mentioned that Changbin was the only employee who actually used it.

“I used to be an idol too,” Yongguk says, like Changbin had forgotten. One of the members used to be a fan, but Changbin can’t remember who. It’s been too long. “And I was an idol part of a group, and I was an idol who made music specifically for that group. There are times when it just knocks the wind out of you, the difference between making a song for people you know, for yourself, and for people who are still strangers.”

Two hours ago, Changbin had fucked up and left his unpublished tracks on when he went on his lunch break. One of the producers had stumbled onto the studio and overheard the songs, and when Changbin returned, they got into an argument about why he wasn’t using these tracks for anything—for the company, for himself—when they were good, worth something of value, unable to understand Changbin’s response that they weren’t.

“What’s better?” Changbin asks.

“None,” Yongguk says. “But music is still music, isn’t it?

Changbin exhales, smoke escaping from his mouth. “You’d always want it to sound good though.”

“The thing you learn about producing a song for someone who isn’t you, for a group you’re not part of,” Yongguk begins, tapping on the bench, “Is that it’s not the composer who makes a song sound good. It’s the performer. And a performer doesn’t have to fit the vision of the composer either. To believe that it’s only the maker who holds the cards to a good song is rather self-centered and narrow-minded. I don’t mind having people like those in my company, but you should know, they never last long here.” He stands up, straightening his blazer as he casts Changbin a side-glance. “You’re due for a song by tomorrow, Seo Changbin. Don’t worry about starting from scratch.”

The next day, Changbin comes in with a fresh track for one starry-eyed, skittish twenty year old vocalist who has baby fat that reminds him of Jisung and eyes just like Jeongin’s, and is ushered into the recording booth to try and sing his song after familiarizing herself with his guide because she’s supposed to be a prodigy. Regardless of her clear talent, it just sounds wrong to Changbin’s ears, like every song he’s ever made has without Seungmin’s clear vocals, Felix’s baritone, Jisung’s sharp rap.

But he understands why he thinks that way, and he understands that he can’t keep on being this selfish, can’t keep on comparing everything he makes to what he used to have with Stray Kids, can’t keep on rejecting songs so long as it wasn’t their voices singing it. Those days, as glorious as they’d been, aren’t coming back.

And as rough as this girl’s technique is, as strange as it is to hear her voice singing a song he thought was suited for someone else, for people who don’t even plan to ever hold a microphone ever again, it doesn’t have to sound perfect on the first try. Changbin has never been like Chan, with that knack to know how music he makes for himself can fit best with others, that same knack he used to handpick each of them to form the best group any of them could’ve asked for. Changbin doesn’t have that gift. He has to work for it, work on it. He has to learn to love how his words sound on someone else’s lips. But he will learn. When the girl looks to him after she sings the last note, holding expectation in her eyes and a slight gleam, he feels the need to. He feels like he needs this.

The girl’s name is Jeon Minji. She’s been a trainee at this company longer than he’s been around, and she tentatively tells him she heard about the argument that blew over the day before, because the company is so small that even the most minor tiffs are the kind everyone hears about.

“Do you mind it? Not being an idol anymore,” she asks plainly, when he insists she can ask him anything, and he’ll try his best to answer, just to ease the nerves off her face because it hurts to look at. She’s twenty. He was her age when he debuted. “It feels hard—to start from scratch all over again. You spent all those years being an idol in a group and now you don’t have any of those things anymore. It’s why I didn’t want to train to be one, because that always happens, doesn’t it? Idols ending, groups disbanding. I don’t think I could deal with it.”

She’s twenty. Changbin didn’t have any of these insecurities when he was her age. For a brief moment, he thinks that makes her wiser, but that’s a foolish thought. Changbin likes to think he’s wiser now, instead, far more than he was months ago, far more than he was for the past year and a half since everyone decided that they were going to go their own way.

“I don’t mind it,” he says. The answer comes easy. He’s not actually starting from scratch. And Yongguk is right. Music is still music. All that love he had, all that passion, it doesn’t have to go to waste, not when the new generations need it. Maybe this can be his purpose. Maybe this is how he is needed. No longer by the members, who have given him good memories to hold onto, songs and voices he could never shake off, but by others who deserve the same bonds he forged, the kind he knows that could go away with the stretch of time but won’t because he can’t let that happen.

It’s not going to be easy. But that doesn’t mean Changbin isn’t going to work for it. The thought makes him feel—almost complete, on the verge of grasping that thing he’s looking for.

“But you shouldn’t stop yourself from getting close to others because you’re afraid that one day you’re going to separate,” he tells her. “It—it doesn’t matter if it’s inevitable, that you won’t be together forever. You deserve to meet people who will change your life. It’s better to have something once than never at all.”

Minji smiles, like he said something amusing to her. “You’re quoting your lyrics.”

“I guess I am,” Changbin says softly. And he thinks: it’s okay if the music notes in his head are all jumbled up, still sound off-beat in a way he can’t fix. He’s a producer; he can find a way to make it work.

//

He buys out a dive bar that’s right about to close with the intention of renovating it. It was along the street the group first went to after performing in Hongdae, but the last time Changbin had visited the place was after being discharged, trying to make sense of why all the notes in his head sounded offkey when he was doing everything right. He had discovered the bar with its overly bubbly drinks and its live music that was all kinds of bad, but he still remembered how these were the same crappy circumstances he was used to back when he was SpearB of 3RACHA, not Changbin of Stray Kids.

His parents had been going on and on about permanence as of late, so his thoughts took him to Consent Entertainment and Minji’s bright face, took him to Chan and everything he’d done for everyone else, took him to Stray Kids and what it’d done for him. The decision was easy. It wasn’t even a question.

“I’m pretty sure that when they were talking about permanence, they meant nudging you to move out or settle down,” Hyunjin comments. “Or do both.”

Changbin shrugs. “It feels like the right move to make,” he replies. “On top of everything else I’m trying to do, like with Consent, with all these new young artists to help.”

“Is that so,” Hyunjin muses, like he can sense that Changbin’s words don’t hold the absolute conviction it’s meant to. Changbin can’t take offense to Hyunjin’s doubt. A part of him still feels like there’s still something else for him to do. That he hasn’t really found what he’s looking for, whatever that may be. But it’s not a single thing; he can’t hold it to the same standards of the group and everything they symbolized, how they were the one thing that was near perfect. “Changbin-hyung,” said Hyunjin, after a few moments of silence. “I’m really proud of you, you know?”

It’s early in the morning, and the two of them are slowly walking along the sidewalk to get breakfast. Changbin had been the one to ask Hyunjin if they could meet, rather than the other way around, for the first time. Of course Hyunjin jumped at the chance.

It makes Changbin wonder just how relieved Hyunjin had been, to see Changbin finally do something with his life when it felt like he’d been frozen in time; in comparison to Hyunjin, who’s been making each precious second count, doing just about everything he can do—making choreography for new artists, starring prominently in variety, occasionally featuring in a song to rap, acting in small gigs, painting in his free time. It makes Changbin wonder just how much he worried Hyunjin. He probably hasn’t been the best example of a hyung for the past few years—the last few years. But it’s a funny thought, to realize that it’s not too late for him to change that, even if their separation should mean they’ve already gone past the end.

He should probably apologize. What he says instead is, “Wanna help me redesign the place?”

“Sure,” Hyunjin agrees easily. “And since you’re loaded enough to buy a bar without any loans, wanna help me by buying my apartment? You live there half the time anyway, and all the Mapo noise is getting to me.”

“Only if you give me a discount,” Changbin bargains. “Hyung privileges.”

“As if.” Hyunjin laughs. It sounds like the melody to a song he'll never sing, but Changbin isn’t hurt. Stray Kids isn’t the only melody in the world he can cherish. He refuses to let it be.

//

He meets Jung Sunhwa when Dragon Three is having one of those days where they celebrate an employee’s birthday and all the patrons get a free drink. She says, “Hi—I’m Jung Sunhwa, Han Jisung’s manager,” and suddenly Changbin remembers that it’s been two years since the group disbanded and anyone has heard anything about Jisung that didn’t come in news articles, nothing from himself. No one can even reach him on his phone.

After he makes Sunhwa a drink—on the house, because you probably need it if you’re in charge of looking after someone like him, something they share a laugh about it—he asks, “So what I can do for you, Han Jisung’s manager?”

“Something for Jisung, actually,” she answers. “It’d do him some good, to have a real friend come back.”

Changbin doesn’t know why Sunhwa made the effort to see him, of all people, when he’s not Chan, the leader, not Minho, Jisung’s best friend. He doesn’t ask. She‘s the first and only direct access any of the members have had to Jisung in the span of one and a half years, after his solo artist debut that he never talked about to anyone and never took off like it was meant to. Changbin then didn’t think much about it, too stuck on his own thoughts and clinging onto Chan’s certainty that Jisung just needed time, just like Changbin did. But months ago he was dragged into watching a film with a high school friend and was surprised to see Jisung’s face there, and two weeks ago his sister had recently gotten into a drama with Jisung’s name in the main cast, and he wondered why Jisung was there to begin with when the only place Changbin could ever imagine him in was in music.

He still recalled the first time he heard Jisung’s song, still recalled thinking to himself, they should’ve been there for him, not me, even though Chan was so confident that Jisung would be fine. But that wasn’t on the members for underestimating how Jisung would be, when they didn’t understand. It’s on Changbin, who did understand, but never made the effort to reach out.

He closes his eyes. The day is still early. The bar’s playing an old Dynamic Duo song. The beats have always been good, notes never out of place. Changbin, in truth, hasn’t felt that sense of wrongness with music in a while. Or maybe he’s just grown used to it, in the same vein as someone simply grows up. “Thought he was too busy.”

“Just an excuse,” Sunhwa says. “I think he’s… lost, more than anything. But I don’t want him to stay that way.”

(What you’re looking for, Felix had said. I hope you find it.

Months later, Changbin will go to Sydney and see Felix for the first time in years and tell him, I did, Yongbok. And I’m going to help Jisung find what he’s looking for too.)

“Okay,” Changbin says, setting aside the glass he had just polished and resting his elbow on the counter, filled with purpose. Need. The potential of permanence. “Tell me more about him.”