Page 26 of Damian & Jun: Episodes 1-4
He needed shelter. But it wasn’t like he had money to trade for a room.
Like property, he owned nothing of his own.
Owned.
The word vibrated inside himself. He’d stolen himself. But you could only steal something that was owned.
He didn’t dare hang out in a metro station where cameras and security would pick him up. As soon as Bak got wind of where he was, it would be Jun’s word against Bak’s and Bak’s friends.
And whoever actually owned Jun.
Owned.
The word rolled around in his head in time with his footsteps. In the end, after all these years, that’s all he was, same as the contents of his backpack the day he’d arrived in Seoul. Property. To be passed around, used, held up, sorted. What was valuable was utilized; what wasn’t was discarded.
Years ago, he’d claimed back his Winnie-the-Pooh bear. He’d argued, claiming rights. And he’d won the fight. He’d kept the bear. And lost everything else.
He hadn’t seen the man since that day. Is that who owned him? Bak Gyeong? What was that paperwork that the two men had signed? Was SP4700Y his father Bak Sahyuk?
Bitterness coated his tongue. It had been years before he lost the hope and then eventually even the desire for his father to return and tell him he was worthy of the family name. He was Gang, and he would always be Gang — or in the Mandarin pronunciation of the same written character, Jiang. Same meaning, same written form, two different languages. It was his in every language.
They could tear up his papers, destroy his connection to the only place he’d known as a child, but he’d always know who he was: ??? (Jiang Jùn Ruì).
He touched the pouch tied around his waist and hidden near his waistband, feeling the shape of his mother’s jade Buddha inside the fabric. Why had she never come back? Was she still even alive?
The child he’d been when they’d parted had waited, becoming anxious, then angry. The adult he was now could guess at reasons why she’d disappeared. As angry as he had been, it was all directed away from her. If she could have returned, she would have.
In his memory, he could see the man who should have been his father looking at his phone in the Incheon airport hallway. If you wanted to own me, you should have at least stuck around to do the owning.
Was he stupid? Was being a pretty face and dancing all he was good for?
You’re a good guy. Gigi’s compliment filtered through his thoughts. He shuddered. Thinking about her almost hurt. She’d be disappointed he was missing. No, she’d be more than disappointed. She’d be worried.
So would the rest of 5N. But the way Bak was talking, there wouldn’t be a BBB3 to even manage a 5N if Jun didn’t bend over and take it.
Gigi’s job with them would be gone. The rest of 5N would be out of work. Maybe they could sign with other agencies. Maybe. That was legalese he wasn’t sure about. For him to go AWOL was certainly a breach of his contract, but if the others showed up, they, at least, would not be at fault. It would all be on him.
Maybe it was better this way. Maybe he should just disappear into the streets. If no one could find him, no one could own him.
Though he knew what happened to good-looking young people on the street. They often didn’t stay on the streets. You didn’t even have to be really good-looking, just helpless and alone.
He hung his head, not just from the cold but from the weight of everything: the memories of standing in front of screaming fans, singing his heart out, his veins pumping blood through his limbs as he danced, and the light in the eyes of his bandmates. He was disappointing everyone. All the TV show hosts that had promoted him and spoke up for him and 5N. Every trainer who had ever worked with him. Everyone.
Guilt crawled up his throat, a slow, desperate monster, choking him from inside.
Maybe his father had known all along. Maybe that was why he had never come back. Everyone else seemed to be able to keep their families. Jun was the fuckup. He couldn’t even take one for the team. He was selfish.
His knuckles ached, clenched inside the pockets of his hoodie. It was getting colder. He wasn’t sure how cold, but his thoughts were getting slower and less clear. They seemed to be turning circles on themselves and repeating. Things he sensed he’d already made up his mind about were coming back.
He needed to get warm. He was slipping. This wasn’t like him. If he could just get warm. Being this cold was dangerous. Dry would be nice, but just warm would help. Or out of the wind. Just a break. He was colder now than that photoshoot he’d done a topless session in the snow.
At the end of the alley he was walking down was a light. He blinked, looking around. He wasn’t in the worst of neighborhoods, but it wasn’t a nice one. Certainly not one he knew. As he got closer, the light resolved into a sign for an all-night convenience store with half the bulbs burnt out.
He’d just go inside, kick his heels around for a while, lurk, get warm, then disappear again. With his hoodie up, no one had to see his face.
He pushed the door open, his fingers stiff with cold, and blinked against the fluorescent lights. Warm air washed over his face; he tightened his muscles trying not to shiver in relief. A woman in her late twenties or early thirties sat hunched behind the counter with a wall of cigarettes and alcohol behind her. She raised her eyes from her phone.
He kept his head down and ghosted into the closest aisle. The place was larger than he’d thought it would be. Voluminous selections of snacks in bright packages filled the shelves. He stared at a bag of melon-flavored potato chips with the face of one of his fellow idols from another agency smiling on the front. Her hair was up in a perky ponytail, and she was jumping in a cheerleader skirt while making cute V signs with her fingers.
