Chapter Text
A quiet tune in the distance, swaying and swinging from the piano tiles to the air.
Shuffling papers.
Light screeches of high heels and chairs moving left and right.
“It’s been no secret that a lot of newcomers in the industry have been crediting you and your advice to them for not only their acting but also how the words have aided them in lessening the rough shift to stardom. Jeon Wonwoo-nim, would you mind sharing more about how that first came about to the audience of Film Royalty?”
A cup knocking on a wooden surface. A deep chuckle, rung as warm as a bonfire beneath the Seoul night in October.
“Oh, I only cross my fingers hoping whatever I said didn’t bore them out, considering they are already very bright and talented individuals.”
“I’m sure they definitely did not see it that way.”
“Yeah, well, I would love to think so, too.”
A disruptive pause leaving space for the quiet tune to reappear.
“On a serious note, a lot of the time, somehow, I see a young face on set or in the company hallway and suddenly feel the urge to extend the kindness I wish someone had shown me earlier. Even if it’s minimal or superficial. I ask them questions. How are they accommodating with the job? Is management playing mind games, again ? Can I help them with anything? And surprisingly, most choose to say they want to hear my advice. It is completely flattering to know these artists trust me enough for that.”
“Can you tell us about one or two of those pieces of advice? Especially if there are some that you always make sure to tell people?”
“Hmm. Right off my head, there are two. Separated but integrated. Constantly coexisting to, you know, form who I am, essentially.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, so, the first one is the same words that I’ve frequently mentioned during my interviews. I got it from my acting coach, the famous and beloved Jung Seokjin-nim: It’s so easy to say everyone is the same — They spend their days eating, drinking, sleeping. They like money, they hate bad fortune. Yet, there are still small things that differ us all. You are not your character, and you must seek those simple differences, like how many times one may look at the Sun. The romance-comedy protagonist constantly finds the sky, because he’s in love and life’s beautiful, but the twin cameo, who literally grew up in the same environment, may never do the same. Do you get what I mean? I hope I'm getting my points across, I tend to unknowingly ramble.”
“Yes, you're explaining it very well!”
“I'm glad to hear that, because yeah… An actor must respect the characters the writers and directors created, of course, but we shall not forget to also work to improve who we become every time we're on set.”
“Wow, may I say that it’s such an interesting idea? Profound, even. The expectation and curiosity are even higher for the other one now.”
“The other one is… Um, from my Dad. Before he passed away. It’s—”
“Seungkwan-ah, can you turn down the volume a little bit?”
Wonwoo speaks up, words slightly slurring altogether as each breath and sound weighs tonnes on his tongue, blending bitter with all the coffee he had to knock down earlier, pulling his whole face down until it is left with nothing but frowns and traces of a tiring, busy day. Goosebumps are already blooming under his beige cardigan — even without the atmosphere inside the car, tinged with the strong scent of new air fresheners, running its icy fingers through every inch of his skin.
At the mention of his name, the slim figure in the passenger’s seat immediately turned his head back to look at Wonwoo, embarrassment and worry crossing over his apologetic wince and hurried tone.
“Ah, I’m sorry, hyung,” Seungkwan closes his phone, turning off the video he was fully immersed in. “Are you okay?”
“Sleepy,” Wonwoo tries to give the other a smile, but even the corners of his mouth seem immobile. “And irritated in my eyelids. I cried for half a day for those scenes, so you know how it is. Stupid dry eye syndrome is gonna kill me someday.”
There is barely any light in the vehicle, save for the crescent hanging above the window, but it is still so easy for the actor to see the way Seungkwan’s expression softens, head tilting, cheek rising with a sympathetic grin. The latter wastes no second to reach his hand back as far as he can to pat the actor on the knees over his uncomfortable jeans. Force light enough to be comforting, but still strong and grounding.
Seungkwan does like to wear a calm demeanour, along with his navy blue fits and styled blonde hair, to calm the storm brewing inside his brain out of both professional obligation and personal interest, but Wonwoo knows. Another disaster is already forming deep down in the other’s stomach at Wonwoo's word choices these days. Too many kill , end , and die for one’s liking.
“Hyung, I know you kinda want me to, and I should let you rest, but as a good manager slash best friend, per my self-written protocols, I need you — actor Jeon Wonwoo — to hear that you did exceptionally today,” Seungkwan says after a beat of silence. “Director-nim, and probably everyone on set, was completely blown away by your performance. Hell, I saw a security guard shed a tear at the final take.”
As Wonwoo dramatically rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance, the manager giggles and taps on his phone to emphasise his point.
“Also, I was watching your interview with Film Royalty because apparently, it’s been receiving a lot of positive attention, singing praises about how you’re so eloquent, genuine, and tons of other extravagant adjectives the PR team pulled from the thesaurus to send me,” Seungkwan coughs to clear his throat, quickly moving his voice two octaves higher to theatrically imitate other staff that Wonwoo vaguely remembers talking to once or twice. “ He takes answering the interview questions the same way he does everything: Passionate, charming, and authentic. Best actor, and possibly the best human being of our generation. Comfort in human form. My emotional support K-Drama boy— ”
“Alright, I got it,” the actor pretends to groan, cheeks redden under a warm imaginary sun.
He has been no doubt receiving these praises a thousand times, on and offline, but somehow, hearing them coming from one of the few people Wonwoo absolutely believes would never utter a lie to him feels oddly intimate and intimidating. Akin to having someone hovering a feather by his ears, calling and heightening his senses with honeyed truths, while he has been anxiously burying himself in seeking cruelty and malice everywhere his eyes have laid on in reality.
“So what I’m saying is, this is your daily affirmation that you’re doing so good,” the manager continues, patting Wonwoo again with the confidence he always brings underlying each syllable. “You never complain about how tiring and overwhelming your job and schedule is, both physically and emotionally, but I see you. Thank you for working so hard, hyung. All of your efforts and talents are being paid off. Keep going, and please tell me if it ever gets too much.”
And Wonwoo’s chest tightens, at Seungkwan’s words probably, but also at something else that he has yet to define. He can feel his shoulders dropping and legs turning noodles now as some tensions are easing out of his muscles, but sadly, not out of where he needs it gone the most. The core. The one hollow space in Wonwoo that keeps on aching and whistling a melancholic tune.
Accompanied by a dull headache.
He wonders how much pain a memory can carve on one's skin.
Whenever Wonwoo feels his stupid tears dare to flee out of their locked chamber of shame — as though crying isn't what he does for a living — Wonwoo is always back to when he was sixteen. With bruises forming down his legs. With grains and rocks cutting his knees as he kneeled and begged, clumsy hands burying deep into the ground, for his Mom — also his manager at that time — to not sign him up for cosmetic surgeries, to conform to some grandiose beauty standards that wrapped the entire industry around their fingers. Wonwoo’s eyes might have been too small, nostrils might have been too big, or nose might have been too pointy, but they, after all, were traces of generations of love and life before him, were the sight he had grown to face in the mirror every single day (and frequently squinted hard in desperation to trick his mind into seeing someone who had long passed).
They were the only things Wonwoo had left of his Dad.
Wonwoo had rather destroyed his future (per his Mom’s words) — losing the string of roles she had immediately lined up for him after he broke through as a teenage serial killer for a cousin's indie film — than given them all up.
So, they settled for Invisalign. They tightened his teeth and froze his jaws till all Wonwoo could feel was the numbness spreading from his gums to everywhere else, till the defiance was cleared blank from his head. Till the dull headache and the hollow space inside Wonwoo that was so big he couldn’t locate exactly. Till they all started.
Yet, Wonwoo swallows the nostalgia down and voices out one more joke left in him, earning a pout from Seungkwan:
“Sap.”
Then, his lips form a soundless thank you that only the manager can see.
“It’s gonna be another 45 minutes till we reach home, hyung,” Seungkwan turns his head back to the navigation screen in front of the driver. “Would you like to try and take a nap?”
Pliantly, Wonwoo leans his head back against the window, half-heartedly staring at the crescents with heavy eyelids. He distantly hears the remaining part of the interview with Film Royalty in his own head, but in his father’s voice, deep, smiley, and laced with the unique dialect of South Gyeongsang.
“Be sure to find the sky — at least once a day. ”
The advice is a layered cake, with each tier having multiple implications that he never had the chance to directly ask his Dad about. Could he mean that Wonwoo shall never disconnect from life? Or that he should not let his existence — for any moment — be consumed by greyness and monotone and a schedule that rarely even lets him breathe? Or could his Dad only mean that he shall establish at least a habit, a routine, an order?
There simply are too many questions and possibilities, and he would probably tire himself out before getting an answer.
So he waited until adulthood.
Until years after that. And in the process, realised in bitterness how brutal it is to remember that he has soon been barely able to follow the words.
Wonwoo did not even know when the last time he saw the real Sun was. (Two, three days ago? When he was catching up with sleep in the backseat between schedules?) If anything, the cameras soon become the Sun in Wonwoo’s world. The makeup rooms — his nights; the auditions — his mornings. Suddenly, the bus routes to school he took every day got switched for SUVs heading to Chungmuro, his small classroom expanded into unfamiliar, extravagant movie sets, and shoved into his arms were stacks of papers — void of maths and natural science home works and filled with dialogues written by hotshot writers that he scarcely comprehended.
Wonwoo’s days and nights started blurring into each other, trapped in confined space after confined space. Lost was his circadian rhythm. Lost was his knowledge of the world. His ability to show any feeling when the camera was not on him. His desire to achieve anything since all of his dreams have already been fulfilled. His personal privacy. Anything that he could claim his .
Sighing softly, Wonwoo pulls his phone out of his coat pocket and captures the sky looming over the car. The headache subsides, allowing him to be grateful that at least for today, he got to look at the beautiful moon.
Wonwoo posts on his rarely-updated social media account with a short caption:
“You've done well.”
★
Showbiz is an ocean with secrets filled to the brim, but none of the drops conceals that it waits for no one. Truth be told, the hecticity is laid open in the industry, from the quiet audition rooms to grandiose awards shows — even having entertainment companies repeatedly chant to their trainees lest anyone forgets. Showbiz is not only extremely fast-paced but also has the memory of a goldfish.
Behind the scenes, of course, has no reason to be an exception.
In contrast to the seemingly endless process of making a movie or a series, filming sets have always been jarringly stormy. Exciting, but equally pressuring. They get stuck in the midst of hurricanes all the time, adrenaline rushing in everyone's veins as stress piles up. People are always coming and leaving, dragging along various racks of outfits or machines. Backgrounds are always changing. Cameras shuttering, props clanking.
Yet, none can't help but notice a significantly tall figure — in a red suit too bright to be under the sun for almost half of the lunch break — slightly bending to talk to another person in staff uniforms.
“Here's the thing, Mingyu,” says the staff member seriously, hands moving to emphasise their words. “You must keep your eye contact intense. With yearning. Maybe add a bit of pathos, too. Think… Jeon Wonwoo in Lies . Wait, no, he was better in Leftovers , I prefer that one.”
“Roger that,” Mingyu eagerly nods and tilts his head, vision narrowing and never leaving the other's face to signal he still pays intensive attention. He wastes no second to add, voice raised with curiosity:
“Actually, may I ask what about my performance just then that didn't make it look as intense as desired? I sure hope knowing what went wrong can help me adjust.”
A few beats of silence pass by as the staff member widens their eyes, clearly caught off guard by the question.
“Well, no,” they respond with a hint of stutter, shoulders shrugging to resume the nonchalance. “But since you're a rookie actor, I just assume that you probably need guidance. No biggie.”
“Oh.”
Mingyu blinks, legs shifting to ease the pain brewing in his lower back from bending for too long. He bites the inside of his mouth till the point he can feel a faint scar forming inside, willing to stop himself from correcting the other: Mingyu’s no rookie — He has, in fact, debuted for half a decade, continuously working up the ladder with gradually bigger roles. Not that it matters to these people.
The sun has only been more cruel the further they talk, evaporating every last energy out of Mingyu, leaving him a little lightheaded. Sweat starts to dampen his entire suit, and his stomach growls a weak protest when the delicious barbecue smell of the catering invades his olfaction.
“Right,” Mingyu decides to nod again. “Thank you for your kindness. I really appreciate it.”
“Good,” the staff pats his shoulders as their tone raises a pitch higher, indicating satisfaction. “Now grab your lunch, we’ll continue filming in an hour.”
As soon as the other leaves, Mingyu immediately retires to his makeup room, slamming face-first onto the couch. He didn’t know heaven was something so simple — it's an AC and soft pillows, apparently. As the surface underneath his limbs sinks, the cool leather begins to soothe Mingyu's aching muscles and burning skin. He's water now.
Somewhere at the other end of the same furniture, a man lets out a sympathetic sigh:
“Did they correct you again?”
Mingyu can only groan.
“And you didn’t correct them that, you know, it’s your lunch break and you also have to take a rest after working continuously for several hours?”
“I have my reasons, Jeonghan hyung,” he turns his head over to look at the other. “This time, it’s the—”
“Director’s assistant, I know,” Jeonghan finishes his sentence, and much to Mingyu's displeasure , doesn't leave it at that. “Still, you say yes to literally anyone who wants to discuss something.”
“It doesn't hurt to smile and nod a little bit,” the actor pouts. “I'm not gonna offend anyone at this point, especially in this specific crew. I don’t even want to imagine what I'd do if I get fired or worse, blacklisted—”
“You don’t have to explain how it works to me; I’m literally your manager,” Jeonghan refutes in a stern but not unkind manner. Never unkind, at least in Mingyu's memory. The older man's worries soon become audible:
“We can’t keep having this conversation every day; it’s not productive,” Jeonghan continues. “I’m just trying to achieve one thing, which is lessening the burden you carry, making sure you’re not burning yourself out with unnecessary stress, and you’re a rock that won’t budge.”
Oh, how much Mingyu wants to prove him wrong, wrong, wrong, and oh , how much his chest constricts with the desire to scream that he's also frustrated.
Mingyu turns over, desperately finding big words on the blank ceiling to lead Jeonghan to other conversations — any that will divert the attention, that won’t make him lay bare the hurricanes stirring at the bottom of his stomach in fear of losing control and never being able to resist his nature again.
Mingyu is only human; of course, he's also tired of pleasing and being cautious of every person he meets, but he has survived in the industry long enough to know that Mingyu can't forever be a rock. Sometimes, he must be water and will be shaped by whatever rough corner he touches . Smiling, nodding, pleasing people. And one day, Mingyu will be fueled enough by these interactions to become raging fire and to burn down all the anxiety that the idea of failing and returning to day one brings.
“You. What can I do with you, hm?” the manager is a relentless knight poking on the already dead silence. “It doesn't hurt to smile and nod a little bit, you’re correct, but you can’t say I’m wrong when I say it also doesn’t hurt to draw some boundaries and stop overthinking, you won't get fired—”
“I'm hungry,” the actor abruptly coughs, pointing to the brown paper bag on the coffee table beside the couch. “Is that my order?”
Detecting Mingyu’s uneasiness and hoping to change the topic, the manager softens his entire demeanour and sighs again, reaching to unwrap the bag and hand the former a lunchbox.
“Yes, delivered by Chan,” Jeonghan replies. “Chicken breast steak and rice, as you requested.”
“Thank you,” the actor flashes his hyung a smile while receiving his food. With practised movements, Mingyu sits up only to open both the lunchbox and his stack of scripts. His lunchtime passes by with his mouth chewing and mind revising his lines again and again until another figure emerges from the door, quickly stealing his attention.
“Hey, Chan,” Mingyu greets between bites.
“Hi, Mingyu hyung,” the other takes a brief break from sipping his bubble tea to wave at the actor and give Jeonghan another cup in his hands. “Here’s your Matcha macchiato.”
“Hello?” Mingyu questions, raising an eyebrow. “Um, where's mine? I deserve some cool drinks too, I was being boiled out there.”
“You can't order with us peasants,” Chan teases, only because he is evil and seeing the actor sulk is fun . “I agreed to Yeonhee-nim's assistant asking if I wanted to order coffee for you co-leads together. Your iced Americano should be here in a few minutes.”
“Jokes on you, I actually crave Americano like crazy right now,” Mingyu resumes eating. “You can’t pick on—”
“Do you think Yeonhee-nim is interested in you, Mingyu hyung?” the youngest out of the three blurts out, unintentionally slapping the words right onto the actor and making Mingyu almost spit food all over the place as rice shoots up his nose. Fuck, his windpipe hurts.
“What prompted this?” asks Jeonghan as he crosses the couch to hand Mingyu tissues, which the latter gladly receives through tears (and snots).
The Kwon Yeonhee? His co-lead? Interested (with a romantic implication) in him? What?
“I know this is gonna sound super creepy and invasive, but listen, it was an accident, okay?” Chan hurriedly explains. “I was talking to her assistant when I saw Yeonhee-nim looking at your social media story. You know, the one with yesterday's night sky and the caption Thank you to the fans that sent you the food truck.”
“The crescent photo?” confusion paints all over Mingyu’s face. “Am I missing something, or it's completely normal, though? She follows my account, she probably was just scrolling through her feed.”
“I'm not dumb, duh,” the youngest insists. “She wasn't just looking, she zoomed in on the photo. Yeonhee-nim stared at it for several minutes like she was studying it. Looking for something.”
At Chan’s revelation, Mingyu can only blink, struggling to find an appropriate reaction. Media training didn’t prepare him for those situations, but he knows for sure that Mingyu can’t afford to be delusional enough to jump to conclusions over a minor observation. Maybe Kwon Yeonhee is just obsessed with the moon? She wants to know his location for whatever reason?
All he can say is that whatever Chan just told him is certainly not expected.
“I’m not gonna comment on that,” Mingyu settles. “And I hope you guys are the same.”
“Hmm, we’ll see about that,” Jeonghan crosses his arms over his chest. “If Chan comes to such a conclusion, others might too. I’ll keep an eye on any rumour, but we all need to be careful. You’ve just booked your first high-budget mainstream drama, and the media is already brainstorming a few headlines about you.”
“You know me, it took me years to get here; I'm not letting it slip through my fingers.” Mingyu smiles, ready to throw the topic to the back of his mind. Yet, what he isn’t ready for is the way it crawls back and again throughout the day in the form of whispers and mumbles of the staff members behind his back.
To the point that Mingyu can’t keep acting like he doesn’t notice there is definitely something not quite right going on. Something.
★