In case you haven't noticed, there is a shortage of good KyungJeong Fanfics out there... So I'm trying my hand at making the story that I'd want to read. Hope you enjoy. (Fyi, it's my first kpop otp story ever.... So I hope it turns out ok)
Chapter 1: The Dancer It was a bright day. Not a cloud in the sky. Barely any breeze and with just a touch of nip in the air made the 64Â° temperature the PERFECT autumn day.... According to his weather app on his cracked smart phone. Too bad he couldn't enjoy it. Instead he was stuck in 4 walls of mirrors, wood below him, and hot lights above him. Not only that, but stuck with 4 other sweaty miserable kids all fighting for the same goal. Debut. Fame. Popularity. To support the family that believed in them. Which is why Song Kyungil, eldest, stood back up on his feet and practiced the routine for the 5th time. He could hear groans from around the room, protests of fatigue and body aches. He knew they were tired. He didn't care. There was review at the end of the week, and he wasn't aiming for anything less than perfect this time. Good was not an option. Too much was riding on this. So he waved a hand in the other trainees direction as if to placate them, and he danced. And he danced again. He sunk deeper into the music. Found his center in every beat. The world, the beautiful weather he couldn't see, the dance studio itself, began to fall away. He didn't notice the others call his name before leaving him alone in the studio. He didn't notice the last one out flicking off the main overhead lights. He didn't notice the blisters beginning to raise on the backs of his heels. And he certainly didn't notice the small figure quietly sidestep into the studio, crouch against the far corner, and silently watch him practice under a dark grey hoodie. There was only his goal, his passion, and his desperation. This was who he was, Song Kyungil. Born 1987, year of the rabbit. Saggitarius. Type A. Only child of very generous yet strict parents who helped him earn a Major in Modern Dance. A man of pride and stubbornness. A man of dignity and positivity. A singer and rapper after many lessons from teachers and friends. But he was just Song Kyung Il the dancer after all else was stripped away. That's what he knew best. That's how he was going to blow this review away. Nothing else existed. ...until he took the final step in his routine ~ after practicing it... How many times? His body surrendered to the fatigue and he dropped to the floor, only barely catching himself with the heels of his hands. He panted and rolled over onto his back, eyes closed, and not quite yet satisfied with his performance. He opened his eyes, squinting through the drops of sweat on his lashes, and gazed at the dim ceiling. "When did the lights go out?" He wondered. He picked himself back up to a knee and groaned as he felt the sting of the blisters on his heels. Reluctantly he reached his left foot to assess the damage and drew back a dab of blood on his fingers. "AISH!!" he exclaimed loudly in frustration. He plopped back down on the now sweat slick floor beneath him and groaned the words "Son of a bitch." He didn't notice the figure on the far wall jump out of surprise at his sudden outburst. And he was too tired and upset to notice the quiet mouse sneak out. He only noticed pain, fatigue, and solitude. He gave one big heave with arms to sit back up and groaned his way to his feet. He awkwardly limped over to his bag and CD player on the back wall, gave a final glance at the studio, turned off the secondary lights, and made his way down the hall to the showers.