Cv
Five A.M. Decibels
In Hongjoong’s internal landscape, silence was never truly empty. It had texture, color, and weight. When he slept, the darkness behind his sightless eyes wasn't an oppressive void; it was a vast, velvet room where sound took the form of soft currents. The low, rhythmic cycle of the dorm’s radiator hummed like a distant cello; the faint rustle of dry autumn leaves scratching against the glass window sounded like wire brushes over a snare drum.
Friday night had bled into Saturday morning with the exquisite promise of freedom. For the first time in six weeks, Hongjoong had neither an early composition lab nor an audio analysis seminar. His digital audio workstation was powered down, his braille notebook was shut, and his studio headphones rested peacefully on his nightstand. He had planned to sleep until noon, letting his overstimulated nervous system submerge itself in warm, undisturbed blankets.
Then, at precisely 5:00 AM, an auditory war crime detonated inside the room.
It was not a musical chime. It was not a polite smartphone marimba or the gentle chirping of synthetic birds. It was an industrial-grade, high-output, one-hundred-and-thirteen-decibel electronic screech that struck Hongjoong’s eardrums like twin ice picks driven clean into his brain.
"Gah!"
Hongjoong bolted upright so fast his spine cracked, his skull colliding violently with the wooden headboard of his bed. The sound was a jagged, relentless square wave—a piercing *SKREEE-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP* that seemed to physically vibrate the enamel on his molars.
For two terrifying seconds, his sleep-fogged, blind brain couldn't register where he was. Was the building collapsing? Had an emergency fire siren malfunctioned directly above his pillow?
Then, the second element hit: a rhythmic, jackhammer-like thumping that rattled the floorboards under his mattress.
*The Sonic Bomb,* Hongjoong realized in sheer, horrified disbelief. *Park Seonghwa’s specialized accessibility alarm.*
Seonghwa, born profoundly deaf, didn't use sound to wake up. When he slept, he removed his high-powered digital hearing aids, retreating into an impenetrable, peaceful world where no human frequency could reach him. To compensate, his university-issued alarm system featured two distinct components: a high-intensity red strobe light designed to penetrate closed eyelids, and a heavy, puck-shaped vibrating motor that tucked beneath his mattress to shake him awake.
The device, however, also had an auditory siren engineered to alert dorm supervisors or room partners in case of emergencies—an acoustic blast designed to wake the dead.
And right now, it was tearing Hongjoong’s universe to shreds.
"Seonghwa!" Hongjoong yelled, his voice tearing raw against his dry throat. "Seonghwa, turn it off!"
The screeching didn't waver.
*BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.*
"Seonghwa!"
Hongjoong clapped his hands over his ears, pressing his palms so hard against his temples that his jaw hurt. It barely muffled the piercing frequency. Tears of sheer sensory agony prickled behind his eyelids. As a music producer, Hongjoong had spent years training his ears to isolate half-step pitch discrepancies in twenty-track arrangements. To subject ears that sensitive to a 113-decibel industrial siren at five in the morning was the acoustic equivalent of pouring boiling water into an open wound.
*Why isn't he shutting it off?* Hongjoong thought frantically. *The bed shaker should have thrown him through the ceiling by now!*
Hongjoong reached out into the void of his bed, frantically patting down the sheets until his fingers found his thick, black-rimmed glasses on the side table. He slipped them on purely out of lifelong habit—they offered zero visual benefit, but the familiar, heavy pressure against the bridge of his nose gave him a tiny sliver of grounding.
He grabbed his spare pillow, bunched it into a tight ball, turned his face toward the left side of the room where Seonghwa’s bed was located, and hurled it with all his might.
The pillow sailed through the air and landed with a soft, pathetic *thud* against what sounded like the closet door.
*Missed.*
Gritting his teeth, Hongjoong groped around the bed again. His hand closed around a soft plushie—a small, weighted fabric bird that Mingi had jokingly won for him from an arcade claw machine the week before. Hongjoong cocked his arm back and launched it toward the sound of the vibrating floorboards.
A distant squeak of bedsprings told him he had scored a hit. But across the room, there was no groan, no rustle of blankets, no movement.
The siren continued its relentless assault.
*BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.*
"You have got to be kidding me," Hongjoong hissed.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, Hongjoong’s bare feet hit the cold linoleum. He didn't have his white cane—it was neatly folded and resting by the front door where he always left it. Usually, he didn't need it inside their shared room. He had mapped every millimeter of the floor plan: six paces from his bed to the mini-fridge, four paces to the shared desk, seven paces across the central divide to Seonghwa's mattress.
Except yesterday, Seonghwa had spent twelve hours working on his advanced textile draping assignment.
Hongjoong took two cautious steps forward, his hands held out defensively at chest height, only for his right shin to crack sharply against something dense, heavy, and wooden.
"Ow! Mother—" Hongjoong caught himself on the edge of the obstruction, his hands frantically feeling the surface. A dressmaker's mannequin base. Cast iron and varnished timber. "Seonghwa, I swear to God, when you wake up, I am throwing your entire autumn collection out the window!"
He navigated around the heavy base, only for the sole of his foot to slide dangerously across a pile of slick, discarded silk organza on the floor. He flailed, his arms windmill-wheeling through the air, before his knee connected with the edge of Seonghwa's bed frame.
The vibration here was terrifyingly intense. The entire floor seemed to shudder under Hongjoong’s toes.
Hongjoong lunged forward, his hands sinking into the thick, plush down of Seonghwa's duvet. He felt along the lump of the mattress until his fingers brushed warm skin, silk pajamas, and soft, neatly brushed hair.
Park Seonghwa was lying flat on his stomach, his cheek squished against his pillow, lips slightly parted, breathing with the slow, rhythmic perfection of an infant. He looked completely, utterly serene—an untouchable island of tranquility floating in an ocean of ear-splitting noise.
Beside the bed, trapped in the narrow, hollow gap between the wooden bed frame and the drywall, the heavy vibrating motor had completely slipped off the mattress. It was buzzing violently against the baseboard, turning the entire wall into an acoustic amplifier while failing to deliver a single drop of tactile vibration to the sleeping body above it.
"You absolute menace," Hongjoong gasped, the siren ringing so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear his own voice.
Hongjoong grabbed Seonghwa’s broad shoulders with both hands and shook him with all the strength his sleep-deprived, five-foot-nine frame could muster.
"Wake up! Seonghwa, wake up!"
Seonghwa’s body jostled passively with the movement. He let out a soft, contented little sigh, tucked his chin deeper into the collar of his silk pajamas, and pulled the blanket tighter over his ears.
"No, you don't!" Hongjoong growled.
He tore the duvet back, exposing Seonghwa's legs to the frigid autumn morning air. Then, leaning down, Hongjoong took two fingers and pressed them firmly against the pulse point on the side of Seonghwa’s neck—the universal emergency tap they had agreed on during their freshman year.
*Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.*
Seonghwa stirred, his brows drawing together in mild annoyance. He swatted lazily at Hongjoong’s hand like a man shooing away a persistent fly, rolling onto his back. His eyes remained clamped firmly shut.
Hongjoong was losing his mind. His ears were throbbing with a dull, sickening ache. He couldn't find the clock itself—the sound was bouncing off the bare walls, creating acoustic phase cancellation that shattered his ability to locate the device by ear. The alarm sounded like it was coming from everywhere: the ceiling, the floor, the inside of his own skull.
Desperate, Hongjoong climbed directly onto the mattress, straddling Seonghwa’s waist and grabbing the older boy by the collar of his pajamas.
"Park Seonghwa!" Hongjoong yelled, knowing full well it was completely useless, but needing the catharsis anyway.
He leaned down until his face was inches from Seonghwa’s, and with a sharp, forceful exhale, blew a burst of cold air directly across Seonghwa's eyelids and the bridge of his nose.
That did it.
Seonghwa flinched violently. His dark eyes snapped wide open, pupils dilating in the dim, grey light of the room.
For a fraction of a second, Seonghwa looked completely bewildered, staring up at the furious, disheveled blond boy sitting on his chest in oversized flannel pajamas, hair sticking up in six different directions, glasses slightly askew, glaring sightlessly into his face.
Hongjoong didn't waste a breath. The moment he felt Seonghwa's chest tighten with awareness, he grabbed Seonghwa's right wrist, brought the older boy’s palm flat against his own throat, and said the only word that mattered:
"Clock."
He spoke with exaggerated enunciation so Seonghwa could read both the shape of his lips and feel the frantic, vibrating pulse of the word through his vocal cords.
"Clock! Turn it off!"
Seonghwa’s gaze darted from Hongjoong’s frantic mouth to the red strobe light pulsing silently across the wall behind them. The puzzle pieces clicked into place with terrifying speed. Seonghwa’s eyes went round as saucers, his jaw dropping in sheer horror as he realized the sheer volume of acoustic violence his alarm had undoubtedly been broadcasting.
Moving with explosive speed, Seonghwa sat up—nearly tossing Hongjoong off the bed in the process. He reached down into the dark abyss between the bed frame and the wall, his slender arm digging blindly until his fingers caught the cord of the vibrating puck. He yanked it upward, followed by the main console on the nightstand, and violently slammed his palm down onto the kill switch.
*Click.*
The siren died.
The sudden silence that rushed into the room was so thick, so heavy, that Hongjoong felt dizzy from the absence of pressure. The high frequencies left behind a hollow, metallic ringing in his ears, like the fading hum of a struck cymbal.
Hongjoong slumped forward, his forehead collapsing straight onto Seonghwa’s clad shoulder, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps.
"My ears," Hongjoong wheezed, his fingers weakly clutching at Seonghwa’s pajama sleeve. "My God, Seonghwa... my career is over. I'm deaf now too. We're going to have to sign everything to each other for the rest of our lives."
Seonghwa froze, his hands hovering uncertainly over Hongjoong’s trembling back. He looked down at the younger boy with an expression of profound, agonizing guilt.
Slowly, carefully, Seonghwa raised his hands. He tapped Hongjoong’s shoulder twice to get his attention, then waited until Hongjoong lifted his head, turning his sightless, tired eyes in his general direction.
"I'm sorry," Seonghwa said aloud.
His voice was thick with sleep, his vowels soft, rounded, and slightly nasal in that distinct, careful deaf cadence. As he spoke, his fingers moved with urgent, desperate grace, spelling out the sentiment against Hongjoong’s forearm so the blind boy could feel the letters.
"I'm sorry, Joongie," Seonghwa repeated, his voice gentle and full of genuine distress. "The shaker... fell. I didn't feel it. I didn't know."
Hongjoong let out a long, theatrical groan, leaning back until he was sitting cross-legged on the mattress, burying his face in his hands. "What time is it? Tell me it’s at least seven. Please lie to me and tell me it’s seven."
Seonghwa squinted at the digital display of the offending alarm clock, then grimaced. He reached out, taking Hongjoong’s wrist, and traced two numbers into his open palm with a single, hesitant finger.
*5.*
*0.*
*8.*
"Five-oh-eight," Hongjoong muttered bitterly, falling flat on his back across Seonghwa’s bed like a deflated balloon. "Five-oh-eight in the morning. On my only day off in forty days. Why do you even have an alarm set for five in the morning on a Saturday?"
Seonghwa paused. He tapped Hongjoong’s knee, waiting for him to turn his face upward so he could lip-read, then realized Hongjoong couldn't see him in the dim morning light anyway. Instead, Seonghwa took Hongjoong’s hand, guiding the younger boy’s fingers to the edge of his nightstand, where a stiff, woven swatch of fabric was pinned to an administrative evaluation rubric.
"Textile drop-off," Seonghwa spoke carefully, his hands moving in the air out of habit before he lowered them to tap Hongjoong’s knuckles. "The fashion hall opens at six for the junior showcase judging. I had to steam the silk before eight."
Hongjoong exhaled heavily through his nose, staring at the unseen ceiling. All the righteous anger that had propelled him out of bed was draining away, leaving behind only the cold, aching exhaustion of a student running on fumes.
He knew how hard Seonghwa worked. He knew Seonghwa had spent the entire week bleeding through his fingers from hand-sewing stiff wool hems. He couldn't stay angry at him, no matter how much his eardrums throbbed.
"Your alarm is an instrument of torture," Hongjoong mumbled, his voice small and raspy. "I'm going to reprogram it to play soft synth pads."
"Synth pads won't wake me," Seonghwa said with a soft, breathy chuckle, his voice melodic in its uneven pitches.
"Then I'll hire Mingi to come in here and scream at you," Hongjoong countered. "His low frequencies shake the concrete anyway."
A warm, gentle hand settled against Hongjoong's cheek. Seonghwa’s thumb lightly brushed the bridge of Hongjoong’s nose, pushing his crooked glasses back into their proper alignment. The touch was infinitely patient, full of a quiet, unspoken tenderness that immediately washed away the lingering panic in Hongjoong's chest.
"Ears hurt?" Seonghwa asked softly.
"They're ringing," Hongjoong admitted, closing his eyes behind his lenses. "It feels like someone set off a firecracker inside my headphones."
Seonghwa shifted on the bed. Hongjoong felt the mattress lift as the older boy slipped off, the faint pads of his bare feet moving across the linoleum. Hongjoong listened intently—the squeak of the mini-fridge door, the click of the electric kettle on the counter, the dry rustle of paper tea bags.
A few minutes later, Seonghwa returned. He didn't speak; he simply nudged Hongjoong's leg, encouraging him to sit up. When Hongjoong did, Seonghwa draped a thick, ridiculously soft cashmere throw blanket over his shoulders—one of Seonghwa’s personal, hand-loomed treasures that he rarely let anyone touch.
Then, Seonghwa gently took Hongjoong’s hands and guided them around a warm ceramic mug.
The scent rose up immediately: toasted barley and sweet honey.
"Drink," Seonghwa murmured, sitting down beside him on the edge of the mattress, his shoulder pressing firmly against Hongjoong’s.
Hongjoong cradled the warm mug, letting the heat seep into his cold, stiff fingers. He took a sip, the familiar, nutty flavor coating his dry throat. Across the room, the faint hum of the mini-fridge was returning to his auditory spectrum, the violent ringing in his ears slowly, mercifully receding into a dull background hiss.
"You're still leaving at five-forty?" Hongjoong asked, his voice softer now.
Seonghwa took Hongjoong’s free hand and tapped his index finger once against his palm. *Yes.*
"Are you taking the bus?"
Seonghwa tapped twice. *No.* Then he spelled out five letters on Hongjoong's skin: *Y-U-N-H-O.*
Hongjoong blinked, surprised. "Yunho is driving you at five-thirty in the morning?"
Seonghwa smiled—Hongjoong couldn't see the curve of his lips, but he felt the shift in Seonghwa’s posture, the light, airy vibration of a pleased hum in his chest. Seonghwa took Hongjoong's hand again, tracing: *He offered. Said his car has space for the garment rack.*
Hongjoong shook his head in quiet disbelief, taking another sip of his tea. "Those two are ridiculous. Who volunteers to haul garment racks before sunrise?"
*Good friends,* Seonghwa signed against Hongjoong’s knee, tapping the rhythm of the words with careful deliberation. *Very sweet.*
"Yeah," Hongjoong conceded quietly, pulling the cashmere blanket tighter around his shoulders. "They're alright."
They sat in the quiet room for a long time, the only sounds being the gentle clinking of Hongjoong’s ceramic mug and the faint rustle of Seonghwa gathering his portfolio cases across the floor. Without the siren, the world returned to its proper, manageable dimensions.
When Seonghwa was fully dressed—his clothes rustling with the crisp, clean starch of freshly pressed linen—he stopped by the edge of Hongjoong's bed, where the blond boy had crawled back beneath his own duvet, determined to reclaim at least four hours of his stolen day off.
Hongjoong felt the mattress dip slightly as Seonghwa leaned down. A gentle hand brushed the messy blond hair away from Hongjoong’s forehead, followed by two firm, rhythmic taps on his collarbone.
*Sleep,* the touch said.
"Lock the door when you leave," Hongjoong muttered into his pillow, his voice already heavy and thick with returning slumber. "And if that clock goes off again, I'm donating your mannequin to the engineering department."
Seonghwa let out one last breathy, silent laugh, his fingers lingering on Hongjoong’s shoulder for just a second longer before pulling away.
The heavy dorm door clicked shut with a soft, final thud.
Left alone in the room, Hongjoong pulled the duvet up to his chin, listening as Seonghwa’s light, graceful footsteps faded down the hallway, perfectly synchronized with the distant, heavy rumble of Yunho’s voice waiting by the elevator doors. The low frequency vibrated faintly through the structure of the building—a steady, anchoring bassline that lulled Hongjoong back toward the velvet silence of his sleep.