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“It’ll never work,” Kihyun says flatly.
“Why not?” say Minhyuk, his agent, and Mr. Lee, the studio exec, at the same time, and they exchange looks before Mr. Lee gestures for Minhyuk to continue with his explanation: “It’s not like domestic audiences aren’t accustomed to seeing onscreen violence—the most popular films to come out of Korea in the last few years have been very violent!”
“It’s not the violence,” Kihyun says, very nearly through gritted teeth. “I know the violence is fine. It’s—”
“The cannibalism?” Minhyuk interrupts sweetly.
“That’s fine, too,” Kihyun says, to the distant amusement of Mr. Lee. “I’ll do that, I don’t care.”
“Then what’s the problem? It was immensely popular in America, you know,” Minhyuk says. “Come on, you weren’t this upset about it over the phone.”
“I’m not upset.” And it’s true, because he’s not. He hadn’t been—out of sorts, he’ll say, when Minhyuk had first called him, so excited about the possibilities of this role that he was stumbling over his words and Kihyun had had to tell him three times to slow down, because, well, he didn’t understand the full ramifications of accepting the role in question and because, well. He didn’t know who his co-star would be.
“So I guess that means you’re taking it,” Minhyuk says, glaring at Kihyun with a certain finality, and Kihyun looks away.
“If your only concern is that it’s a risky move for the network, we appreciate your worries, but please let us worry about that,” Mr. Lee assures him. “Your career won’t suffer; if anything, even if the show is unpopular domestically, it is very much the sort of thing that will garner immense success overseas. Weren’t you hoping to break into the international market?”
Kihyun looks sharply at Minhyuk, who, for all the world, is an innocent who has never even met Kihyun, let alone snitched about his career ambitions to people in power. “Yes,” he says after a moment. “Have you approached anyone else for this role?”
“No, and we purchased the rights for a remake with you two specifically in mind,” Mr. Lee says. “Everyone at the network is very excited.”
How strange, to be moved like a pawn on a chessboard, completely behind the scenes, completely unawares. Minhyuk is his agent, yes, so it’s only right that he make the decisions for Kihyun, but does having an agent mean he is deprived of all his own agency? What makes this even worse is that Kihyun loved the TV show he’s currently, evidently, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer tasked with remaking, watched every episode as soon as it aired. It helped him learn a lot of English words he hadn’t known before. Kidneys. Murder. Investigate. Cannibal. Certainly not very useful in daily life—until now. “So the other themes of the show aren’t a concern,” he says. It’s difficult to pronounce the sentiment, but he can’t not ask. “Or is that going to be removed from the subject material entirely?”
“Oh, no,” says Mr. Lee, and the polite smile on his face widens into something a little more money-hungry. “We’re going to accent the homosexual aspect even further.”
“And you don’t have a problem with this?” Kihyun says, leaning forward to speak to his co-star for the first time since entering the meeting room. They hadn’t even greeted each other, and when Changkyun’s dark eyes slide over the table to glance, briefly, at Kihyun, it’s the first time they’ve even acknowledged each other’s presence.
And of course, as soon as Changkyun does look at him, Kihyun regrets acknowledging him at all. “No,” Changkyun replies, low and a very faint smile on the corner of his mouth that makes him look like he’s mocking Kihyun, because he almost certainly is. “Why would I? It seems to make you very uncomfortable, sunbaenim. It’s 2020, you know.”
Well, luckily Kihyun won’t have any problems expressing murderous rage and homicidal, cannibalistic impulses when he’s sharing a screen with this buffoon. “Not at all, Changkyun-ssi,” he says smoothly. “It’s my career I’m worried about, but as you don’t have one to risk, I understand precisely why you’re so cavalier.”
Changkyun doesn’t respond, just maintains eye contact, until Kihyun, his skin crawling, looks away. He’s been backed into a corner. All decisions have already been made; there would be no point in saying no, because Minhyuk would negotiate him into a yes. Kihyun also can’t help but feel the sting of betrayal in Minhyuk, ostensibly Kihyun’s friend beyond his duties as an agent, also agreeing to represent the talentless wretch at the opposite end of the table. Normally, Kihyun very deliberately doesn’t think about this ongoing act of betrayal, but sometimes, now, it becomes unavoidable, and when Minhyuk reaches to squeeze and shake Kihyun’s shoulder companionably, Kihyun pulls away.
“I’m taking the role,” he says to Mr. Lee. “Please send me the scripts at your earliest convenience.”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Lee says, and immediately gets into a spirited discussion of contracts and filming schedules with Minhyuk, while Kihyun gets out his phone and Changkyun just sits there. Not looking at Kihyun, but Kihyun can feel that he’s aware of him anyway. And just like that, Hannibal Lecter becomes Shin Yeonsan, Will Graham becomes Park Hyunsik, and Yoo Kihyun and Im Changkyun become, for the second time in Kihyun’s miserable life, co-stars.
Kihyun receives the script for the first episode within the next week, and he reads it in the safety and comfort of his home, his phone and computer off so no obnoxious Minhyuks dare to disturb his uncommon solitude. It’s just as he feared—yes, Mr. Lee had said they would be playing up the “homosexual aspect,” but he hadn’t mentioned that Yeonsan’s homosexuality would be part of what makes him evil—he hadn’t mentioned it because he hadn’t needed to. Kihyun had intuited that perfectly well on his own. It’s unsurprising, and therefore not disappointing. Kihyun thinks he might even have fun with this role, if Changkyun can get his shit together and not get swallowed—ha—by Kihyun’s undeniably phenomenal screen presence. It’s not a bad script, Kihyun has to admit. It’s a well-done adaptation. He can see the original elements of Hannibal, of course, dashing but socially awkward special agent Hyunsik and elegant, mysterious Yeonsan preparing lavish meals, but much like The Handmaiden, it’s been made specific to Korea beyond changing the names. He has to grudgingly admit, he agrees with Minhyuk and Mr. Lee—it’ll do well. Be it for the shock value of the cannibalism and the homosexuality, or be it for Kihyun’s excellent performance—he can see the stage of the Korea Drama Awards, feel the warmth of the eyes on him as he takes the microphone to accept his daesang—it’s going to do well. Kihyun’s not even nervous. They start table reads and rehearsals in two weeks, and he’ll have his scripts memorized by then. Tell me, Hyunsik. Have you ever been so hungry you thought nothing could ever satisfy you? Felt an ache so profound it seemed you could consume even yourself? Look at me. Look at me. Look.
The rest of the cast is star-studded as well, of course. As Hyunsik and Yeonsan’s collectively adopted daughter, made a child in the Korean version so as to tug even more on viewers’ heartstrings, the little girl from Mr. Sunshine and Moonlight Drawn by Clouds. As the Alana equivalent, a pretty newcomer named Kim Chungha—to provide a poignant element of love-triangle tension, entirely bespoiled by the twist reveal that Hyunsik might be inclined in Yeonsan’s direction after all. Kihyun still isn’t looking forward to kissing her, though. Thank God for Korean networks’ prudishness—for all the murder and cannibalism, there will be no sex scenes. A rewrite of the original has her turning to the dark side, too, longing to join Yeonsan in his depravity, until he rejects her. They’ve also rewritten it to include Margot in the first season to make the love triangle even worse, as though multiple women would ever even look at Changkyun twice, and she’s played by Changkyun’s previous love interest from his stupid corny office drama, Korean-Australian beauty queen Park Chaeyoung, and Kihyun rolls his eyes at the antics he’s sure will ensue on-set. For Bedelia, Lee Sunmi, whom Kihyun is terrified of but can’t wait to work with. For the FBI trio, a packaged set of cameo brilliance, Kim Hyuna, Kim Hyojong, Lee Hwitaek—of course the network couldn’t afford them for more than one scene per episode. A few other familiar names for bit parts, killer-of-the-week nonsense, a late-season cameo from Kihyun’s biggest celebrity crush, Oh Sehun. Ooh. But Kihyun is undeniably the star. He’s sure Changkyun feels himself the star, but he couldn’t be more wrong. The original show is called Hannibal, after all, not Will. The Korean title, deliciously, is Man-Eater.
Dispatch snaps photographs of Kihyun, hat pulled low over his forehead, walking into the tvN building for the first table read. It hits Naver ten minutes later—accompanied by the matching photographs of Changkyun. He has the same hat. Motherfucker. Kihyun sits at the seat to the side of the head of the table and chats with Lee Hwitaek, the best idol-turned-actor in decades, and when Changkyun comes in and sits opposite Kihyun, slouched in his chair and pulling off the hat to reveal unruly newly dyed-brown locks, Kihyun unconsciously reaches to touch his own perfectly coiffed hair, smoothed back into a semblance of the style he’ll be wearing throughout the show. It brings out his cheekbones. Changkyun just looks soft. “Let’s begin,” says the director, bringing the amicable chatter of the room to a respectful halt. “I’ll be reading the scene directions, but everybody else—you know your parts!”
Kihyun remembers how Changkyun works. It’s been years since that show they did together—bit parts in a historical drama that made Kihyun a breakout star who landed his first lead role months afterwards and Changkyun a vlogger. Changkyun always phones it in during the table reads. Changkyun always shows up late, as he did today. Changkyun always seems bored, like there’s somewhere else he’d rather be, like he’s above the petty goings-on of a simple drama table read. Changkyun never, ever cares. Changkyun never puts in effort. Changkyun’s voice never trembles—Changkyun’s eyes never shine. Kihyun is the one who will control this room, and he doesn’t even come in until page ten. He’ll spend the next few minutes breathing and preparing for his first line, to disarm everyone, to make them all sit up straight and pay attention, and he’s satisfied with those thoughts as the director introduces the scene—exterior, late afternoon, the apartment of the murder victims, an NIS car pulling up outside, the rumpled, tortured special agent stepping out. Hyunsik’s supervisor has the first line of the series—“There are three dead bodies.”
“I got here as soon as I could,” Changkyun says. But it’s not Changkyun. He’s mumbling, yes, and his voice is low, but that’s not him. Kihyun looks up from the script in his hands to see him, and that’s not his face, either—he’d managed to pull out some glasses while Kihyun wasn’t looking at him, and he’s practically cowering behind them, curled in on himself. He’s obviously aping Hugh Dancy, but, against all odds, he’s pulling it off. One line—he’s only said one line so far, and Kihyun is already transfixed. Fuck. “How many bullets?”
“What? We haven’t run the ballistics report yet.”
“How many bullets,” Changkyun insists, with an actual quaver, and it would be ridiculous and laughable if he weren’t doing it so well. “How many times did that man hurt them?”
“Come and take a look for yourself,” says his boss, and Kihyun forgets to be smug about how he’s the star of the show and just listens to Changkyun working, his voice so low and his eyes hidden entirely behind his glasses, behind his messy hair—and Kihyun has never understood Hannibal Lecter more—the desire to push those glasses up and look at him, really see him, and eat his heart afterwards. “This is my design,” Changkyun says hoarsely, and Kihyun takes a sip of water and tries to think of what the fastest way he could leave the room would be.
But soon enough it’s Kihyun’s turn. He doesn’t need to put in effort to show off; it comes naturally. This is the perfect role for him, honestly. The words come so easily to him, and he’s already mostly memorized, that it’s like he’s speaking them ex tempore, and he can see in his peripherals that people are sitting up and taking notice, but—but there are still eyes on Changkyun. As Kihyun and Changkyun go into their first dialogue together, people are still looking at Changkyun and not at Kihyun, and when Changkyun shakes his head and mutters, “I don’t find you all that interesting,” and Kihyun smiles lightly and replies, “Yes, you do,” the smug pleasure he’d been tasting at the start of the day now runs bitter down his throat.
They break for lunch after they’ve finished the first episode, which concludes with what will doubtless be a very fun scene of Kihyun cooking an elaborate meal for all his unwitting friends. But Kihyun can’t even enjoy himself, not even as he shares a packet of chips with Lee Sunmi. He will not have the show stolen from him by his far less famous, far less talented co-star. In some small consolation, Changkyun doesn’t seem to be getting along with anyone. He’s keeping to himself, eating alone. Method acting, or natural unlikeability? Or does everyone know that Kihyun and Changkyun hate each other, and they’re tacitly taking Kihyun’s side? Thank God. Kihyun has a higher tolerance for power struggles than most people, but it’s only the first day.
After lunch, they read through another two episodes. The director praises Kihyun’s memorisation and Changkyun’s emotion, then steps out of the room for a phone call and returns, triumphantly red-faced. “EXO’s Chen is doing the opening!” And the room cheers, while Changkyun gives a polite round of applause like that’s the most enthusiasm he can muster. Again, Kihyun wonders if this is method acting, but he’s not about to ask him. Other than their lines, they haven’t exchanged a word all day, and if they can keep it like this for the rest of the process of filming, Kihyun might even send Minhyuk a thank-you card after all.
Minhyuk calls him in the evening. “How’d it go today?” he asks, and Kihyun can’t help but wonder whether he’s calling Kihyun first or if he called Changkyun already. It doesn’t matter either way—Kihyun can be a professional about this, unlike some people.
“Fine,” Kihyun answers. “The director was really kind, and I pretty much already knew the script by heart. It was fast.”
“Make any friends?”
“Hwitaek was there, it was nice to finally meet him. Lee Sunmi and I shared a snack,” Kihyun recites dutifully. “It’s a very talented cast.”
“Aww, my little socialite,” Minhyuk coos. “And how was Changkyunnie?”
Kihyun blinks. “What about him? He was there, obviously.”
“Was he good?” Minhyuk presses. “Did you have chemistry?”
“It was a table read, not a rehearsal,” Kihyun says, startled by this line of questioning. “He was… fine. I haven’t seen him act in quite a while, obviously. He’s improved.”
There’s a snorted laugh down the line from Minhyuk. “God, coming from you, that’s practically a standing ovation! He said you were amazing, too.”
Kihyun frowns and sits up, careful so as not to spill the herbal tea he’d been enjoying on the couch. “He did? What exactly did he say?”
“Nothing mean, relax.”
“Of course not, but what was it?” Kihyun insists, and Minhyuk, audibly busy or distracted—so what was the fucking point of calling?—huffs.
“Just that. That you were amazing and he can’t wait to start filming, and that he’s honored to be working with you. I just talked to him.”
The cogs of Kihyun’s brain are turning. Changkyun had told Minhyuk (and no, it doesn’t sting that Minhyuk had called his other client first to check his status) because he’d known Minhyuk would tell Kihyun; that “honored to be working with you” has got to be pure mockery, nothing more, nothing less. Kihyun scowls and hangs up on Minhyuk. If Changkyun wants to be a bitch, he can do so directly—there’s no need to use a middleman. At their first day of filming, which is the following Monday, Kihyun has no intention of playing nice.
Kihyun shows up to the shoot right on time. Neither early nor late; he’s the star, after all. It’s straight to hair, makeup, and wardrobe for him, and three-quarters of an hour later he’s resplendent in a bespoke suit that fits him like a second skin, not a hair out of place, his cheekbones, already high, elevated further. When he walks onto the set, there is an audible gasp of admiration from all present. Elsewhere, filming has begun for establishing shots, and—Kihyun checks his watch, which belongs to the wardrobe department and isn’t a real Rolex but looks enough like one that it still makes him very happy—Changkyun is late. Of course. It’s infuriating—after the table read, it was clear that the rest of the cast and all the production staff were enamored of Changkyun, his deep voice and baby-face, and what does the lout do with all that good will? Maintain it by demonstrating any degree of professionalism? No, of course not. Changkyun finally appears twenty minutes after his call time. His face is covered in thin, pathetic attempts at home-grown scruff, and he’s in ill-fitting jeans and three layers of jackets. By contrast, Kihyun is a marble statue, and he can’t help a scoff as he moves to his mark and waits for the director’s cue. “As I expected,” he says, eyes flickering briefly over Changkyun’s unkempt look. What’s the point in holding back? Honored to be working with you, yeah fucking right. “Is this your costume, or did they let you wear your own clothes?”
Once again, just like at the first negotiation, Changkyun doesn’t take the bait. “You look very handsome, sunbaenim,” he says, and the director calls action before Kihyun can respond.
Changkyun. Asshole. He’d said that to throw Kihyun off his game—and it kind of works, makes Kihyun nearly miss his first cue, nearly flub his first line. But only nearly. It would take a hell of a lot more, more than Changkyun is capable of, to make Kihyun falter. “It’s an honor to meet you, Agent Park,” Yeonsan says, elegant, genteel, friendly but not warm.
“The honor is all mine,” Hyunsik—predictably—mumbles, without making eye contact. “I believe you were—um. I believe they told you to expect me?”
“Please,” Yeonsan says. “Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand. I won’t stay long.”
“Aren’t you here to discuss a series of gruesome murders?” Yeonsan asks lightly. “Hardly a topic best discussed standing up—or briefly. I insist.”
“I have the photographs here,” Hyunsik says, stubbornly refusing to sit. Is it stubbornness, shyness, or both? “I’m sure you must be busy. But I could do with the help of a psychiatrist in figuring out my profile.”
“Oh, that’s what you’re here for?” Yeonsan says, a smile on his enigmatic lips. “I thought you were the one that needed help.”
It’s still not enough to draw Hyunsik’s eyes upwards. “I am,” he admits, evidently struggling to get out the words. “I’ve been having—nightmares. But that’s—that’s not the point. I’m fine.”
Yeonsan doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watching him. “They told me you were an empath,” he says, once he’s looked his fill. “This man has a supernatural ability, they told me. That you can see into other people’s heads. What can you see in my head, Hyunsik-nim? I hope you can see that I only want to help you.”
“I don’t know,” Hyunsik answers through a slight huff after a moment. “I’m not here for myself. Or for you. The photos are there, if you’d like to take a look. So far, I have the profile, it’s the—the motive. That mystifies me.”
Yeonsan is visibly mystified by something else—by Hyunsik. He can’t take his eyes off of him. “No theories?”
“Oh, I have theories, but they seem—far-fetched,” Hyunsik says. Self-conscious. Glancing around the room, as though seeking a place to hide. “I think our killer has a daughter. These girls represent her. What I’m stuck on is—why is he eating them?”
“Must every horrible thing in the world have a reason behind it?” Yeonsan murmurs. He steps closer to Hyunsik—barely. “There is evil, yes. You know there is. It’s difficult to say where, precisely, it comes from. Has God turned a blind eye? Or is this God’s design?”
The word choice makes Hyunsik go still. It’s clear to him, now, that Yeonsan has done his own research on the man before him. “It’s not God who killed this family,” he says quietly. “It was only a man. The parents got in his way of killing the girl, so he killed them, too. I think he didn’t want to. I think he isn’t evil. I think he—”
“He needs help,” Yeonsan agrees, now thumbing through the lurid photographs Hyunsik had set on his ornate wooden desk. “He’s unwell. It’s like a compulsion, but one that refuses all cure. Have you considered that he might be killing these girls to avoid killing his own daughter?”
“Of course,” Hyunsik says, frustrated. Wasn’t this psychiatrist supposed to be a genius? He has come to all the same conclusions that Hyunsik reached on his own—what was the point of this visit? “But if he has the capacity to do this”—he reaches past Yeonsan’s hands to pull out the most gruesome of the photographs, the girl’s body warped and tortured, ripped apart, a deep-red gaping maw where her stomach should be—“why has his daughter not died yet? Men kill their children all the time. It would hardly be unusual.”
“Evil is a complicated thing,” Yeonsan says. They look at the picture together, Hyunsik’s face pulling against its own disgust, Yeonsan’s a cool, smooth mask. “So is hunger.”
“Hunger,” Hyunsik repeats, uncertain.
Yeonsan sets the photographs down. “Yes. Tell me, Hyunsik. Have you ever been so hungry you thought nothing could ever satisfy you? Felt an ache so profound it seemed you could consume even yourself?” he says, his voice ever-softer, another step taking him closer to Hyunsik, who begins to shrink away, startled and made uncomfortable by the proximity. But he’s still looking down—hasn’t lifted his head even once, since coming in, and Yeonsan’s frigid patience thaws and his hand moves quickly, harshly, to grasp Hyunsik’s chin and catch him like a fox in a trap, and forcibly tilt his head up so their eyes will have no choice but to meet—they are precisely the same height. Hyunsik has nowhere to escape to. “Look at me.”
Hyunsik is, but it seems to be an internal fight—he’s motionless, the camera spins around them, and music, probably, plays as their eyes lock.
“Look at me,” Yeonsan repeats, softer. “Look.”
Hyunsik’s tongue slips to wet his lips. “I am,” he says, in the barest of whispers.
They are silent as the camera moves, taking in every aspect of their expressions, their poses, the way Hyunsik’s normally sleepy eyes have gone wide from surprise, the way Yeonsan is beginning to smile. This lasts for two minutes, no less, and neither of them is breathing more than absolutely necessary. “He hasn’t killed his daughter because he loves her,” Yeonsan says, and Hyunsik shudders as though doused in cold water and jerks away from him. Yeonsan’s hand remains in the air, and after a brief, bitter moment, he lowers it and smooths down the front of his suit. “But he still might. A man can love you and want you dead. In fact, the feelings almost always go together. I’ve written extensively on the subject and would be happy to loan you some journals to that very effect. You may find them illuminating.”
“No need,” Hyunsik says, back to muttering. He’s gathering up the photographs, dropping a few in his haste, scrambling to leave as quickly as he can. The tips of his ears are red. “I don’t find you that interesting.”
“Yes, you do,” Yeonsan smiles, and hands Hyunsik the final photograph—that most brutal one, stark red against a white background. Their fingers brush. Hyunsik pulls his hand back, fire-touched quick, bows stiffly, and makes an ungraceful exit, leaving Yeonsan alone in his beautiful, palatial office, alone to watch the closing door and smile.
“And… cut!” calls the director.
Kihyun has to blink very hard three times before he can feel his feet on the ground again. It’s like a string has been cut—a string holding him up, and he sags with the newfound weight of his body and breathes normally, not like a cultured, wealthy cannibal psychiatrist. Changkyun is coming around the side of the wall where it’s cut open, and he looks wearied, too, even more so than usual. They don’t look at each other, and Kihyun takes the additional precaution of turning away completely in search of water. The director gathers them both, gives minor notes on what to change, although there’s very little, and they start the scene over minutes later.
They do it three more times before the director is satisfied. After, Kihyun sits to the side of the set and watches the following scene, Hyunsik talking to his supervisor about the conversation he’d just had with Yeonsan. “How did you find him?” asks Mr. Kim of the NIS, and Hyunsik frowns, fidgeting with the sleeve of one of his many jackets.
“He’s… strange. I think he wanted to be friends with me,” he mumbles.
Mr. Kim laughs. “Yeonsan did? That doesn’t surprise me. He’s very friendly. His dinner parties are legendary—if he ever invites you to one, you should go.”
“That doesn’t really sound like my scene.”
“And he would actually have to invite you for that,” Mr. Kim agrees, still amused. It comes across as backhanded, because it is, and Kihyun can see the emotions flicker across Hyunsik’s face—confused, offended, defiant. He does have a stubborn streak after all. How curious. Then Kihyun blinks again, and, like a trick of the light, sees that it’s just baby-faced Im Changkyun under the stubble, this is just a set, this is just a drama, this is just a job. A job starring opposite the one person he swore he’d never work with again. Minhyuk probably pre-approved Kihyun for this role because he thought it was funny. God, Kihyun needs a new agent. He films two more scenes, Changkyunless, one of psychotherapy with a disturbed patient and one with Mr. Kim, then takes a smoke break with Kim Hyuna (who swears him to secrecy as to her little dependency, but doesn’t seem very interested in him beyond that). They shoot some more group scenes—at the morgue, at the NIS’s headquarters. Now Hyunsik is less hesitant to look directly at Yeonsan—he does so almost defiantly, like a challenge, and Yeonsan merely finds him amusing. Enter Chungha as Yoon Byeol, and Kihyun swallows his revulsion as he watches her and Changkyun clumsily flirting. But Byeol only wants to get close to Hyunsik so as to get closer to Yeonsan, and it’s sickening, the way Hyunsik—Changkyun, it’s more visibly Changkyun in this scene—starts to melt under her attention, so much more comfortable with her than he’d been with Yeonsan and yet so on-edge nevertheless. He’s so easily manipulated. Is this Kihyun thinking, or Yeonsan in Kihyun’s head? A little bit of both, Kihyun supposes, and that’s how the first day of filming concludes.
It’s going to be a long shoot, and they’re working nearly every day. This is Kihyun’s third starring role so he’s more familiar with what it’s like to be on such a punishing schedule, but Changkyun, previously relegated to ensemble or second lead, is always sleepy by the end of each respective filming day, assistants running to bring him coffee every hour. It would be funny if it weren’t so infuriating, the way Kihyun and Changkyun spring apart and get as physically far from each other as possible the instant the director calls cut. Kihyun is both gratified and annoyed that the antipathy goes both ways—what’s he done to earn Changkyun’s ire the way Changkyun earned his through mediocrity and insolence?—but mostly gratified, because it means he has to see him so much less, and even though they’ve now been filming for two weeks straight, Changkyun seems to have befriended absolutely no one. Even Park Chaeyoung, whom Kihyun had expected to be at the very least cordial with him, avoids him for the most part. Kihyun, meanwhile, supervises Chungha and Sunmi on lunch “dates” in the tvN cafeteria and speculates with them about the incomprehensible relationship between Hyuna and her two sidekicks. Which one is she dating? Both? It doesn’t seem out of the question. Kihyun and Sunmi are convinced it’s Hwitaek who has Hyuna’s heart, but Chungha swears up and down she saw Hyuna holding Hyojong’s hand the day before yesterday as they all walked onto the set. It’s a spirited discussion, and Kihyun is in the middle of a laugh, in the middle of accusing Chungha of lying, when the cafeteria doors slide open and in stumbles Changkyun, rumpled as ever, alone as ever. Kihyun’s smile is punctured and his lip curls but he doesn’t stop his sentence, just revises it, but Chungha notices the arrival and nods to Sunmi, who gestures for Changkyun to come over and join them.
“What?” Kihyun says, alarmed. “Why?”
“I feel bad, I’ve done all these scenes with him, and we’ve never even really talked like normal people,” Chungha explains.
Kihyun rolls his eyes as Changkyun, his face mostly enigmatic, shuffles his way over. “Believe me, he doesn’t have much to say,” he mutters.
“Oh, that’s right, you two know each other, I forgot,” Sunmi says, but before Kihyun can ask her if she saw Emperor of the Stars or correct her that they don’t know each other at all, Changkyun is there, sliding into the seat opposite Kihyun and tilting his head in a respectful bow to both of the women, and finally to Kihyun.
“Isn’t Chaeyoung-ssi with you?” Chungha asks brightly. “It’s so great to see her again, I met her last year at the KDAs and I wanted to work with her ever since, but we haven’t gotten the chance until now! Isn’t she the best?”
“She’s having some trouble with her extensions,” Changkyun says, less hesitant to make eye contact with Chungha than Hyunsik is with Byeol, but still obviously bashful. “I think they have to start them over completely.”
“Oh no, that’s the worst,” Chungha croons sympathetically, clearly manufacturing concern, which Kihyun respects. But he’s as confused by her question as he is by Changkyun’s answer—why would Changkyun be with Chaeyoung? Why does Changkyun know anything about women’s hair? It’s not like he and Chaeyoung are friends—they never hang out on set, and their scenes together so far have been flat and lifeless, even though she’s ostensibly supposed to be his longer-term romantic interest before Yeonsan takes over. So what gives?
“You guys are so cute,” Sunmi says but sounds utterly uninterested, and Changkyun, mouth full of fruit salad, raises his eyebrows at her, swallows, and says, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” and Sunmi and Chungha both just laugh.
And then Kihyun gets it, why Changkyun and Chaeyoung are never seen together, why they’re so stiff and polite even though they were rumored to be such good friends after Help! It’s Love! wrapped. Of course. He feels like a fucking idiot for not having seen it sooner when clearly everybody else knows. “Excuse me, I want to look over the script one more time before we resume,” he says and stands, taking his tray and bowing to Sunmi and Chungha, and he’s gone before they can even entreat him in vain to stay. As he walks away, he can hear them continuing to laugh, and although he knows there’s no reason for it to be at him, it sure as fuck feels like it.
But it’s fine. This is just a job. If Changkyun is dating someone on set, it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened in the history of the Korean drama industry. Yes, even for someone as universally unappealing as Changkyun. It doesn’t matter; it won’t affect Changkyun’s performance, or Kihyun’s. He wonders, distantly, why they’re choosing to keep their relationship a secret. Will it hurt her career? He wouldn’t be surprised if hiding it had been her idea. If it were him in that position, he wouldn’t want to be associated with Changkyun, either.
He goes home with a new batch of scripts. They’ve filmed through to episode 8; in the next script Kihyun cracks open, Yeonsan is about to confess to Kim Hyojong’s character that he’s a cannibal, then kill him. Afterwards, Yeonsan goes for a walk at night and just so happens to come across Hyunsik, insomnia-stricken and on the brink of a mental breakdown, and the two men walk together until the sun rises, not speaking much, and once it’s morning, Yeonsan takes Hyunsik back to Hyunsik’s own apartment and cooks him breakfast in his kitchen. No human meat in that omelet, thankfully—all his personal ingredients are at home. Kihyun’s appetite for non-vegetarian dishes has plummeted since the start of filming. It feels silly and a little bit pathetic to be queasy over the foods he has to eat on set, because he knows it’s not real human meat, but even still, the food stylist has done an admirable job. He makes himself a salad for dinner and curls up on the couch with episode 10, and an accidental flip to the end has him freezing when he sees a particular direction. In simple italics, underneath an impossibly large swath of dialogue, it says, Yeonsan kisses Hyunsik.
It’s not like Kihyun hadn’t known that was an inevitability. He just hadn’t expected it so soon. When will they film this episode? This week? Tomorrow? He feels as though he’s just missed a step on the stairs, or as though the water in the river is deeper than he’d expected when wading in, and now the current is pulling him and there’s nothing to grasp onto. He closes the script, then opens it again, just to see that it’s really real, and he sees that it is, then closes it again. Then opens it again, Yeonsan kisses Hyunsik, then closes it again. His doorbell rings but he ignores it—Yeonsan kisses Hyunsik. And what happens next? That’s the end of the episode. Freeze-frame. Credits, soundtrack. Does Hyunsik push him away? Does he freeze? Does he—God forbid—kiss back? Yeonsan kisses Hyunsik. The doorbell rings again, followed by a knock, and Kihyun mutters angrily under his breath, tosses his script down, and goes over in his slippers to open it, expecting a neighbor asking about a lost dog, and—
“Hannam-dong UN Village,” Changkyun half-hums, a very slightly crooked, uncertain smile on his face. “God damn.”
He’s holding a bottle of wine in one hand, a bundled stack of scripts under his other arm. Minhyuk must have given him the address. Some part of Kihyun had been wondering when Changkyun would confront him more personally, but a larger part of him knew that Changkyun is a pussy and would never initiate anything himself. Evidently, that part was wrong, because here he is, initiating a confrontation. “Who let you past the gates?” he asks, crossing his arms and not letting Changkyun in.
“The guard recognized me,” Changkyun replies. “I told him we were friends. Can I come in?”
It’s a tone that indicates he won’t take no for an answer. Unfamiliar, from him. Kihyun’s previously impassive face pulls into a frown. “Get inside before anyone else sees you,” he mutters, and steps back.
“Relax,” Changkyun says, going in. “We’re not that famous.”
“What do you want?” Kihyun asks sharply—Changkyun might not be that famous, but Kihyun is practically there, and the plural pronoun rankles him. He needs to show Changkyun that there is no we, that they live on different planets, that Changkyun is unwanted here. “I’m busy.”
“Have you read these yet?” Changkyun says, awkwardly dropping the scripts from his underarm into his hand. “Episode 10, specifically.”
Kihyun’s eyes flicker past the foyer into his living room, where the scripts are splayed out over the couch. “Yes. Why?”
“Me too, and—wait. You don’t have any thoughts about that episode? Nothing surprised you?”
“Of course not,” Kihyun says coolly. “Why would it? I knew what I was signing up for.”
Changkyun is looking at him with an expression not unlike disappointment. It’s been quite a while since Kihyun saw Changkyun without his prop glasses—his eyes are so much more expressive without them. It’s nearly a crime that Hyunsik never takes them off. “So did I,” he says, “but you know that’s not what I mean.”
“Why isn’t Chaeyoung with you?” Kihyun can’t help but snip. “You’d think she’d want to approve any sort of scene like this. Does she know? She’s not disgusted?”
“Chaeyoung and I are just friends,” Changkyun says.
“The same way we’re just friends?”
“We’re definitely not friends,” Changkyun says with that same small smile. He extends the bottle of wine to Kihyun. “Do you want this?”
“Not particularly,” Kihyun says and takes it anyway. Resistance is evidently futile, so he sighs and forces politeness, indicates that Changkyun may come through further, so Changkyun does, and Kihyun follows him to the living room and watches Changkyun ooh and ahh over his interior decoration, hears him say he likes this so much more than Kihyun’s old place. Kihyun finds a corkscrew and opens the wine, pours two glasses, brings them to Changkyun, who has made himself at home and is sitting on Kihyun’s couch and leafing through the scripts, although they’re ostensibly identical to his own. “Are you going to be staying long? I told you, I’m busy.”
“I thought we could run lines,” Changkyun says, looking up at Kihyun through his eyelashes. “I thought that we could practice.”
Kihyun’s lips go pinched, and he takes a sip of his wine. It’s not very good. “We don’t need to practice.”
“Exactly,” Changkyun says. He looks into his glass, gathers his thoughts, takes a sip to match Kihyun. “We don’t. But Yeonsan and Hyunsik have never kissed before. You know how to touch me. You need to learn how to not know.”
That knocks the wind right out of Kihyun, and he sinks down to sit on the couch, also looking into his wine so he doesn’t have to look at Changkyun. Why does this feel so fucking dramatic? Is it always like this, between actors? A fling—at absolute worst. Stress relief, the build-up and release of tension. A handful of easy fucks, no promises made, none broken. The show ended and so did everything else, because there wasn’t anything to maintain. They didn’t even exchange numbers. There were no hard feelings. No feelings of any sort, in fact. So why is this so meaningful? Kihyun can’t look at Changkyun, but Changkyun is looking at him.
“Chaeyoung and I really aren’t dating,” Changkyun adds, unnecessarily. “That’s a dumb rumor, I have no idea who started it. She’s with some guy from a random underground band, and we only spend so much time together so I can practice my English and because Chungha’s a bitch to her, apparently, and is making everyone else shun her.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Kihyun mutters, then glances up sharply and says, “I wouldn’t care if you were dating. I don’t care what you do.”
“Tell me, Kihyun,” Changkyun says. “What do you care about?”
If it’s supposed to be an impression of Kihyun as Yeonsan, it’s a very good one, and Kihyun understands why Changkyun-Hyunsik always goes so preternaturally still when Yeonsan gets close. “Getting my paycheck,” Kihyun replies, not taking the bait. “That’s what I care about. This is a job, to me. Isn’t it to you?”
“I don’t even know why you accepted this role,” Changkyun shrugs. “Minhyuk didn’t tell you it would be with me?”
“Of course not,” Kihyun mutters. “Had he told me, I would have said no right away.”
Changkyun is giving him a rather odd look. “Why would he keep it from you? He told me whom to expect.”
“No idea,” Kihyun says. “He probably thought it was funny, because he has no idea why we hate each other, he just knows that we do.”
There is another odd look, another odd silence. “He doesn’t know?”
“Well, I didn’t tell him,” Kihyun says. “Did you?”
Changkyun shakes his head. “Obviously that was—before he was my agent, and I didn’t really see an opportunity to mention it.”
“Because you regret it,” Kihyun provides, not unbitterly.
“I never make choices I’ll regret.”
“So that’s why you took the role?” Kihyun says. Whatever he’s feeling, it’s starting to turn into anger. “To force me into seeing you again.”
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t care that it was you at all? Like you said, it’s just a job, and I wanted to be more than the second lead for a change. I knew we’d see each other again someday,” Changkyun finishes with another smile. “We play the same type.”
Kihyun rolls his eyes and drinks his wine. “We do not.”
“No, maybe not anymore,” Changkyun concedes. “It’s been amazing watching your career grow, Kihyun.”
“As if you’re such a fan,” Kihyun scoffs.
“I am,” Changkyun says, not even joking. “I’ve seen all your dramas. Haven’t you seen all of mine?”
Yes. “No. Why would I subject myself to something like that?” Kihyun dismisses. But for as excellent of an actor as he is, he can’t always be as good of a liar. Changkyun sees through him, and completes his smile.
“Anyway. It’s not like I’m thrilled about this, either, but I saw it as a fun challenge, to fall in love with someone I don’t like, to really make the audience believe it,” Changkyun explains. “We both hurt each other. But it’s the kind of hurt that can be healed. Episode 10 is where it breaks.”
Is he talking about them, really them, or their characters? Kihyun is beginning to get a headache and he wishes he weren’t having this conversation. “You’re so noble, aren’t you,” he says archly. “Magnanimous Im Changkyun, taking a role out of pity, to show how big his heart is, that he can forgive a crime so terrible. You’ve come to extend an olive branch, to be the better person, to make me feel bad about myself for having no remorse for you—”
“I came because I wanted to talk to you alone,” Changkyun interrupts, soft and casual. “It wasn’t that big of a deal, Kihyun, what we had. You know it wasn’t. You act like it was, which I think is why you hate me, but I just don’t like you because you’re rude to me and to everyone else who isn’t as accomplished as you are, even though you know it was just luck that landed you that role in Goblin. Your hard work got you everything else, but that one was luck. So what makes you better than me? What makes you better than anyone? You know there’s nothing. We’re all replaceable. This role is our chance to become the one and only.”
The silence rings. Kihyun knows Changkyun is right and despises him for it. But Changkyun isn’t telling the full truth, and he must have practiced that little speech on his way over here, all of which makes him feel better. “You came because you wanted to fuck,” he says.
Shot in the dark, but it disarms him. Changkyun laughs, full-bodied, nearly spills his wine. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no,” he says, his eyes crinkled at the edges. “But it was just time to clear the air. We couldn’t kiss on that set, in front of everyone, with everything unspoken. And yes, I did know you’d never talk to me first—”
“Funny, because there I was, thinking you’d never talk to me first—”
“—and yet here I am, talking to you first,” Changkyun smiles. “Did I break your heart, Kihyun?”
It’s such a shocking, ridiculous accusation that Kihyun really does knock over his wine out of sheer outrage, and the next few minutes are a frantic hustle and bustle of bossing Changkyun around to go fetch more towels to soak up the spill. Luckily, the couch and carpet are both dark, but still. He feels like a prize idiot for ever having wasted even a second of his time on this simpleton, who came nowhere near enough to Kihyun’s heart to break it, who has such an overinflated sense of self-importance, who is laughing on his living room floor with towels that look like they’ve been soaked in blood. They were friends, once, before anything else happened. They could be friends again, maybe. Yeonsan kisses Hyunsik. Kihyun can’t get Yeonsan out of his head—he can’t stop looking at Changkyun. Yeonsan kisses Hyunsik. Yeonsan kisses Hyunsik. Kihyun kisses Changkyun, and it’s been a long time coming, but Changkyun kisses him back.
They’re not as young as they were. Changkyun doesn’t kiss like a boy anymore. His hands are on either side of Kihyun’s neck, thumbs before his ears, the way Hyunsik would kiss Yeonsan back, holding him like something closer than a lover. But that’s still the same small mouth, the same eager tongue, the same big nose getting in the way. He kisses like he’s been waiting for this for so, so long—Kihyun kisses like that, too. He’d forgotten how much he liked this. Changkyun. He’s palatable, like this. He makes Kihyun so hungry. “Now,” Changkyun says, struggling for breath after just seconds, “now do it like you’ve never done it before and you don’t know if you’ll ever get to do it again.”
Kihyun kisses him, the exact same way. Changkyun’s a good actor. He’ll know what it means.