Flashbacks

Jackson's dreams are rarely kind.

Some nights, he sees fluorescent lights and hears the echo of a door slamming shut behind him. Other nights, it's a voice-sharp, male, full of disappointment."What are you crying for? Real men don't cry. Stand up. Try again."

Tonight, it's both.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, the hotel suite too sterile, too quiet. His hand's clenched into a fist on the pillow. He doesn't remember curling it like that. Doesn't remember falling asleep at all.

Just remembers Kole.

The curve of his back under warm sheets. The way he'd whispered, "Stay."

Jackson hadn't. He'd left.

Just like he always does.

-

Fifteen years ago.

Little Jackson stands perfectly straight, his posture military even though he's only ten. His father watches him from the porch, eyes narrowed, arms folded.

"You'll never be anything if you can't control your face," his father spits. "Wipe that emotion off. You think people want to see weakness?"

Jackson blinks fast. His cheeks are damp, but he nods.

"Yes, sir."

"Do it again."

He does.

The violin in his hands is too big, but his fingers never shake. That's how he learns: shake, and you bleed for it.

-

Trainee years, age 16.

The mirrors in the practice room are endless. Every flaw is visible. Every misstep punished.

One of the older trainees trips and falls during choreo.

The coach shouts, "You think anyone cares if you're tired? There are five hundred more like you waiting to take your place!"

Jackson doesn't trip.

Ever.

His knees are purple. His toes blistered raw. He practices until he throws up, then apologizes for wasting time and keeps going.

That's how you survive.

That's how you debut.

-

Debut era.

It's a blur of cameras, strict diets, fan service, and loneliness. Every touch is staged. Every word rehearsed.

He becomes what they want: cool, untouchable, dangerously handsome. The "dark horse." The cold one.

He hears fans call him stone-hearted.

It sticks.

Better that than soft. Better cold than weak.

Because warmth gets you hurt.

-

Now.

Jackson stands in the suite's shower, water running too hot. Steam clouds the mirror, but his reflection still stares back.

Scarred. Stoic. Alone.

Until Kole.

That damn smile. The way he pokes. Provokes. Forces his way into spaces Jackson didn't even know were locked.

Jackson feels like a dam on the edge of cracking every time Kole is near.

Why does he care? Why did he look at me like that? Why didn't he look away when he saw the scars?

No one's ever looked at Jackson like he's a person. Like there's something to save.

Kole did.

Still does.

And Jackson doesn't know what to do with that.

-

Later that night.

He finds himself typing Kole's name into his phone screen again. Doesn't send anything.

Then he does.

"Are you okay?"

There's a minute of silence.

Then a reply.

"Not really. But I'm used to it."

Jackson stares at the words for a long time.

Then types:

"You shouldn't be."

He doesn't hit send.

But this time, he wishes he had.