Chapter Text
Yesterday’s sweatpants quickly become today’s bad decision. It’s atypical for Jisung to make a public appearance in anything less than tailor made and skillfully styled, but it’s also atypical for Jisung to make a public appearance at all these days.
“Hello,” a receptionist greets when Jisung enters. She smiles in a way that doesn’t reach her eyes. “How can I help you?”
“Hi,” Jisung says, his voice muffled by the mask he wears–a poor attempt at a disguise. He lowers it, then tries again. “Hi. Uh, happy Friday, am I right? Um…I’m here to see someone.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks. She shifts her gaze to the computer on her desk. It’s a big, rounded table that’s taller than most desks would be, serving as a barrier between the outside world and the frosted glass doors that lead further into the office. Jisung can see murky shapes and silhouettes moving behind those doors, visible enough to know people are back there, but obscured enough to be unidentifiable.
The receptionist taps on her keyboard, likely pulling up a calendar of expected guests and clients. Jisung’s name won’t be there.
“Yeah,” he says, blinking rapidly as he searches for something plausible. “An interview.”
“An interview?” she asks, her typing fingers freezing. “As in, a job interview?”
“With Kim Seungmin,” Jisung nods.
“Are you sure you have the right location?” she asks, looking him up and down. The sweatpants could pass as appropriate office wear under minimal inspection and from a distance. The flannel, though, is too wrinkled and too oversized to be anything other than a pajama top. His eyes are bloodshot and his dark, curly hair is unkempt. When he got the perm, he was told it would be easy, gentle curls. Something manageable without a team of stylists to take care of it for him. It came out much more coiled than anticipated and he has yet to learn the secrets of taming these new ringlets. “This is Duck Duck Accounting.”
Jisung knows this is Duck Duck Accounting–a small accounting firm that works primarily with local businesses doing whatever it is small accounting firms do. In all his perusing of the website, Jisung didn’t absorb Duck Duck’s mission statement. Rather, he spent his time searching the About Us page, which included a photo and profile for each of the employees. He wishes now he had paid more attention to those profiles, too. Maybe the receptionist was listed and maybe her profile mentioned what types of lies and tricks she’s most likely to fall for. That would be useful.
Instead, Jisung only paid attention to one photo and one profile.
“Yes,” Jisung nods, standing straighter. “It might not be in the system. My interview, I mean. I don’t know. It was kind of a last minute thing. But if you go get Kim Seungmin, he’ll confirm that he knows me.”
The receptionist studies Jisung for a silent, painful moment. He thinks it would’ve made more sense to pretend to be a local business owner in need of accounting services. Local business owners could get away with being so disheveled. Local business owners wouldn’t be kicked out for looking kind of crazy because local business owners have something to offer Duck Duck.
But Jisung went with a job interview. Stupid. Improv has never been his strong suit despite the many acting classes he’s taken over the years.
“One moment,” the receptionist says. She stands from behind her desk and walks through the frosted glass doors and further into the office, quickly disappearing beyond Jisung’s line of sight.
He rocks back and forth, toe to heel and toe to heel as he waits for her to come back. Possibly with security, ideally with Kim Seungmin. When she returns, however, Jisung thinks security might’ve been easier to deal with. Certainly less scary.
“Hey there,” Kim Seungmin says. He wears a suit, devoid of wrinkles and identity both. His personality is worn plainly on his face, though, while he looks at Jisung with unmitigated irritation. He puffs out his chest as he studies Jisung, his eyes narrowing as he takes in his vagrant appearance and shifty demeanor. “My colleague says you’re here for an interview with me.”
“Yeah!” Jisung says, too loud. He clears his throat, then coughs, then lowers his voice to something more appropriate for an office. “Yeah, hey.”
“There must be a misunderstanding,” Seungmin says. “I don’t even conduct the interviews at Duck Duck.”
“Seungmin,” Jisung says, a trill of panic shooting down his spine as he goes unrecognized. Normally, his anonymity would be a rare and celebrated thing. But not here. Not when it’s Seungmin. “It’s–it’s me. It’s Jisung.”
“Oh,” Seungmin blinks. He leans forward, tilts his head, stares without any hint of shame. There’s annoyance behind his eyes, then confusion, then realization. It’s Jisung. “You look like shit.”
The receptionist gasps, then quickly covers her mouth. She settles behind her desk again, pretending to busy herself with the computer. Certainly not listening and certainly not watching them from her peripheral vision.
“Okay,” Jisung scoffs. “Well. Rude.”
“Let’s get this interview started, I suppose,” Seungmin says, his brow wrinkling as he motions for Jisung to follow him. He glances over his shoulder as if to make sure that Jisung is coming, that Jisung is real, that Jisung actually showed up as bedraggled as he did.
Seungmin leads Jisung through a maze of cubicles housing a number of accountants in a number of boring suits doing a number of tasks Jisung couldn’t begin to understand. They stop in front of an enclosed office through which Seungmin guides him.
“Wow,” Jisung says, glancing around the space. It’s no bigger than the cubicles, but it is much nicer and more private with only a small window in the door to allow for spectating. “Your own little room. You must be pretty important here.”
“Hardly,” Seungmin snorts. “Just a regular accountant. Take a seat.”
Jisung does as he’s told, settling into the chair opposite Seungmin’s desk. He sits as well, then crosses his arms over his chest as he continues to stare at Jisung.
“CEO’s favorite, then?” Jisung asks, reaching out to fiddle with a Duck Duck branded pen within reach. He can tell by looking that it’s the type of pen that glides really smoothly. Seungmin has found himself a quality job, it would seem.
“I was onboarded with a handful of other accountants at the same time,” Seungmin says, watching Jisung unscrew the cap, then screw it back on over and over again. “They gave us a tour and said most people use the cubicles, but they had an office available if anyone wanted it. I thought oh, everyone’s going to be fighting for this. I don’t need anything special, so I’ll just let them have it. But then nobody said anything. So, I was like…shit, I’ll take it.”
“Yeah,” Jisung shrugs. “I mean, why not?”
“Exactly,” Seungmin says. “So, now I have an office for no other reason than I spoke up.”
“It’s nice.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’ve decorated it well,” Jisung says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of everywhere. He nods his head toward what look like picture frames situated on Seungmin’s desk, turned so their contents are out of view. “Are those photos?”
“Yes.”
Jisung waits for Seungmin to elaborate. Yes, of my family. My friends. My pets. My kids. My idols. Of anything at all. Jisung waits for him to show off a little, whatever is so important to him that he has it framed on his desk at work.
But after five seconds, Seungmin doesn’t elaborate. After five more, Jisung gets the hint.
“Cool, yeah,” he says, setting the pen back down. He points toward the wall behind Seungmin on which hangs a whiteboard. There are notes Jisung doesn’t understand and dates he doesn’t understand and what appears to be a piece of art. A strange sketch of a cat-like being with abs and a frightening face. “And, uh, there. Looks like you’ve taken up drawing.”
Seungmin cranes his neck to follow Jisung’s finger. He rolls his eyes when he sees what Jisung is referring to, then waves his hand as if to dismiss the topic altogether.
“My colleague did that,” he says, turning back. “Not me.”
“What is it?” Jisung asks.
“Some sort of hellish demon,” Seungmin sighs. “I don’t know. I try not to engage with him when he comes in.”
“Is he, like,” Jisung begins, treading cautiously. He knows what it is to have difficult coworkers. “A bad guy?”
“Yes, pure evil.”
“Right,” Jisung says, chuckling lightly until he sees a distinct lack of humor on Seungmin’s face. He clears his throat, then coughs a little, trying to disguise the laughter as something else, but certain he’s failed at doing so. It used to be easy to tell when Seungmin is joking, but now Jisung can’t read him at all. The realization stabs through his heart with no resistance, like it’s brittle and hollow–a wasp’s nest abandoned and easy to destroy. “Uh. Right.”
“What do you want?” Seungmin asks.
“I wanted to see you.”
“Why?”
“I, uh…” Jisung begins, chewing on his lower lip. He glances at the floor–carpeted and old. He finds no excuses there. He glances at the picture frames again. “I missed you.”
“But why now?” Seungmin pushes, leaning forward.
“Isn’t it kind of obvious?” Jisung says. He can feel Seungmin seeking out his gaze, but he can’t bring himself to look. Too embarrassing like this–basically groveling, basically flipped over on his back with his stomach laid bare and vulnerable.
“No,” Seungmin says. “Do you think I’d be asking if it was obvious? Let’s use our thinking caps here.”
“I just…” Jisung sighs, annoyed that Seungmin is forcing him to say it, as if it isn’t all over the news right now. As if he doesn’t know already. He rubs his eyes hard enough to see blinking stars of light floating around Seungmin’s head when he opens them again. “I could use a friend right now.”
“You don’t have any friends already?” Seungmin asks. “Do you really have to come resurrect me from the dead?”
“Well,” Jisung says. “It sounds pathetic when you put it that way.”
“It looks pathetic, too,” Seungmin says, eyes flicking across Jisung’s visage. He leans back in his chair again, shaking his head. “Seriously, you look like shit.”
“I’ve always loved how gentle and sweet you are, Seungminnie,” Jisung coos, finally able to look at him now that claws have come out.
“I thought you’d be used to harsh criticism at this point,” Seungmin says. “Or does your company keep the bad reviews away from you?”
“Oh, no,” Jisung snorts. “They certainly do not. I am well aware of what the people say about me. I suppose you are, too.”
“Not really. I just assumed,” Seungmin says, his head lolling to the side as if bored.
“You just assumed people hate me?” Jisung asks.
“Even Day6 get bad reviews sometimes,” Seungmin shrugs. “I haven’t really kept up with your career, to be honest. But if the best of the best get the occasional critique, then certainly Han Jisung must as well.”
“Oh,” Jisung says, flinching just slightly as another hole is poked into his wasp nest heart. He supposes it makes sense that Seungmin wouldn’t seek him out intentionally. He must be bombarded with his music enough on the radio, in cafes, on TV that he gets the gist anyway. But, still. Jisung always thought he was listening on purpose. Always hoped, at least. “I do. That’s not my name, though.”
“Well, yes,” Seungmin blinks. “It is.”
“Not my stage name,” Jisung clarifies. “That’s not the name people use when they say unkind things about me.”
“That’s what I use when I say unkind things about you”
“Are you the one leaving me hate comments?”
“No,” Seungmin smirks. “I’m perfectly happy to talk shit directly to your face.”
“Thanks,” Jisung says, laughing despite himself.
“What was your stage name again?” Seungmin asks, wrinkling his brow with the difficulty of remembering. “J. Star?”
“J. One.”
“J. One,” Seungmin echoes. “I was close.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought it was kind of like…” Seungmin trails off, searching Jisung’s face for recognition. Of course he finds it. Of course Jisung isn’t likely to forget. “You know.”
“I remember,” Jisung nods. “But, no. It’s J. One. I didn’t get to choose.”
“You didn’t get to choose your own name?”
“No,” Jisung says, shaking his head. “A lot of idols don’t.”
“I thought things were different for soloists.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know,” Seungmin says. “More lenient.”
“Ah. Well,” Jisung sighs. “Not for me.”
“Sucks,” Seungmin says. He wiggles his computer mouse, rousing the monitor from its sleep. The screen illuminates Seungmin’s face in a flattering way, making his jaw look chiseled and his chin strong. Making him look older than Jisung is used to, but not old. “But I guess this is what you signed up for.”
“I guess it is,” Jisung says. He watches Seungmin type something, click something, type something else. He seems entirely disinterested in Jisung’s presence–like there are no burning questions on the tip of his tongue, no concern for any truth behind the rumors, no understanding of who is sitting right across from him. “Have you really not kept up with my career at all?”
“Have you kept up with mine?” Seungmin shoots back before wrinkling his nose. “Actually, don’t answer that. Clearly you have, considering you found me here.”
“I just scoured professional websites until you popped up,” Jisung says. “It took forever.”
It took searching for his name on every social media app, going through each profile, giving up; looking at university websites instead, thinking maybe he was part of some club or made some achievement that would get his picture posted; maybe the person in charge of updating the website would be lazy and disorganized and despite being six or so years outdated, Seungmin’s photos would still be up; maybe finding Seungmin’s alma mater would help him find what Seungmin studied would help him find places where he might work.
He felt crazy doing all of that. He felt crazier when it worked and crazier still when he actually climbed the stairs to Duck Duck.
“Freak,” Seungmin says, making pointed eye contact. “Stalker. Loser. Weirdo.”
“Okay, woah, I got it,” Jisung says, holding up his hands in surrender. He thinks he should be annoyed at Seungmin’s unwelcoming welcome. He anticipated awkwardness and an interrogation and even hostility, but not apathy. Not petty insults just for the sake of it. He thinks he should be annoyed, but he’s not. Instead, he’s relieved. “It’s–wow.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No. What?”
“It’s just,” Jisung sighs, taking a moment to find the words. “It’s really good to see you. I mean, I knew it would be. Or, I hoped, at least. But, wow. I needed this.”
“You needed me being an asshole to you while wearing business casual?” Seungmin asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Is that business casual?” Jisung says, tilting his head.
“Isn’t it?”
“It looks business professional to me.”
“What do you know about office attire?” Seungmin scoffs. “You’re dressed like the before picture for a youth rehabilitation center.”
“And you’re dressed like the after,” Jisung says. “If said youth got a boring degree and a stuffy job.”
“My job is perfectly suitable, thank you,” Seungmin says.
“To answer your question,” Jisung says, smiling. “Yeah. I did.”
“Wait, what did I ask?”
“You asked if I needed you to be an asshole to me while wearing business casual,” Jisung says. “And I did. I needed this. Thank you.”
Seungmin stares at him with mouth open and head tilted. He blinks once, twice, three times before he says, “Are you okay?”
“Like I said,” Jisung says, unable to stop the bubble of laughter that bursts from his chest. “I missed you.”
“That isn’t mutual,” Seungmin says, wagging a finger at him. “You know, I could have sought you out at any time, but I never did. That was on purpose.”
“Right,” Jisung grins.
“And it’s really not appropriate for you to show up at my place of work without warning.”
“I called,” Jisung says, and it’s true. The moment he found Seungmin on Duck Duck’s website, he tried to reach out. Just once, but still. He tried. “I think you blocked my number or something.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well. You didn’t answer.”
“I don’t answer unknown numbers.”
“Oh. So you deleted it.”
“Which is not the same as blocking.”
Before Jisung can argue further, which he is excited to do, the door to Seungmin’s office swings open, revealing another man dressed in business casual or, perhaps, business professional.
“Kim Seung–oh,” he says, blinking rapidly as he takes in Jisung, who scrambles to pull his face mask back up. “So sorry–I didn’t realize you had a client meeting today.”
“We’re about to wrap up, Minho,” Seungmin says, his voice taking on an air of professionalism that sounds unnatural. “Give us a second.”
“Sure,” the man–Minho–says. He nods to Jisung, then closes the door behind himself again. Jisung stares after him, noticing that the corner of his eye is visible through the window.
“Is that the guy you told me about?” Jisung asks. “The one that’s pure evil?”
“It is indeed,” Seungmin says.
“New whiteboard art incoming?”
“Probably not,” Seungmin says, glaring at where Minho had been standing. “I think he’s going to pilfer office supplies.”
“Well,” Jisung says, taking a deep breath in as he stands to leave. “Good luck with that.”
“Jisung,” Seungmin says, standing as well.
“Yeah?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
The answer is right there–yes, of course I’m okay. Yes, as long as you don’t search my name online. No, I’m clearly not, but I’d rather pretend otherwise. No, and I don’t want to talk about it.
But improv was never his strong suit. He doesn’t always say the right thing the right way and if he fucks this up, Seungmin is going to figure it all out. He’s going to get too curious and he’s going to hear all the rumors and he’s going to make all the wrong assumptions and Jisung will really, truly be alone then.
“Would you mind saving my number again?” Jisung asks.
“I don’t want you to call me.”
“Please?”
“Okay,” Seungmin says, throwing his hands into the air. “Fine. Whatever.”
“Thank you,” Jisung says, grinning beneath his mask. “Oh, one last thing.”
“What?”
“Are there any good restaurants around here?”
“Yeah,” Seungmin shrugs, shaking his head as if he can’t believe this is how they’re ending their conversation. As if he can’t believe this conversation is even happening. “There’s a pretty good fried chicken place next door. Hard to miss.”
“Thanks, Seungmin,” Jisung says. “It was good to see you again.”
“Bye, J. One,” Seungmin says, opening the door for him. Jisung flinches back as if struck, nauseated by that moniker being used by Seungmin in a genuine way.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Please, please call me Jisung.”
“The only thing I’m calling is security if you don’t leave,” Seungmin says, ushering him out the door, past Minho, and to the front of the office again.
Jisung leaves as he’s asked, nodding politely at the receptionist as he goes. She still seems ill at ease with his presence, but he hopes soon to earn her trust and sooner to learn her name.
The fried chicken place next door is, as Seungmin said, hard to miss. The sign boasts that Rich Rich is the best poultry restaurant in the neighborhood with the best prices to match. He doesn’t order–doesn’t even go inside. He just takes a photo of the menu, decides for himself that yes, the prices are reasonable, and returns home.
The Diamond Palace Hotel is aspirationally named. The rooms are small and the beds are small and the bugs that infest the carpet are small, too. Jisung never sees any of his neighbors but he hears them well enough at night to know they’re around and they’re having much more fun than he is on these old, stained mattresses.
It’s not the type of place he or anyone is meant to stay for long, but he’s staying for long anyway. The prices are reasonable, after all. And it’s only twenty minutes away from where Seungmin works. Seungmin, who Jisung missed more than he realized. Seungmin, who seems to hate Jisung’s guts, but as long as it’s not for the same reason as everyone else, he can live with it. Seungmin, who will get another visit from Jisung very soon.
…
Today’s crop top will quickly become tomorrow’s headline. It’ll be something like: MYTE’s Newest Artist Looks Stupid in Too-Small Shirt and Flared Leather Pants. Or maybe: Rookie Soloist J. One Flops with Ugly Hair and Bodacious Makeup, Career Over at Just Twenty.
“Hello, I am J. One,” Jisung mumbles, staring at himself in the dressing room mirror. He flicks a piece of his freshly bleached hair out of his eyes. It falls back into place. He flicks it again. “Hello, it’s J. One. Hi, I’m J. One.”
It’s a lost cause, he thinks, trying to salvage his appearance. Everyone at MYTE said he has to sell the rockstar sound by looking the rockstar part. His hair is bright yellow-blonde and pin straight and it’s bold and new and the audience is going to love it. Even if they don’t, they’re going to talk about it.
Jisung would rather they talk about his music. And when he’s performing, they tend to. But this isn’t a performance. This is just an interview.
“Hey, excuse me,” Jisung says, poking his head out of the dressing room door and catching the attention of the first person he sees. A man–not much older and not much taller than he is, dressed in an outfit as black as his undereye circles.
“What’s up?” the man says, stepping into Jisung’s room when prompted. His arms dangle strangely by his sides, tensing and relaxing as if he’s fighting the urge to do something with them even though nothing needs doing.
“Do I look okay?” Jisung asks, posing so that the entirety of his outfit is on equal display. It makes his crop top ride up even further, exposing a torso that’s just barely toned enough to be worthy of television, according to Manager Shin.
“Oh,” the man blinks. “I’m just an intern, not a stylist. But I can go grab–”
“No, but like–” Jisung interrupts, huffing as he lets his arms drop. “If you saw me on TV, would you think he’s so cool? Or would you think wow, he looks like a total loser?”
“Um…”
“Oh. Oh, God. Oh, no.”
“Hey, hey,” the intern says, holding up his hands as if Jisung is seconds away from passing out, as if it’s his duty to catch him, as if he’s been told before that sometimes artists are a bit brainsick and a bit body sick, too, and it really might be his responsibility to prevent a fainting idol from smashing his head on the concrete floor. Jisung thinks it’s sweet of him to care so much. Probably necessary, too, in this instance. “Don’t freak out. You’re J. One! You’re awesome!”
“No,” Jisung says. “I’m Jisung and I’m an idiot.”
“Well, I’m Chan and I think what matters more than your look is how you carry yourself.”
The intern, Chan, takes a slow, hesitant step forward, giving Jisung plenty of time to refuse him. Jisung stands rooted in place, which Chan takes as permission to straighten Jisung’s posture, to push his shoulders down, to angle his chin up.
“Give us a smile,” Chan says. Jisung smiles. Chan grimaces. “Try: less school photo, more I just stole your bitch.”
“Chan!”
“What!” Chan laughs. “You’re a rockstar, right?”
“Yeah,” Jisung pouts.
“Rockstars steal bitches.”
“We shouldn’t call them bitches.”
“Rockstars steal hearts.”
“How would you know?” Jisung grumbles, slouching in on himself like a child just seconds from throwing a temper tantrum.
“Oh, you don’t think I’m a rockstar?” Chan asks.
“Are you?”
“Not in the traditional sense.”
“In what sense, then?”
“I always feel like a douche when I say this, but,” Chan begins, “I have a fan club at my university.”
“Define ‘fan club,’” Jisung says, the part of him that loves menial gossip coming alive beneath his larger than life idol persona.
“It’s embarrassing,” Chan says. “But a specific group of people always pops up wherever I am on campus. At the dining hall, at the library, at my dorm. They take turns asking me on dates. I always tell them I’m too busy, though. I say the life of a journalism major is all hustle and bustle, no hanging and banging.”
“That sounds genuinely terrifying,” Jisung says. “The fan club, I mean. But the thing about hanging and banging is also upsetting to hear.”
“It’s nothing compared to what you deal with, though,” Chan says.
“I just debuted,” Jisung says. “I don’t have anything like that.”
“Yet,” Chan says, holding up a finger. “Now, listen to me when I say your demeanor is more important than how you look. Give me a: I’m super confident and badass and a huge rockstar just like Chan pose.”
“Like this?” Jisung asks. He tries to flip his hair, but it’s too fried to move. He does manage to flash a crooked, sensual smirk, though. One he’s practiced in the mirror enough times to know that it’s cocky in a way he’s expected to be cocky.
“Perfect!” Chan grins. “Listen. Hyomin is a really lenient host, and The Uptick is an easy show. She’s not going to ask you any unexpected questions. And she’s definitely not going to call anyone bitches.”
“Okay,” Jisung nods.
“You’re good,” Chan says, patting Jisung’s shoulder. “Just be cool and be yourself.”
“I can’t be both.”
“You can.”
Jisung can and he is. He lets Chan go back to his studio intern duties and lets himself go back to practicing his enunciation in the mirror and when a PA comes to get him, when it’s time to begin the interview, when the cameras start rolling, Jisung forgets about how stupid he feels.
“I’ve heard that you trained as a typical K-pop idol,” Hyomin says after the audience’s generous cheering dies down. “But it seems like your focus is more on vocals and a traditional rock and roll vibe rather than dancing. Was that always the plan?”
“Gosh, no,” Jisung laughs. “I’m grateful for where I’ve ended up, but when I became a trainee, I always thought I’d be put into an idol group with a bunch of other guys. My friend and I…we picked out a group name and everything. Dancing was never my strongest skill, though, so I think I got lucky.”
“Since you expected to have group members by your side,” Hyomin continues. “Is there any part of you that feels lonely now that you’ve debuted solo?”
“I was constantly surrounded by others for my entire trainee period,” Jisung says, digging into his media training for an answer that isn’t really an answer. “So, I definitely got used to having people around. When I learned I would be debuting solo, I was nervous I wouldn’t be able to carry the music well enough on my own. But, the fans seem to like what I’m doing–much more than I expected. So, even though I’m on stage by myself, I always have the fans with me in my heart. They keep me from being lonely.”
The audience coos at his response, which makes Jisung blush, which makes the audience scream.
“That’s very romantic,” Hyomin says once they’ve calmed down enough.
“Is it?”
“Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” Jisung says, unable to stop the shy smile from spreading across his face. He looks down at the ground to disguise it, but quickly raises his head back up so as not to ruin the shot. “I haven’t experienced a lot of romance in my life. Ah, maybe I shouldn’t admit that. It doesn’t suit the rockstar image, does it?”
The audience shouts their dissent. He can’t make out individual words, but he can hear enough to know they disagree with his self assessment. A loveless star is still a star, especially when it means they might have a chance with him. He might be just desperate enough, just in need of real life inspiration enough, to indulge their parasocial fantasies.
“There’s more to rock music than just love! Right?” Hyomin says, encouraging the audience to be louder. Jisung laughs at their enthusiasm, eating the attention up like he’s starving for it because he is. “What kinds of themes can we look forward to in your next release? Or should I say, first album?”
The audience gasps at the mention of an album, as hopeful for it as Jisung is. He gives another vague non-answer that sounds good enough to get cheers, receives another question, gives another answer, gets more cheers.
From the interview they move to a few games and from the games they move to an audience segment and from there, Hyomin thanks everyone for coming, encourages the audience at home to stream Jisung’s debut solo, and takes a bow. The director yells cut, Jisung is guided back to his dressing room where he receives a proud thumbs up from Chan, and that’s it.
His first televised interview as J. One.
He hopes it’s received well. He hopes for the next one, he can wear something that doesn’t show off his stomach quite so much. He hopes there’s a next one at all.
Jisung quickly changes back into his regular, comfortable clothes. He covers his stark blonde hair in a cap, covers his face with a mask, and leaves through a door marked No Exit. He pauses for a moment once it swings shut behind him, waiting for some sort of alarm to blare, but it’s quiet. Nothing happens, as he was told nothing would.
A black SUV waits for him there, lights off but engine on. The door slides open from the inside and he gets in quickly, carefully.
In the front sits a driver–one Jisung always sees, but never speaks to. In the back next to him is a handsome older woman. Maybe in her forties, probably in her fifties.
“It went well?” she asks, placing a hand on his thigh.
“I think so,” he nods, slipping off his face mask.
“Good boy,” she purrs, then tugs him in for a kiss.
It’s firm, wet, and messy for the few seconds they’re pressed together. Jisung pulls away to find his foundation smeared across her mouth.
“There might be cameras,” he says.
“The windows are tinted.”
She kisses him again and he lets her. He kisses her back. He slides his hand up her leg and up her skirt and higher still, as he knows she likes. He opens his mouth and lets her tongue find refuge in there, lets her lick into him further than is comfortable, lets her do whatever she wants.
The back of his throat burns with bile building up in his esophagus. It’s so risky, what they’re doing. But that’s the whole point, he supposes. That’s what makes it thrilling. And as long as no one ever finds out, he can live with it.