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Taking the rings, Seungcheol would decide later, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Not that he could be openly angry about it while the cameras were rolling, which was almost always. Even after they all trudged back to their dorms, eyes adjusting to the dark hallways so unlike the near-blinding lights of the Diamond Stage, he didn’t dare do anything interesting enough to be worth editing into the episode. He couldn’t help the clench of his jaw, no matter how hard he tried, and the hot, angry flush spreading across his cheeks was a lost cause from the start. But he extended his fingers, over and over, to prevent them from curling into angry fists. Even as the instinct to punch something abated, Seungcheol maintained the rhythmic motion of his fingers, trying to grasp for a sense of stability as the once-solid ground felt like it was crumbling away under his feet.
“How can they do this?” Soonyoung kept repeating plaintively, as if the answer would change if he just repeated the question enough times. As if the “twist” for the show hadn’t likely been set in stone months and months ago, when all they were told is the remaining Pledis trainees would be competing along with some outsiders for the final group lineup. What was left unsaid—deliberately, Seungcheol now sees—is that even if they were all good enough to make it, even if some outside trainees popped in to swell the ranks of the show enough to create some suspense, it wouldn’t matter. The simple math of it just didn’t add up. Fifteen Pledis trainees. Thirteen spots in the group. Two people that Seungcheol had spent his every waking moment with for years on end, left out in the cold, more if the singular outside trainee who’d made it to the final round was able to snag a spot in the debut lineup.
Or, so painful that Seungcheol couldn’t bear to consider it even after the initial shock subsided, the alternative. That it would be him on the other end of the screen, watching as the others carry the torch of his dream forwards while he sat by, powerless to play a role in the group’s success or failure. He’d spent all this time nursing his own hunger, using it as motivation to drive himself ever further, never considering that maybe he’d lose his chance for satiety. That his need could outstrip what the world could provide for him.
He made eye contact with Jeonghan exactly once before they reached the dorms. Jeonghan looked away first, sharply directing his gaze towards the floor, which didn’t quite do enough to hide his red-rimmed eyes. Almost as if his hand was drawn by a magnet, Seungcheol reached out to—well, he wasn’t sure what, exactly. Comfortingly pat Jeonghan on the back, probably. Jeonghan jerked away from his touch before Seungcheol’s brain had a chance to catch up with his body.
Seungcheol’s brain was still offline, apparently, because he almost started a petty fight right then and there, cameras be damned. In the end the limiting factor was not Seungcheol’s gradually returning willpower but Joshua’s arm, slung comfortingly around Jeonghan’s shoulder. Seungcheol did what he always did when he saw Jeonghan’s and Joshua’s heads leaning into one another, whispering words meant only for each other—he burned, quietly, and did nothing.
Seungcheol had been pulled aside by a staff member and told to offer the others some encouragement. Prove you’re a leader, he’d been told countless times before, so much so that he knew this was another one of those occasions even if the words never left Hayoung-noona’s lips. So many times that he didn’t even have to be told.
He knew, vaguely, that the things he was saying were kind of bullshit. All his belief in the others, all his hunger, all the implicit promises along the way—none of them meant as much as they’d thought, in the end. It was worth it, though, for how Soonyoung sniffled and stood up straighter, the renewed light in Seokmin’s eyes, the visible reknitting of Seungkwan’s shattered expression into calm acceptance. Worth the increasing pit in Seungcheol’s stomach as the truth of the situation washed over him once more. It was almost enough to convince him, too.
Almost, but not quite. Further along than Doyoon, who was watching the proceedings with what appeared to be unmitigated despair, but far behind Minghao, who couldn’t help the hope sweeping across his face even as he tried to visibly tamp it down. Seungcheol couldn’t help but to feel annoyed at them both, an emotion for which he felt immediate and piercing guilt.
The others, eventually, all made their way to their separate rooms, divided by birth year. Jeonghan and Joshua were almost out the door before they came to an abrupt halt.
“Seungcheol-ah,” Jeonghan called, turning around to face Seungcheol, standing helplessly in the middle of the common room, “Aren’t you coming?”
“Go on ahead,” Seungcheol replied, his heart rate leaping up as a near-automatic response. “I’m not tired yet.”
“Sure,” Jeonghan said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Just fall asleep on that uncomfortable couch again. Maybe I can take your bed.”
“That was one time—”
“It’s been a long day,” Joshua said, eyes darting towards the blinking red lights of the cameras set in various positions around the room. “And…maybe it’s better if we can put it behind us. As quickly as possible. Instead of…” he trailed off, perhaps realizing there was no camera-safe way to finish the sentence.
“It’ll only be a little while. Maybe you’ll still be awake. I just need—I just need a bit.”
“Okay,” Jeonghan said softly. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Seungcheol said weakly, waving even though both Jeonghan and Joshua had turned around and were making their way to their room.
Only when he was finally, finally alone and safely ensconced in the camera-less bathroom did Seungcheol feel emboldened to unleash his most genuine reaction to the news delivered to them so unflinchingly while hundreds of cameras eagerly absorbed their every reaction, which was to bury his head in his knees and cry.