Archive of Our Own ^beta

Without missing a beat, Seungyoun confesses: “I used to play baseball.” There’s something tinkling in his voice—pride. Sheer arrogance. “Fourth batter in my elementary school.”

It’s innocuous—the right amount of shameless bragging to be entertaining and not utterly obnoxious. After all, cameras are rolling (cameras are always rolling, even when the red lights are off) and they are in a competition. But it isn’t like Seungyoun is being calculative either; to play this game with more thoughts than necessary could exhaust him to the bones. Or worst. Seungyoun can’t afford worst. So he lets everything flow naturally—a mix of being himself and what he had apprehend through the years.

After all, cameras are rolling. And this is not Seungyoun’s first rodeo. 

The bat in his hands weights less than he remembers and, at the same time, is heavier. Maybe it’s due to the material or to his weariness. So he grips it; firm, decided—and maybe repeating some vices his trainers had scolded him about.

Putting on a show of swinging the bat, Seungyoun hits an imaginary ball of air in what could possibly become a homerun.

But, in context, in time and place, in this game, he just missed. By a wide margin.

His first thought is: ah, I fucked up.

Then, without missing a beat and turning deaf ears to his begging, Yohan blows the whistle and announces: “He blew out one candle!”

His second thought, when he’ll re-watch this scene later is: isn’t it a metaphor of my life?

Ball one.

Tired from the flight back to Korea but fresh by the quick shower, Seungyoun steps into the waiting room, completely excited. It might be his 48^th or 49^th audition by now, but he’s not deterred. His father told him they’ll go for pizza later as an incentive, or to congratulate him or maybe even cheer him up, but Seungyoun doesn’t really need it. He is excited. This is an audition for YG Entertainment, after all.

Honestly, this is not his first audition here. Just the second, way less times than he has tried for SM or even smaller companies. But Seungyoun has a predilection for YG —house of many of his favourite contemporary artists, producers of big famous names, a ticket to stardom— and he knows what they are looking for in a new trainee. All those many auditions had shaped in him an idea of what the industry standards are.

Seungyoun is going to meet them and surpass them. He’ll get into YG.

Even if he had been called back by Core Contents Media, he has to try again here. Go big or go home.

And Seungyoun ain’t going home tonight, but to a pizza parlour to celebrate.

The judges scrutinize him with disinterested eyes. They look at the life resume Seungyoun filled in earlier and raise a few eyebrows, but say nothing. Instead they ask him to do his best in next few minutes.

Seungyoun does nothing less than his best.

He dances and sings a few verses and even does a rap as flawlessly as he can, without losing his breath. By the end of his mini performance, the judges seems thoroughly impressed by it.

“He has good stamina,” one of the trainers says, sparks of interest in his eyes. “And a good dance line to begin with.”

“He also has an interesting vocal tone. We will have to work a ton in it, but it’s there.”

“I don’t know. I’m still not sure if he has… it.”

“I say yes,” other trainer says in a shushed tone. They all talk in shushed loud voices, as if they really didn’t care if Seungyoun is there or not. It doesn’t care, actually, because Seungyoun barely could have a word in it—if he were asked. Otherwise, it could make him look disrespectful and his mother would kill him. “Looks like he would fit. And personality wise…”

“If you want to judge personality, go to JYP.”

A light tremor shakes Seungyoun’s whole body. The atmosphere is dense, dipping into hostile, and Seungyoun has gone to many auditions to not know that when the judges are tired, unresponsive and have split judgments, the verdict will very likely be no. Rejected, please try again next time.

Next time will be next year, and Seungyoun doesn’t want to wait that long. He wants to succeed this time. He wants to go big.

“Excuse me, can I appeal for myself?” he speaks up. A bit recklessly, but still trying to be well-mannered. The trainers look slightly surprised, maybe expecting him to be a quite one, but not annoyed. One of them does an encouraging gesture to him. Go for it. “I’m a fast learner. I learn that choreography in less than an hour and I’m sure I can improve my rapping under your training. I’ve been in teams a lot, so I’m also good at teamwork.”

One of the judges snorts a small laugh as the other look at him hawk-like, before shifting his gaze to his resume.

“Good at teamwork, huh? Here it says you were a football player? In Brazil?” the trainer says, some threads of disbelief in his voice. Seungyoun can almost hear the question, the why did you drop a promising sport career to be an idol? He has heard it a few times already. “What position?”

“Main striker, sir.”

“Attack, I see.” The trainer nods like if something is suddenly clicking in him. “Well, here’s the thing, kid: in this career you have to be able to attack and defend. And it’s great you have teamwork skills, that’s highly valuable, but you’re about to join a race. And there you can’t depend on others, you could be all alone. Can you do that?”

Seungyoun’s breathe hitches, the words said and the ones yet unsaid slipping into his mind, pulling up the corners of his mouth. Maybe he hasn’t caught its full meaning, too stunned by his own enthusiasm.

“Yes, sir!”

“And if I told you to sing instead of rapping?”

“I’ll do my best at both!”

The trainers smirk and relax a little, placing his life resume in a distinct basket.

“You’re a gem, trainee Cho,” the trainer that judged his dancing speaks when Seungyoun is bowing to them, happy and thankful to the bones, “but rough. Quite possibly, a diamond. And we work with those. See you in Monday.”

After doing several bows more, Seungyoun steps out of the room, giddy expression and puffed out chest.

Monday comes and Seungyoun goes back to YG, belly full of left-over pizza and expectations. There, he is introduced to the trainers and practice rooms where he is going to spend his every free minute from school. To the other trainees he has to introduce himself on his own during the following days, in between pee breaks and coffee runs.

His mother thinks he’s too young to be drinking already the amount of coffee he does, but bubble tea doesn’t keep him as awake, and one of the older trainees advised him not to even sip a sugary energy drink ever again. Apparently, Seungyoun becomes a hyper kid, wild and untamed.

Seungyoun finds it quite easy to get along with the rest, even with those that are more quiet and serious, or the ones from other nationalities, struggling to speak in Korean.

“You won’t last long,” a trainee tells him one day, without real malice. Trainees don’t last long in general. A bunch of moths, several weeks. Very few of them had been training for over two years without dropping out or giving up the company for a smaller one. That’s why some people don’t bother learning names anymore. “You seem too cheeky. The happy go lucky kind of person. Those usually lack perfectionism.”

That wounds Seungyoun. Even if he laughs it off and assures he’s doing his best, the hurt of his efforts not being recognized as such, but downplayed to random luck runs deep under his skin. It also fuels him with determination—he could be, he’s going to be, a perfectionist.  He’s going to debut and be not just a celebrity, but a star. A big household name.

If the words came from a mix of fatigue and envy, Seungyoun will never be sure. The trainee starts skipping classes to finally stop coming altogether at some point during the following month. Years later Seungyoun will probably realize: he doesn’t remember the kid’s face anymore.

Nevertheless, right now, Seungyoun has made up his mind. Taking the last train home, giving up lazy weekends, cut down the minutes per break. Practice, practice, practice until debut is near. Then, practice some more.

Once he debuts, the happy go lucky kind of person tag would never accompany his name. His goal is to showcase what he’s really made of—blind determination and sheer talent.

Although, once in a blue moon, Seungyoun feels drained. The sensations in him are too much—his bones are made of concrete and his resolve, a thin trembling music sheet. He tries to hide it as much as a 14 years old boy can, yet must be betrayed by his own expressions when an older trainee comes closer, a water bottle in his hand and a sympathetic grin is his lips.

“What brought you here?”

“Music is one of my passions.”

The other boy snorts as if Seungyoun cracked a funny one. Then pats his shoulder as some sort of promise that he isn’t laughing at him.

The name is Kim Sungjoo and Seungyoun remembers it because he’s caring and a bit annoying, yet fun to be play with. But, especially, because he sings effortlessly in a way Seungyoun could only dream of. He’s definitely not the best down there, but there’s something truly charming when he opens his mouth to sing—not so much to speak.

“Look around. I can’t say some people here are passionate about it, but we all like music. But that’s not why we are here, right? You can like music, be passionate about music, and still be chilling in your room. You can even like it so much that you pursue it as a career, but still: there’s tens of schools with music degrees. So why did you audition here?”

Seungyoun purses his lips and looks around—the wooden floors, the crowded groups of trainees, the sound machines, the small YG logo.

Go big or go home.

Magazine spreads with his face, billboard posters, LCD screens, CF proposals, his name at the top of the searches. The biggest stage in the biggest stadium—Jamsil stadium, Tokyo Dome, all the streets across Asia. A big crowd cheering for him. Cho Seungyoun! Cho Seungyoun! Cho Seungyoun! In piercing screams, louder than the soundtracks.

He isn’t a stranger to those clamours. Back in Brazil, there was always a group of watchers cheering for his team every match. He wants that again, but tenfold.

He wants his name to be remembered, hot in everyone’s mouth and written down in Billboard and Rolling Stones’ lists.

“That’s your answer. Your dream. Keep it in mind.”

A bunch of new international trainees arrive one Monday morning. They look slightly tired, probably jet-lagged, and curious about their surroundings. Their presence is quite striking under the artificial white lights, not because they seem intimidating, but because there hasn’t been any talk or rumour spreading around in the company’s halls about new auditions. Nor about any successful street scouting.

Those boys are here, though, looking fairly lost. Seungyoun can’t help himself and goes to welcome them to YG and Korea, to their training routine. That’s when he and the other curious trainees discover that the recently arrived boys are Chinese and from Yuehua Entertainment, actually.

“They must have lost at least an hour. Isn’t Korea ahead of China?”

“Is Yuehua a subsidiary?”

“A staff said something about a training camp.”

“I wouldn’t like to lose time. Not even an hour.”

The murmurs are in crescendo, yet barely a few are directed towards the newcomers. They look disoriented—too many words they don’t get. It’s almost sad to see.

One of Seungyoun’s biggest strengths is his expertise to make other people feel comfortable. He doesn’t know how he does it; he just introduces himself with a smile on his lips and talks quirky nonsense until he sees the other part relaxing their shoulders. Then, he listens.

He’s been scratched as too friendly before and also been called a social butterfly many times. A trainer even alluded to him as the one ‘that bleeds charisma off-stage but still has to work on the on-stage one’. The one that could do well on variety shows.

Whenever he’s praised for it, Seungyoun wants to boast and to deny it at the same time.  He wants to confide his secret: he firmly believes it was a mechanism of self-adaptation, born from his own uneasiness abroad. From his need to make others feel good so he can feel good; his need to fit in, to be liked, to be adored by everyone. At some point, it must have stuck to him and became part of his personality.

So when a staff member hastily asks for someone to quickly show the newcomers around, Seungyoun raises his hand.

Mutual understanding will be hard, but he's always loved charades. 

The Chinese trainee with bunny teeth that goes by the name of Li Wenhan is pretty good at charades, once he is past the initial shyness. On the other hand, Zhou Yixuan is awful at it, but he tries. He’ll improve at it and at Korean, he promises. They all have found a common ground in broken English, but it isn’t until Kim Sungjoo lets them know that he actually speaks some Chinese that their conversation flows easier.

Seungyoun learns that they were sent here to train under the hard yet efficient Korean system, in order to debut in a few years in the growing and fervent C-pop market. They’ve seen the success of K-pop, so they aim to achieve a similar amount.

Even if he doesn’t know a lot about business nor markets, Seungyoun gets it—just as he was sent to study and train football to Brazil, to one of best countries in the world in that sport, these three guys were sent here, to Korea, to the hub of the fast-expanding Asian music market.

A weird wave of nationalism invades Seungyoun.

The third kid is the one that catches Seungyoun’s attention. He has barely tried to speak and his expressions are nearly blank, not really interested in communicating, but there’s something in him that catches the eye. The milky skin, the beautiful face like a carved marble statue, the round shiny eyes, the mysterious aura, the fluidity of his movements when he dances.

“Yuehua clearly know their stuff. They’ve sent true gems,” a staff member mutters “That Wang kid. A diamond, don’t you think?”

Dazzling. Enthralling. Wang Yibo is captivating. And Seungyoun has to force himself to cast his gaze away before it gets weird.

“Real recognizes real,” is the first thing Wang Yibo tells him. “Introduce yourself again?”

Seungyoun stares at him, mouth agape and eyebrows furrowed. Is quite possible that a muttered what escapes his mouth.

A faint yet noticeable rosy ascends in Wang Yibo’s cheeks, highlighting their rounder shape, as he throws a glance at Sungjoo and mumbles a gege followed by a few sentences more.  Seungyoun is astonished— he’s pretty sure that the other is younger than him, yet is already the owner of a deep, chocolate voice whenever Chinese rolls down his tongue smoothly.  But whenever he speaks in broken Korean, whenever he repeats phrases he has read in books or translated with his phone, his voice is cute.

Sungjoo looks like he’s having both: a hard time trying to translate Yibo’s words and the time of his life. “As a dancer, he thinks you’re good too. And he asks your name.”

Tempted to say something along the lines of I’m nowhere near your level, Seungyoun parts his lips and ends up smiling. Brightly.

During the long hours of training together, between the mirrored walls and small water breaks, they steadily nurture their friendship. There’s harmless taunting, lots of charades, dumb jokes and words of encouragement in different languages—there’s Cho Seungyoun and Wang Yibo, remaining a day more. Enduring. Competition is fierce and many trainees come and go every month, every week; weakened dreams and burnt out hopes.

Wang Yibo, Seungyoun discovers, dreams as fiercely as him. While he might not be here for the overwhelming love of fans, he does want the attention. He thrives on the idea of every single pair of eyes placed on him, following his every move in awe.

He doesn’t say it, though.  “Out of all my hobbies, dancing is the one that I need no money for and that could pay best.” Yibo stumbles in his Korean and scrambles the words from time to time, but the idea is there. And he isn’t stuttering.

In fact, Yibo ends up taking rapping classes with him. Determined, he refines the way he pronounces the words, measures the speed of his enunciation and plays with the tones with a cheeky grin. He also becomes chattier around the other trainees, but especially Seungyoun—his go-to person to speak with in Korean. The way Yibo’s eyes gleam when he’s completely understood, brighter than the summer sun, makes Seungyoun’s heart clench.

It’s in the heart of summer, actually, that Yibo announces his birthday is near.

“You’re a Leo? Now I get why you demand so much attention,” a Korean American trainee sneers. “But at least you hide it well behind that pretty blank face of yours, unlike others.”

“You believe in that zodiac shit?”

“Aren’t we in the career of attention-seeking? I think Yibo’s fine,” Seungyoun retaliates, overlooking the jab at his persona. “At least his name will be remembered as the one of a talented, gentle guy.”

Then Seungyoun grabs his wallet as he turns to Yibo, “I’m a Leo too! Here, look. My birthday is next week.”

Yibo studies the ID in the clear pocket and, soon after, he scrambles to this bag to take out his own ID. There’s a mix of incredulity and excitement in Yibo’s face that Seungyoun honestly doesn’t get at first, disoriented at suddenly seeing an ID written in hanja character.

“We were born on the same day?! But you a year after!”

“Celebrate together,” Yibo says. And invitation and a final statement.

Later, when the skies are pitch dark and the city gowns in colourful shiny lights, Seungyoun buys Yibo an iced drink and some painkillers. The night is hot and humid, an inferno on earth, and the tiny discomfort in their knees has grown into throbbing pain. For a few seconds, Yibo acts like a child and refuses to take the pills, but he is barely older than a child with tired muscles and over demanded knees so he smash them and mix them in the iced mocha.

He doesn’t say thanks, yet he mumbles a “Seungyoun-ah, you’ll be remembered too.” A final statement, again. Greater words in his ears than plain gratitude.

Seungyoun smiles and slings an arm around his shoulders. Their skins are sweaty and sticky, and it isn’t the best posture to stroll down the streets of Mapo-gu, but he doesn’t let go.

“We are both Leo, Yibo-yah. Lions. Kings of the jungle. We are going to rule the Asian music market,” Seungyoun babblers and points up, to the skyscrapers and the few visible clouds. “We’re going to be on the top; so high up that people will have to crack their necks to see us. You in China and me in Korea.”

As he says that, a lump forms in his throat. Yibo clings closer to him and gently pats the hand placed in his shoulder.

Soon after the beginning of the new school year, Seungyoun’s father takes him to his favourite pizza parlour and later to an old record store. Seungyoun knows he still hasn’t got a good grip of himself since the divorce, even if his parents broke up on good terms and still contact each other in subjects related to their son or, peculiarly, to their families’ recipes.

“It’s just that between my job and my trips to Phillipines, and the school and the training, I feel like I don’t see you enough,” his father says as they walk into the store. Suddenly, a smooth melody receives them, immersing them inside a sea of old vinyl albums and nostalgia, strikingly different from the frenzy Seoul streets. “Ah, I think I’m getting old. It’s getting harder and harder to manage my desires as a father and my responsibilities as a father too.”

Letting out a low snort, Seungyoun grabs an Ella Fitzgerald album and studies it. “What are you talking about?”

“I want the best for you, Youn-ah. I want you to succeed in everything you want and I want you to grow up to be a fine man. And I also want you not to get hurt by anything, but that’s just coddling. I think… I’m just mad I can’t be at every step of the way with you,” his father replies, a bitter smile on his face. “But that’s what music is for!”

The Ella Fitzgerald album is placed in Seungyoun’s room later. A mere fancy ornament because he doesn’t have a disc player, but Seungyoun cherishes it the same or even more. Today he has learnt that his father used to hate trot because his mother played it every single day, but now he kind of misses it. That he has been listening to some hip hop songs and whatever group his son rambles about, especially the days he hasn’t listened to his voice over the phone. And that he loves jazz.

His father looked unable to contain his smile the moment Seungyoun took the album in his hands.

In the midst of his hectic routine, Seungyoun realizes he misses him too.

The day a member from management ushers Seungyoun and Sungjoo aside and tells them they’ve been selected to be in Team C, Seungyoun’s whole body starts to shake and the grin grows wild in his lips. People in the halls have been talking lately about this, about the imminent debut of a new boygroup—it’s been years since Big Bang’s debut, so the company needs their rightful follower. And a big, famous company as YG wouldn’t do it without a bit of flamboyance and a flair showcase.

“You have been selected to be in it, alongside the Yuehua trainees.”

“Are we set to debut?” Seungyoun asks eager. Lately the rumour mill has gone into overdrive with hushed statements of a new reality show—a competition where the trainees could share their hardships, skills and passion. Almost like their everyday, but with cameras rolling.

And to be a chosen trainee would mean that reaching their dreams were about to be felt, in flesh and bones.

“You are going to train to your possible debut as a team. We’ve seen your potential as one.”

Sungjoo nods, confident. Then he bites his lower lip and asks the million-dollar question: “But aren’t we from different companies?”

The staff clinks his tongue, hastily. “There’s a co-alliance YG-Yuehua. Are you guys in or not?”

It doesn’t feel like there’s a threat underneath those words, not even a we have more kids in line desperate for this chance. At least not for Seungyoun. His heart starts to beat faster and his pupils widen, and he has to restrain himself from whistling and dancing and making blaring sounds.

To be a step closer to reach his dream and to do it with Yibo?

Things can’t get better.

Next week, they all move together into one small dorm that they barely use. Two shared rooms and Seungyoun got the small stick, so he has to sleep with Yixuan and Yibo—but it doesn’t feel like the small stick, because one is too calm and patient, and the other clings to him in his sleep. It’s a reverie; cotton tousled sheets, sleep clouded eyes and warm arms around his torso.

Not that he can bask in it too much.

Every awake hour they’re not at school, they are training. They spend hours, days, months in practice rooms. Sometimes they eat convenience store kimbap, sometimes it’s Chinese take-out that Wenhan always says doesn’t taste Chinese enough for some reason, and sometimes they fall asleep on the hard-wooden floors. All squeezed together in the small space of the practice room.

At some point, Sungjoo shares his early fears. All of them not getting along, not being able to communicate with each other well, or worst: just being in dissonance.

“But look at us now! We are on our way to be a perfectly oiled machine,” he hoots, accompanying it with a few claps. “Seungyoun and Yibo even seem like they came in tandem.”

Yibo furrows his eyebrows, probably confused. Sungjoo usually tries to translate or to explain, but occasionally is the one fumbling their minds.

“We are,” Seungyoun mutters. A heart wish. Then, a bit louder, he adds: “We are the maknae-line to you, old folks.”

“And the Leos.”  

Seungyoun’s smile lasts the whole spring, unwavering.

As the freezing wintery cold reels in, the mirrored walls fog up with the body heat they release during practice. They have to wipe it again and again to be able to see their own dancing reflections, but they do it restlessly. As restlessly as they daydream.

Winter draws into summer; as the reality show begins, it ends in bitter disappointment for Team C. They are not going to be in it. Cameras are placed in almost every practice room except theirs and, as the pressure for a good show sinks in in the crew, the frenzy rush of backstage becomes vivid and dispiriting.

“Both companies have other plans for you,” is all they get from management. “Better ones.”

So they keep training; they feel stuck in it. In this never-ending routine of waking up, have some breakfast, go to the practice room, practice, practice, practice, water break, practice again, shower, eat dinner, go back to sleep. If lassitude hasn’t widespread like fire yet or their wills haven’t started to notch, was only due to their playful and obsessive natures.

Sungjoo mimics a beatboxer one day and the whole team ends up learning beatboxing until perfection. Wenhan and Seungyoun test Sungjoo’s language proficiency and they all end up trying to only speak in the language that isn’t their native. Yibo does impromptu freestyle and they all have to follow. Yixuan orders a group hug and they all complain as they throw on top of each other, building a giggling puppy pile.

They persevere like this for over a year—improving their skills, improving their teamwork, improving their persistence. Becoming knit-tight friends. It’s only in the rare occasions when they are not together; when Seungyoun goes to visit his mother, when Yibo has group projects in school he has to work in, when Wenhan goes back to Hangzhou for Chuseok, when Yixuan and Sungjoo go out for a drink.

They persevere and grow for over a year. And they aren’t the only ones. Seungyoun’s other friends follow similar paths and try on their own ends. Some of them even reach some success. Hyunggu got accepted in Cube Ent., Jimin won a singing competition and now co-host a show, Yugyeom had his awaited explosive debut in GOT7.

They persevere and grow and, finally, are told their debut date.

This time Seungyoun doesn’t restrain himself. He celebrates at the top of his lungs, as the whole Team C becomes, once again, a puppy pile.

“You are going to debut under Yuehua Entertainment,” is all they hear from an instructor. “Management is working on the details, but apparently you’ll have two showcases. So practice, you rascals!”

And they do. They practice as if they hadn’t spent the last years doing it. They monitor themselves and they buy painkillers and they start again. When they are finally going to bed, Seungyoun notices Yibo’s dark bags under his round, drowsy eyes. This is good, this must mean they are doing things right. He kisses Yibo’s eyelids and whispers a good night, see you tomorrow. And this feels good, feels extremely nice, feels like bliss.

This feeling in his body must be bliss.

Now the rumours in the halls of YG are about them. Seungyoun shouldn’t brag, shouldn’t even mention anything yet, but he’s already receiving these looks from other trainees, of envy and awe, and has to bite his own lip not to smile.

“They say he’s a gem.”

“His team will hit it big for sure.”

“He won Show Me The Money as a trainee? What a fucking diamond.”

Next Monday morning, Management finally calls them to a meeting room. A bunch of papers on the table, a pen in front of every available seat. Seungyoun expected something more thrilling than a short Powerpoint and sparkling water, but he often forgets that his dreams are only business for other people.

Management talks and talks—congratulations and details about the next boygroup’s concept they are about to debut. Two countries, two showcases, two times the chance to succeed. Expectation is big, brands are interested in new endorsers and potential fans are snooping around, producing an enormous cloud of hype around this new group. It’ll be them, if they sign.

“Yuehua will be in charge of managing this new group. It isn’t that easy to break through the Chinese market, but we have years of experience. So, a group from Yuehua will be well received. Greatly received!” The man speaking had introduced himself as the CEO of the Korean branch of Yuehua, but he doesn’t speak like one. He doesn’t speak like a friend either. But something in his voice makes him sound trustworthy, like someone who would fight teeth and nails for his belief. For his own dream. “For that, we need gems like you all to become Yuehua artists.”

The pen in Seungyoun’s hand weights as much as a feather, or maybe is his giddiness.

As he slouches down to ink his name and future in the paper, a fleeting thought appears in his mind: if he is a gem, why is he being sold?

But then: “You all have been carefully selected by your unique skills and personalities. After you sign, you will no longer be Team C. You will be UNIQ.”

Seungyoun gasps.

Not longer a trainee, but an artist.

Once, Yugyeom told him that debut rush is an actual thing. All the things you learned through years of hard training are put to test; in less than a month, you must apprehend one or more choreographies to perfection, learn to heart the lyrics of a bunch of songs and absorb the concept the company throws at you. Everything in order to be capable of performing even in your sleep—how it happens half of the time. And everything in between endless photoshoots and the music video recording.

Yugyeom had a smirk in his face the whole time he was speaking, so Seungyoun guesses he did enjoy it. He reached a goal, a dream, after all.

But now he wonders if they even have time to enjoy it. Everything happens at lightning speed, so sudden and overwhelming.

Simultaneous debuts are even worse, maybe. One moment he’s performing in his first M Countdown, his first broadcast ever, and the next he’s trying to recite his Chinese rap without messing up the tones for a crowd of thousand people.

One moment all he sees is the stage bright lights and the next, is his mom doing a heart sign, congratulating him. One moment he is spitting verses and dancing his life away and doing funny jokes and cute faces. Next moment he’s barely holding back his tears.

Then the crowds erupt in cheers, screaming their names and reacting to their every move. Spending more than time on them. On UNIQ.

He’s giving his best and he receives the best in return.

Seungyoun confirms his theory: he lives for the applause.

For their debut, they’d not only moved companies, but also countries and dorms. Their Beijing dorm is big and spacious, a living room plus a room for each member, yet Yibo refused to let go of his arm.

“I can’t sleep alone,” he said nonchalant, like he was talking about the weather. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

Without putting up a fight at all, Seungyoun let Yibo unpack his baggage in his bedroom and pull their beds together. They talked about building a fort, yet snuggling in their blanket is more comfortable and safer. Yixuan makes sure that no one bothers them when they use the few hours they have for resting and Seungyoun likes to fake sleep while Yibo mutters that he needs to hug something, anything, to fall asleep.

Seungyoun adores being hugged by Yibo and fake sleeping is the best excuse, even if he has to stay still for that. It’s a monumental feat, but he succeeds at it every single time.

“I read some comments on weibo today, Seungyoun-ah,” he mutters against his shoulder, warm minty breath and deeper voice than usual. “They like you. They think your Chinese is cute.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m a gem. A diamond, possibly.”

“What does di-…that mean?”

Trying to come up with a good explanation, Seungyoun downs his gaze to Yibo. He looks good. Tired, yes, but also ethereal and unapproachable. All those MCs are right—Yibo is prettier than any men, prettier than most women, even prettier than flowers. He’s a pure kid and a fierce performer at the same time. Capable of denting confidences and wills with just a gaze, gifted at stealing sighs and hearts with just a smile.

Yibo does anything he wants almost flawlessly. He’s cool and chic, though absolutely adorable. Irresistible. It reminds Seungyoun of when he looked diamonds up in naver.

A white peony and a diamond at the same time. Yibo is way too much already and it’s a wonder what else could he become in the future.

Seungyoun isn’t sure why, but his heart starts beating fast. Especially when he realizes he can’t pull his gaze apart from the milky skin and rosy fine lips.

“I will tell you another day,” he answers, barely, despite his dry mouth. “Sleep well, Yibo-yah.”

Wenhan loves to watch NBA matches and play basketball, even if his height doesn’t help him a lot. It’s his way to unwind and loosen up his temper. Swimming still is his favourite sport, but it’s both a source of relax and stress. Seungyoun would tease him about it if football wasn’t the same for him. Maybe he’ll still do it, just for the sake of being annoying and keeping their harmless banter alive.

But when Wenhan asks him at 3 a.m. to play a 1v1, Seungyouns keeps his mouth shut and follows him.

They don’t find any basketball courts open near their dorm, though, so they have to settle with a 24hs batting cage.

“I’ve never been actually good at it,” Seungyoun confesses. “Why don’t you bat, ge? I’m short-sighted and the ball is too fast and too small.”

“Because it’ll probably stress me too. Not knowing when the ball comes or how fast. Or in which direction,” Wenhan replies as he passes Seungyoun the helmet. “It’ll make me want to scream and I can’t risk my honey voice right now.”

Seungyoun clicks his tongue. That’s a dumb excuse, but a quite honest one too. He thinks he gets what’s going on in Wenhan’s head. Music is like swimming to him—both a source of happiness and stress. Not a hobby anymore, but a profitable career. And it’s taking its toll on Wenhan.

Probably, if it weren’t his passion too, Seungyoun would go through the same. Perhaps, one day he will. He doubts it, honestly.

Meanwhile, he reaches for the bat and bends his body in an over-exaggerated posture that has Wenhan snorting. It’s a welcomed sound after all that stress talk. So Seungyoun goes further with it, playful and annoying.

“Korea’s best player it’s here, ladies and gentlemen,” he prattles loudly, barely having a general idea of what he’s saying. “Cho Seungyoun’s up there, finally! Get ready for a once in a lifetime game. Cho swings… And he hits! The ball is high! Far, far, far! Aaaaand it is outta here! It’s a Homerun, baby!“

“Dumb,” Wenhan deadpans. Right at that moment, the first ball is shot and passes right by Seungyoun, hitting the net behind him at lighting speed. Wenhan’s expression changes into one of absolute excitement. “Go, go, go! Hit, Youn-ah!”

Seungyoun misses every single ball and does a fool of himself. At least, Wenhan looks more humoured as they walk back to their dorm.

In between camera flashes and the airport shopping area, Seungyoun muddles within himself. Restless waiting has always been the worst—loneliness, boredom and anxiousness come afloat. And Seungyoun has always fought those three. He tries to kill time until his flight departs looking for stuff on the internet. Airports’ WiFi signals are never good enough to watch videos and this one even lags his music streaming apps, so he opens naver instead.

He starts by searching about diamonds—their price, their value, their characteristics, their rarity—and somehow ends up reading comments about himself. His name appears in many sites and in languages that he can’t even recognize, followed by many red hearts and memes, or just a picture of him.

And the comments he does understand, warm his heart. Help him fight this kind of situation, this moment between places, both held in time and extremely long.

Fans say Seungyoun sparks an incessant joie de vivre, and for a moment he thinks if that’s his position in the group too. Moodmaker. Uplift everyone’s moods and morale. Humour people.

Seungyoun agrees with them. It is an aspect of his personality. A virtue.

He could stick to it. Enhance it. Make it his trademark. Make people in need of entertainment, in need of happiness, turn to him, look for him, go to him. Become their shelter and sanctuary.

It’s his golden chance, his diamond ticket.

Sometimes, he wonders if skyrocketing fame isn’t the real diamond. So many people desire it, but it is so, so expensive. So rare. Hard to get. Elusive. Not meant for everyone.

Seungyoun is going to get a good grip of it, though.

“Feels like I never see you anymore,” Nathan jokes over the phone one day. It’s the same thing his mother tells every single chance she has.

You have become unreachable, Seungyoun-ah. I’m happy for you, but spare this old lady some time. Even if I’m not as beautiful as your group members or young as your hordes of fans. There’s absolutely no doubt who he got from his flair for drama.

“That’s because you’re not in China,” Seungyoun replies, tone playful despite his child-like boasting.

“Good thing I’m not in China. I’d get sick of your ugly face.”

Seungyoun snorts. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, man. I promise I’ll bring you a souvenir next time. I think I’ve seen a few mugs with our faces in Qianmen Main Street.”

There’s a retching sound at the other side of the line. “Don’t ever come back, please.”

“Good thing I’m not in China. I’d get sick of your ugly face.”

As Seungyoun starts to cackle loudly, his manager makes a gesture through the rear-view mirror towards them. For a moment, he ponders if it’s to shush him, but then he recognizes his surroundings—Beijing streets are weird, all so similar and so different at the same time, easy to get lost in, but TV station buildings all share some distinct characteristics around the world.

Time to wake up his group members from their forty minutes power nap. It’s a bit of a shame. He would love to chat more with his friend. Likewise, he would love to leave them rest more. They need it.

And Yibo looks cute when he’s fast asleep.

“Oh, hey, I have to go. Did you want something?”

“Besides of talking to my friend?” Nathan replies, voice almost impassive. Too impassive to be real. “Yeah. I’m setting up a studio!”

“Oh, that’s cool! Congrats, man!” Seungyoun nearly shouts, waking Yixuan up in the process. Another smile breaks through his face, filled to the brim with genuine happiness. A music studio is all Nathan has ever talked about during the last year. “Let me know if I can help you with anything!”

“Free guides would be nice.”

Even if he is aware that his interlocutor can’t see him, Seungyoun nods immediately. That is a given for him. As soon as he goes back to Korea, his first stop after catching up with his mother, will be Nathan’s new shiny studio with the old black gamer chair he bought in a second-hand store.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll talk to my manager so he’ll schedule a studio session in… May?”

Nathan snorts. “That works for me. In the meantime, I think I’ll use this guy I talked to you about the other day. Chwe Hansol? The Pledis trainee.” Seungyoun gives him a non-committal hum as he vaguely remembers their last conversation. At least, Nathan is more gentle than Jimin, who sent him an answer my texts, you shit!!! Five minutes after her last message. “Send me your free timeslots, successful boy.”

The thing is: they get successful. Extremely, even.

They go to varieties shows all the time, they have their own reality show on iQiyi, they get CF deals and movies songs and even act in billion yuan blockbusters. But all in China. Seungyoun has to study Chinese harder and be creative to not fall out of camera, to not lose screen time, to not be neglected. It’s not hard for him—he’s certainly funny, he’s had interesting experiences in his short life, and overall: he’s natural. Just a bit more enthusiastic, maybe.

It feels like Seungyoun batted and it was a good hit.

And when EOEO comes, their popularity in China explodes, followed by a repercussion in Korea. People are talking in pann and twitter, their goods are selling well and their dance practice has nearly a million views already. Furthermore, they get their first win trophy on Korean soil.

Their first win.

Seungyoun feels like it has been a freaking fantastic hit, and as the defenders are running through the stadium, trying to catch a fast and elusive ball, he’s running to first base, second base and maybe even third.

He’s running all the way home.

Strike one.

Home, he learns in the tough way, is farther than the 591.71 air miles that separate Seoul from Beijing.

Sitting by the riverside, he sees groups of people, large groups of teens especially, passing by, barely sparing a glance to him. It could mean nothing, just people busy with their own lives, their own dreams, but to Seungyoun is a small blow. Quite hurtful, though.

It’s like salt on top of a deep wound.

As the repetitive comments of nugu rookie and just an idol rapper cloud his mind, he opens a can of beer. No one is watching him, no one is taking pictures, no one is even asking themselves if he’s old enough to drink. Not even one store has played their song in months—and why would they? UNIQ hasn’t had a comeback in months.

It’s just him and an intrusive storm that has been darkening the last few spring days.

Just a nugu rookie idol rapper. Tsk.

He drinks a sip of beer. He hasn’t been in his right mindset this whole time. Yes, he wants to be known, but because of his talent. As an artist.

For some time, Seungyoun hits the studio daily. He spends a few hours at Nathan’s studio, now renamed as M.O.L.A’s studio. Making Our Lives Awesome. What a name, Seungyoun thought when Jimin proposed it. A wish, a resolution. Something to live by.

He likes names like that—meaningful.

M.O.L.A is fun. Is the side of music he enjoys thoroughly—chilling with friends and trying new beats, no hard pressures, no concept to stick to. Nathan is a great composer for his age, so Seungyoun finds it interesting and easy to learn from him. Jimin is, well, Jimin—a great singer and an annoying friend. Sometimes Hansol swings by, when he’s not busy being Vernon from monster rookie group SEVENTEEN, as well as Hyunggu, who is lately always nervous because he’s going to be Kino from Cube’s new boygroup.

That’s when he is not with the rest of the UNIQ members, be it at the practice room or filming new content to show to the fans. Yet, lately, Wenhan swims more than he plays basketball and Yixuan goes out with Sungjoo a lot. Yibo, on the other hand, is biting his inner lip.

“They want me to co-host TianTianXianShang,” he tells Seungyoun in a hushed tone, confusion and nervousness laced to it. It must still be a secret. As if Yibo and Seungyoun could keep anything from the other—except Seungyoun’s ranging heartbeat at the sight of the other’s swelling lip.

“Waah, really? That’s amazing! Congratulations!”

“I don’t know why, though.”

Seungyoun does. He’s been on the show as a guest before, as the foreigner that did his best there but had to call it by their translated English name—Day Day Up—, so he can see why Yibo fits perfectly the concept. He’s young, serious, inherently interesting and funny, talented and already a gentleman with great manners. And, on top of all, extremely pretty. Any PD would love to have him in their show.

“Because our Babyibo is so cute,” he teases him and pinches his puffy cheeks. As always, Yibo complains loudly and tries to bat his hands away. Seungyoun giggles and pinches harder for a second more, then caresses the reddish cheeks. “They’ve seen how capable you are, that’s why.”

In the spurt of the moment, Seungyoun pecks his cheeks. They are soft and smooth, and Seungyoun just wants to do it again and again and again. To sooth the pain, he reasons. Be it Yibo’s physical pain or Seungyoun’s heartache, he doesn’t ponder on it.

Meanwhile, Yibo does his best to look annoyed, yet he fails miserably. His cheeks are even redder now and he looks adorable.

“I have a camera test next week,” Yibo tells him later in another murmur. This time it doesn’t feel like a confession.

Seungyoun smiles at him, reassuring and confident. “You’ll do great.”

And that’s how Yibo starts coming and going to Hunan; coming and going from Seungyoun’s life. Each time for longer periods. It’s common in their careers, he reminds himself. Any chance is a good chance to promote, to catch the public’s attention, to grow as entertainers.

And that’s how Seungyoun starts to hole up in one of Yuehua’s small studios.

It’s like he develops a new routine. A routine with no clear goal, where nothing is due and there’s no more pressure than the one he puts onto himself. It’s exhausting. His neck and back hurt even more than when he’s dancing and he actually has to resort to dancing to stretch. His body gets tired and his mind gets loud.

Isn’t it ironic that he experiments lethargy for the first time, combusted by inertia?

“When will you leave this cave?” Sungjoo asks one day right after he barged in into the studio, without knocking. “And turn some lights on, for God’s sake. You’ll end up even more short-sighted, Youn-ah.”

“I have to finish this project today, hyung.”

“Why?”

Kim Sungjoo and his annoying questions.

Seungyoun sighs. He doesn’t want to tell him. He doesn’t want to even mention it out loud for himself. So he diverts the attention, changes as subtle as he can the subject towards Sungjoo’s favorite one: himself. Sungjoo carries a script in his hands, the title in it depicting it’s a romantic love story, and his hyung is more than happy to chatter about it and about all the details of the casting he is going to do in a few days.

But Seungyoun should know better by now. Sungjoo is a specialist in turning every conversation into one about him, but then to circle it back.

“You should try to do an audition too, Youn-ah. You would ace the comic-relief type of character.”

“Nah, we both know I would suck. I’ll stick to music.”

Curiosity is a good trait, but it gets exasperating when it becomes invasive; when Sungjoo repeats his short question and obligates Seungyoun to be honest with himself.

“It’s my passion,” he answers instead. Technically, not a lie. “I want to show people how I’ve grown as an artist.”

One track mind, one track heart—Sungjoo mutters something along those lines as he shakes his head. It’s not an insult and Seungyoun doesn’t take it as one. Deep down, he agrees.

Instead, he opens the folder with all his WIPs and jokes: “I have many tracks in my head.” That doesn’t earn him a snort as he expected, but a frown.

“Be careful, Seungyounie. Passions are like candles. If you ignite them too much, they burn out. Maybe try to turn another type of light on.”

The following days and especially the following nights, Seungyoun finds himself pondering on Sungjoo’s words. One moment he’s trying to find out what is inherently wrong with his melody, what is lacking, what could be enhanced, and the next, he’s just staring blankly at the screen. Thinking.

Honestly, it’s hard for Seungyoun to understand. Even if he tries to think it through, to be cool and calculative, he’s made of passion. Maybe that’s why he also finds himself in the eye of a storm he himself produces. A tourbillon of emotions he attempts to halt, to thaw—with poor results.

The problem is: he doesn’t think things through and then he overthinks.

The real problem is: he shrinks in front of the enormity of his own mind.

Lately, his mother has been dropping commentaries about the perks of following his studies and Seungyoun always takes her words into consideration. College is a different kind of strictness, so it might be a nice opportunity to learn to handle himself. After all, training has given him a good grip of his body, maybe college will do the same with his mind. Thus he signs up for his first semester in Dong-ah Institute of Media and Arts, in the Broadcasting and Entertainment major.

And then, he signs up for Show Me The Money 5.

His manager looks at him with a small wrinkle between his eyes as another staff member asks him if he’s sure. Besides Yibo, they are the only people he has told about it yet. And it’s only because they are in charge of his schedule. To the other members and friends he’ll tell later.

“Yeah, it’s a good chance to show my talent. To prove I’m not just an idol rapper. That I’m an artist,” he answers, confident. Then, to convince them further, he adds: “And it’s good free promo.”

Truth is: Seungyoun wants people not to stop him. He might not be able to get back on track.

And lately, that’s his biggest fear.

What a big media attracting competition show actually proves Seungyoun is that his talent isn’t enough. He is still lacking, he still has so much to improve. Is not like he wasn’t aware of that or that there would be better competitors, big underground names even, but his confidence wasn’t pending on a thread—unlike now. He’s been called a so-so rapper, and then forgettable, and he accepts it all with a gloomy smile.

He wants to cry sometimes. He also still wants to stand straight.

“Some rappers don’t like those idol rappers,” a judge mentions, viciously. “Say something to them.”

“Fighting.”

Pompousness and arrogance are part of the idol game, too, so he’s fine with them.

Yet his competitors are rude and some of them even cruel. He gets it. This is a rap competition and these people want to show they are the living embodiment of hip-hop. Dissing is part of the culture, he reminds himself, but not necessarily the norm.

“Try to tone your annoying voice down,” one person says. “You won’t last long here.”

“What is worse than a pretty boy? A fucking lucky pretty boy.”

That feels like a throwback to his trainee days, just a lot more spiteful. And if Seungyoun could endure those days of never-ending training and tired muscles, he can endure a show. If he can’t demonstrate his talent and skills, at least his eagerness to improve will be on screen.

A natural hard-worker, he’s been called once. A crazy weird kid, he’s been called in lots of occasions. They aren’t unrelated.

“I’d like to compete 1v1 with Flowsik,” he announces, shocking everyone.

At the end, he’s out of competition. He barely lasted a few episodes. It’s a foregone conclusion when you go against everyone’s favorite. Nevertheless, Seungyoun gets praised by the same things he was insulted before: the timbre of his voice, his rap making, his rhythm, his charisma.

“It’s clear you know how to have fun on stage.” And Seungyoun nods, his insides churning as a smile blooms in his face.

He can’t help but honestly congratulate Flowsik. He is an amazing rapper, a formidable competitor and good hyung. Some people have told him that if he had gone against someone weaker, he would have won for sure. But safe bets aren’t as rewarding.

“Hey, kid. Call me if you need anything,” Flowsik says as he puts his number on Seungyoun’s phone. He also follows him on Instagram and gives him a shy hug. “You’re on the right path, you know, right? You got it all around: charisma, personality, swag, lots of potential. You just have to find your own style.”

Back to the studio and his daily life, Seungyoun feels energized. The rest of UNIQ try to pamper him and do dumb things to lift his mood up, quite unnecessarily. He’s not dejected, he’s focused. Still, he doesn’t say a thing because it’s fun to see Wenhan acting like a thug and rapping like a 5 years old.

He has an idea for a track in his mind, maybe using the same bassline of one of his most hated WIPs, and he wants to work in it. He wants to turn blue into orange—or mix them, make it dramatic and full of flavour, a fierce statement and a remarkable landscape.

Transform it into something akin to the sunset he stares at in Jeju Island.

“Your mother told me you were uneasy lately. And that you joined a rap show?” his father says by his side. He looks tired by the flight back to Korea and their spontaneous trip to Jeju. One second they were talking on the phone and the next they were rushing through the Gimpo Airport gates to catch the next flight to Jeju. “That’s good. I’m sure you did your best.”

Seungyoun keeps his mouth closed for a moment, his lips forming a thin line. Then, he shrugs. “I didn’t make it, tho.”

“But you still did it,” his father points out as he pats his shoulder with a comforting hand. It makes Seungyoun grin. “Diamonds are made under pressure, after all. Did you enjoy it?”

“I had some rough moments.”

His father grimaces. “Sucks. But that’s not my question.”

For a long moment, Seungyoun doesn’t get it. Enjoyable moments are the ones like this one—where he basks in the warm end-of-day sunlight and is hit by the sea breeze, accompanied by beloved people and fuzzy sensations. What his father talks about is in a whole new level of optimism.

“I want you to enjoy life. Every single aspect of it,” his father mutters into the orange and blue sky, the words floating in the chilly breeze and clinging to Seungyoun’s heart. “Don’t you ever be ashamed of having emotions, of feeling, Seungyoun-ah. That’s the beauty of our nature as humans and the real muse of artists.”

His father then diverts the conversation to his favorite jazz singers and the trot songs he actually doesn’t dislike at all. Even the angry teen rock bands he has heard in Philippines and the hip hop rappers he found out—some of them truly underground gems Seungyoun has never heard of. They all are in touch with their own emotions and understand them, so they are able to deliver them right through notes.

Anger, joy, love, hurt, fears, delight, despair, desire. The lights in the dark and the darkness in the light. Emotions leave footprints in people.

“Yeah, I know. I’m a romantic,” his father laughs. “Not the kind your mother would’ve liked me to be, tho. Any other cool thing you’ve been up to?”

“Tattoos are cool,” he points out. Tattoos are always laced to a meaning and to emotions, he realizes. Earlier, the company has told him idols can’t have tattoos; the idol industry silently dictates it. Society expects white porcelain skin, unmarked and smooth. A blank canvas. Someone who could fit anyone’s role model.

But, during the show, Seungyoun found himself staring at pain and personal designs. Uniqueness. Artistry.

“You got one?” his father squawks, slightly shocked, maybe. When Seungyoun shakes his head, he looks slightly relieved for a moment. Then, he seems to think it better. “Hey, what if we get a couple tattoos when you officially become an adult? What you think?”

July, 2016.

Media name it as Seoul and Beijing’s falling out.

Suddenly, it’s in the mouth of everyone and in every news channel. Or maybe it’s not so sudden, but Seungyoun’s disinterest for politics is the one to blame. Now he’s reading every single piece of article he finds on the internet and tries to paint the bigger picture in his head.

Apparently, Seoul refused to halt the deployment of the anti-missile system, an effort to strengthen their defenses against North Korea’s threats, and Beijing deemed it a risk to its national security for a reason Seungyoun doesn’t really get. And it actually launched a cold war between both countries, full of backlash, gossip and resentments. Now both countries speak ill of their neighbor and an economic recession is coming.

“It won’t last forever,” his manager says in the best reassuring tone he can come up with. Now the long-postponed UNIQ comeback and weak excuses make sense. They were still testing the waters.

It’s definitely not reassuring when Yibo calls him one day from the set of Day Day Up.

“People here are talking, Youn-ah,” he shares in a low voice. “It’s said that there’ll be a, huh, ‘Korea limitation order’. So no more Korean guests.”

“What does that mean?”

It means that there’s a broadcast and internet ban on anything Korean—shows, dramas, music videos. It means that Seungyoun can’t work in China. It means that UNIQ won’t have their comeback anytime soon.

It means that Seungyoun doesn’t even know when he will meet Yibo again.

This is way farther than the 591.71 air miles that separate Seoul from Beijing.

The thing is: Seungyoun knows he’s the one-track mind kind of person. If he fails, when he fails, he falls apart.

But this is not failing, he tells himself, he convinces himself, as the memory of the judges praising his performance pops up in his mind. As he gets lovecalls to guest in shows like Unpretty Rapstar and Lipstick Prince.

This is just a step back and an opportunity at the same time.

He’s going to get known. He just has to push harder.

Ball two.

Seungyoun tries again. This time without his members by his side.

He contacts Flowsik at least twice a week to chat and during one phone call he says the offer outloud. “Hyung, let’s work together on a song.”

“You mean an official collaboration this time?” Daesik laughs, his voice even deeper and huskier than when he’s rapping. “Count me in, kid.”

Nathan texts him a meet me at M.O.L.A’s the moment Seungyoun tells him about his solo plan. A producer friend of his got interested in Seungyoun and Flowsik after his appearance in SMTM. Soon enough, Seungyoun has a producer team working with him and his UNIQ members backing him up.

Less than two weeks later, Seungyoun’s old dramatic WIP has been revamped into a dark beat strong song, full of confidence. And then, Seungyoun pairs it with all his heartfelt emotions and most sincere thoughts poured into the lyrics.

We never gonna stop, and we will going up. You see it.
You can’t see my gossip. ‘Cause why? I don’t like pretending
I’m not a liar. My nickname is Child without lies.
I’m going up the mountain covered in snow
But leave a footprint, my footprint
I’m walking one way. I’ll make it.

Swish! Clean 23 like Michael Jordan
Swish! I wanna be ‘my life is like autobahn’
But wait, hold on
Some people are sometimes:
“Where am I going to live?”
Then I say: “In an indeterminate road.”

                Recipe – Luizy ft. Flowsik

As they listen to the final version, Seungyoun nods along. Amazed at the brilliance of the track, at the final result of his hard work. If the company lets him, he’ll submit it as a digital single. 

A solo debut.

Maybe under a new stage name. Something that’ll represent him perfectly—his youth, his passion, his singularity. Something that’ll distinguish him from his persona in UNIQ, but still will be laced inherently.

“Hey, kiddo, seems like you’re finding your style,” Daesik announces and gives him a congratulatory and satisfied pat on his shoulder.

The UNIQ members, apparently, don’t think alike. They all nod along and Yibo texts him the fire emoji more than thrice—which in Yibo’s texting language, that is a lot. Wenhan even makes fun of him and edits his picture in a kitchen on fire. But when Seungyoun asks what they think about his style, the answer is less enthusiastic.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Sungjoo starts, a little grimace in his face, “song is a bop, but I’m not sure if it identifies you perfectly. I mean, you do are a dramatic bragging kid, but not only that?”

“The song has swag. You don’t,” Wenhan adds with shit-eating grin and sticks out his tongue.

“They mean,” Yixuan intervenes, calm reconciling tone before Seungyoun and Wenhan start their never-ending bickering, “that it shows only your ambition and determination. Seungyounie’s also good, humble and playful. Our moodmaker lion cub.”

Seungyoun bites his lip. That’s not what style is about. But, if he’s honest, he doesn’t know either. Perhaps, he’ll have to try again.

For now, he decides on Luizy as his new stage name. The name he adopted back in Brazil, back when he was a stranger in an unknown land, fighting for a dream. He still kind of is.

Almost immediately after, he contacts Im Hyunsik. They’ve done an OST together in the past and Seungyoun is certain that he’ll love to do a collaboration—even if Hyunsik is his sunbae, he treated Seungyoun like a friend from the beginning. And who could be a better featuring than the main vocalist of BTOB?

He takes into consideration all the members have told him and chooses to work in a much more cheerful track. Besides, summer is here with its humid air and scorching heat. He’s conflicted—he wants to chill with his friends by the river at night or travel again to Jeju Island to see the orange and blue sunset on the beach, but he also wants to work non-stop in this new song.

Without a doubt, he goes for the latter, but blends the former in in the best way he can think of: through lyrics.

If he’s honest with himself: he’s reaching. He’s taking way too much inspiration from Lil’ Rob’s “Summer Nights” so he feels the obligation to mention it, just like he feels the obligation to not go against the cliché. If he wants beach and to party, he should want girls in bikinis too, right?

Moments before he submits the song, he changes a verse to feel it more like his.

I did my best, how much should I do?
I really did my best

                Baby ride — Luizy ft. Hyunsik

The song still doesn’t feel exactly like his song, but the company approves it right away and soon the music video recording and release date are scheduled. He can’t back out now. He doesn’t want to either—he wants to try, try, try. It’s the kind of song the general public loves to listen to during summer, so it might work.

It might become his big break. His diamond chance.

He’ll just… take it as another company-given concept.

With that mind-set, he tries to own that concept. To become the embodiment of youth, playfulness and horny party boys. At some point, Seungyoun becomes the devil in the details within himself. Obsessive, perfectionist. He spends an hour in front of the mirror perfecting a single hand move, perfecting a stage that will bring everyone’s attention. Nothing should escape from his control.

Soon, he will control the length of his promotions. Only if the company would listen to him.

Yibo texts him he’ll be there for their birthday and it reminds Seungyoun they haven’t seen each other for over a month. It’s crazy how time flies when he’s busy. But not as crazy as how beautiful Wang Yibo looks as he struts into the practice room, lopsided smile and tired eyes.

All the come-and-forth flights, hours of recording and the scorching hot summer have turned him into a moody brat.

“I stopped counting how many hours I’ve lost already,” he complains with an involuntary adorable pout. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s an investment. Sleep with me.”

For a moment, Seungyoun halts. His heart skips a beat and then thumps furiously against his chest. He notices Yibo’s raised eyebrow and his quick glance to the practice room’s black sofa, a quite inviting and enticing gesture. Seungyoun has to take a sharp breath. 

“Come on. A power nap will be good for you too,” Yibo insists.

Seungyoun deflates, a slightly sour taste in the back of his mouth. “Only if I can turn off the lights.”

Yibo shakes his head furiously. “No way!”

They end up snuggling on the sofa, bright artificial lights turned on. As Yibo’s breathing becomes even and steady, Seungyoun’s breathing becomes hitched. His mind is a jumbled mess, all dispersed thoughts about his promotions, his duties and Yibo, Yibo, Yibo. The lanky frame, the round cheeks, the easy banter, the adorable pout.

How can he rap about girls in bikinis when Yibo is right there with his ethereal beauty and rosy fine lips?

Although, next week finds Seungyoun beginning his promotions alone as Yibo is on a plane back to China.

There aren’t a lot of music shows in schedule, so the few Seungyoun goes to, he recalls vividly.

The excitement of being back on stage, the crowd of fans, the interviews and backstage games, the long hours at waiting rooms getting ready and just expecting for the moment he’s named is called.

It’s at a Show Music Core that Seungyoun catches a glimpse of a pretty boy. A rookie. A prince-like beauty, even if he has his hair dyed a shade of blond that doesn’t really suit him. The kind of face one could only see in magazines. Seungyoun wouldn’t believe his eyes if he wasn’t already used to being starstruck by Yibo.

Actually, it kind of reminisces Yibo—the soft, ethereal features, the blank face, the seemingly calm aura—, but, at the same time, they don’t look alike at all.

Seungyoun guesses he just misses Yibo, his thoughts always gravitating to him.

Still, he’s unable to drift his gaze away from the boy as he performs a cutesy summer song. He wants to reach out, to congratulate him on a good stage as his sunbae or, possibly, as a friend. But the boy is quickly engulfed by his other 8? 9? members and managers and TV station staff, and Seungyoun loses sight of him.

Oh, well. It’ll be on another time.

Strike two.

Except: there’s no another time.

The song has little to no success. Just two small articles in sensational media outlets. Just a fleeting appearance in TOP100 searches and then, puff, buried.

The company puts an end to promotions after barely one week. The excuse is UNIQ’s up-coming projects.

There’s none. Only promises and a Japanese single album four months later.

From time to time, a few of the kids he used to go to school with in Philippines come to visit. They want the full Korean experience, from saunas to K-BBQs, from Myeongdong to Itaewon. At first, Seungyoun was more than okay with playing tour guide; thrilled, even. It’d be like when he showed Yibo around—whenever they weren’t at school or at the practice room. But soon he grows a bit tired. It isn’t only going to markets, parks and cafés, but the insistence of going bar hopping and crashing clubs at nearly closing time.

Seungyoun isn’t made for bar crawls; he prefers to stay in just one bar and chat amicably, not having to rush to the next one, and the next one, and then a club. And then:

“So you’re an idol? Should I know you?”

The answer becomes more and more bitter every time he has to enunciate it. So he chugs down alcohol like the bubble teas he was given by Yixuan in China and he asks a nice-looking girl to dance with him. However, quarter of hour later, his fuddled mind figures out that he doesn’t really care about accentuated curves and glamorous sleeveless dresses.

So he backs out, dizzy, and ambles towards the bathroom. He bends downward the sink and drops his head to heave. Somehow, he ends up with a slender boy caressing his back more than necessary. It’s not Yibo. It’s not even pretty rookie boy. But he has a good face and warm lips and it’s there.

Seungyoun goes back late to the dorm that night.

It’s not like he suddenly hates the industry, but Seungyoun disconnects from it all. He stops watching music shows, stops actively searching new music through Music apps, tunes out idol radios and scrolls down past idol articles and dumb scandals.

It’s more like a coping mechanism. Seungyoun is the kind of person that falls hard and falls fast in love, that dedicates himself thoroughly to the point of putting his heart at stake, so this is just compelling himself to fall out of it at a slower pace before the inevitable deep sorrow catches up with him.

He doesn’t disconnect from music, though.

He still swings by M.O.L.A’s studio to help Nathan out with his new compositions and takes a few guitar classes with Hoho. He covers a lot of songs, from classics to indie gems, and shares it with his friends. Dance practices have been decreasing over time—which is quite reasonable when there’s no new choreography to learn—, but he still schedules at least thrice a week. Instead, Seungyoun starts to hit up the gym more often.

When their manager tells them about their dorm rent contract about to finish, they decide not to renew it. The place is too big and expensive for, basically, two people, given that the rest is more often than not in China. In their homes. In their acting and MC gigs.

The company had asked him if he wanted to try acting too, but Seungyoun declined. Acting requires the skill of controlling his emotions. Not an easy feat when a mind storm is looming over him.

One day Seungyoun wakes up and he’s fine, but receives a phone call.

Then the skies darkens, he’s clad in black and greeting friends and family alongside his mother. Sungjoo comes to keep him company, then Jimin and Nathan, then Hansol texts, then Seungyoun doesn’t remember anymore. He isn’t keeping track of it. Grief isn’t a performance, a business or a race; there’s no preparations, no checklist, no manual, not even a compass.

Grief is a deep hole in his chest, slowly filled with stinging anguish and liquid emptiness. Seungyoun is trapped in it and is going under. Drowning, drowning, drowning. Choking on unshed tears and struggling for air.

He can’t keep his head up and his whole body is shaking. Not even his own legs can keep him standing for long, so he sits on the floor and later he crawls toward a wall to lean against.

He gasps a few times and he’s breathing, he’s breathing—then why does his whole self feel so numb? So heavy, like there’s a rock in his chest that is crushing him. Sinking him.

Why, why, why.

Wenhan and Yixuan call a few hours later—or maybe it’s minutes later? Yibo is in a schedule, or so Xuan ge tells him. And maybe is a bit ironic: how his parents were divorced but his mom is crying him by his side while he and Yibo have a stronger bond than siblings and yet they’re kilometres away. Or maybe Seungyoun is just trying to be funny, but it falls flat, sardonic giggles and a broken smile on the edges.

The next day Seungyoun isn’t fine. And the next day he isn’t fine either, nor the next one, nor any of the following ones.

Once, Seungyoun read that drowning, unlike the portrayals in movies, is quite silent. Other people don’t notice until it’s too late.

When drowning, the initial reaction is to struggle on their own instead of crying for help. Most of them even submerge themselves under the water and hold their breath, resisting the urge to breathe, trying to collect some strength to get out the water on their own, but end up triggering their need for oxygen underwater. In the meantime, they are assaulted by an unbearable pain and the feeling that their heads are about to explode.

In the first breath, great amounts of liquid are inhaled and, as they reach the airways, the larynx usually closes in a futile attempt to prevent liquid from entering the lungs. But soon consciousness is lost and the spasm relaxes, allowing liquid to reach the lungs and fill the space that should be for oxygen.

Isn’t it quite ironic that most liquids contain oxygen?

The worst part is: while breathing has ceased, the heart continues to beat.

The moment he finally checks his phone, there’s almost a hundred of missing calls and even more unread texts. Half of them are from Yibo, apparently. But Seungyoun doesn’t have the energy to check them. He’s torn between answer or just delete them, so he does none. He throws his phone at the other bed and lays down again, ready for another sleepless night, another storm.

It’s fine, he can contact Yibo later.

When was the last time he phoned his dad? What did they talk about?

Was it when he came back home? Was it about the glee in his mother’s face about having her baby living again with her?

Was it about music? Was it about the vintage car, an old Impala possibly, that his father fancied?

Or was it about doing another trip together?

What was the last thing Seungyoun told him?

There’s a soft knock in his door. “Oh, you are awake. Seungyoun-ah, are you hungry?” No, not really. But he can read the worry in his mother’s eyes and doesn’t want to bother her even more. “I ordered pizza.”

She bought pepperoni and bulgogi pizza, more than they could ever eat, and Seungyoun will call it a night if he can eat at least two slices. Reality is another thing. As his mother talks about the family and her job and tries to engage him in conversation, he shifts his gaze from her to his barely nibbled pepperoni slice to her again.

He usually loves the creamy cheese and crunchy crust, but this one feels hard to swallow. His mother doesn’t seem to have this issue.

In fact, his mother doesn’t seem to have any kind of issue. She seems normal. Functional.

Unlike Seungyoun and his hollow self.

“Mom,” he calls, voice low and rusty. He’s a bit hesitant to ask, but does it anyway: “Mom, you were in love with dad at some point, right?”

She looks taken aback. “Of course I was. Yeah, we got divorced, but it wasn’t due to love. Or not love. We just had… different points of view. You know how your father is. Was,” she corrects herself immediately, in a murmur. The slip of tongue is proof she isn’t as fine as she seems. “More like passionate fire while I am… still water? And we worked well together. We balanced each other. But as you were following your dream in Brazil, he wanted to follow another one of his in Philippines, or in any beach of the world honestly, and I wanted to keep my job here in Korea. We just couldn’t handle the distance.”

So it wasn’t love but dreams what tore them apart.

Dreams are personal, egoistic little bastards after all. It’s not like he didn’t envisage it, yet still feels like a bitter revelation. For a fleeting moment, Yibo’s face flickers through his mind.

A sardonic attempt of a smile tries to grow in his lips.

Fortunately, his mother keeps talking: “1996 is my favourite year together, for example.”

And she winks at him. Seungyoun feels a lump forming in his throat and tears swelling in the corners of his dry eyes.

Later that night, his phone beeps with another text. He has the intention to read it, but ends up opening the Kakao chatroom with his father.

The last topic they talked about was couple tattoos.

Sugary candies and an accompaniment, the tattoo artist asked to bring with him. “I can’t afford to take care of another fainting skinny dude with low sugar.”

By some sort of miracle, Yugyeom is free. In fact, he’s the one that offers to go when Seungyoun complains that Nathan has a deadline, Jimin has filming and Sungjoo has a script reading. He didn’t even bother to ask to Hyunggu or Hansol.

“Bro, this is so cool,” his friend states as he looks around the tattoo studio starry-eyed. The art in the walls, the leather chair Seungyoun is sitting on, the equipment in the station, the small caps filled with ink. The two stencils in Seungyoun’s forearms. “But that font is ugly.”

Seungyoun’s attempt of glaring quickly vanishes into a grimace. The needle has gone into his skin, the first tiny drops of black ink infused to his body, and fuck.

He was aware it was going to hurt, but pain is pain after all and one cannot prepare enough.

At least, is not as excruciating as others said. Unbearable pain for him is more related to a silent phone, a chatroom forever stuck in a message last sent two weeks ago, a warm voice he fears he’s forgetting. This kind of pain, of physical pain, is actually welcomed.

For some reason, Seungyoun ends up giggling whenever the needle makes contact with his skin and shedding tears. Finally shedding some tears.

“I like it,” the tattoo artist says nonchalantly as he wipes the ink off with a tissue. “The big bold numbers reflect that these numbers are meaningful to you. Also, the location. Both are in your biceps, which are the muscles culturally related to strength and are close to the heart. And by being only the outlines, it creates the illusion that the inside is empty or free, when it’s actually shaped by the very same lines. Besides, it’s the same font as baseball numbers and I’m a huge Doosan Bears fan.”

Seungyoun nods, quite astonished. The choice was actually born out of an impulse rather than having thought it thoroughly, yet he can’t help but agree.

“The numbers give shape to my skin.”                 

1966 and 1971 are not just numbers, but the most important years in the past century—the birth years of his parents. Of the ones that raised him and formed him and gave him space to grow. A commemoration; a thank you for being born.

When Yugyeom asks him what they mean, Seungyoun grins. “My father said he wanted couple tattoos, so I tattooed his and my mother’s birth years.”

“That’s the lamest joke you’ve ever told me,” his friend scoffs, unfazed. “But they really look cool. I may get one myself too.”

“You’re an idol,” Seungyoun reminds him.

“So? Aren’t you one too?”

Seungyoun blinks, slowly, like it’s taking a toll on him to consider it.

Is he? Is he still considered an idol? A person that hasn’t been on stage since months ago, that hasn’t had a comeback in over a year, that doesn’t have a single schedule to go to?

The tattoo artist bandages his arms and reiterates that a tattoo is a fresh wound. It has to be covered up and strictly taken care of. That it will be red and sore, and it might even be itchy around the area. Do not scratch it—scratching fresh wounds, any type of wounds, will only lead to more pain and a possible infection. The skin is going to scab over the tattoo and then it’ll flake off. Absolutely do not pick at them because, again, scarring, pain and possible infection.

“So, too long, didn’t listen: treat yourself gently.”

Seungyoun is listening. Attentively.

It’s nice to have something to take care of. As nice as hearing that time does heal some wounds.

Eventually, he does text Yibo. And the other calls him almost immediately. Seungyoun’s face distorts in a grimace as his finger hovers above the screen, between the Answer call and Decline call icons.

Yibo knows him. They lived together for almost six years—four of which they seemed siblings attached to the hips, the leo twins—, so of course he would notice Seungyoun isn’t the enthusiastic, happy boy he was last time they spoke. But, again, Yibo knows the Seungyoun that was always around people, around Yibo himself, not the Seungyoun he becomes when he’s alone. The overthinker. The one that desperately wants to meet anybody to escape himself and the one that can’t find the energy in him to do so.

“Hey, Youn-ah.” The deep voice that Seungyoun hasn’t heard in a long time booms through the phone line and to Seungyoun’s light horror, he feels nothing. No fastened heartbeat, no immeasurable longing, no uncontrollable happiness.

When he notices the involuntary small pout in his tone, a soft warmth kindles his chest, finally, and he welcomes it.

“Yiboboyoh,” he greets, “how are you?”

“Tired. How are you?”

“Tired,” he answers the same. And they avoid the elephant in the room: the reasons or their tiredness are so starkly different, two extremes of the spectrum. To fill the awkward silence, he comments: “I’m getting a new tattoo next week.”

“Cool, what is it?”

“Something in my wrist, maybe.”

Later, after hanging up, he decides to look for some porn in his phone. Out of curiosity and with the intention of proving a sudden apprehension. Girls with big tits and minuscule lacy panties and buffed men with big dicks. Then he tries with boys giving each other blowjobs and even with cute twinks fucking themselves on toys. A little bit ashamed of himself and utterly shameless, he tries to picture Yibo in those positions. He tries to picture himself. He even tries to picture the flicker memory of pretty rookie boy.

As expected: nothing.

Sungjoo mentions in passing about wanting to do a Vlive and Seungyoun comes aboard almost immediately. It feels like forever since he last did a live, always used to pop up and talk for long periods with the people joining the stream. Especially when he was alone. It isn’t about keeping his loud mind busy, but companionship.

Growing up as the only child of two loving but busy parents, he learnt to like being alone—except when being alone messes with him, shreds his soul and wrecks him inside out. But as he lived in Brazil, in the Philippines, then the trainee life, then UNIQ, he reaffirms his most inner belief: he wasn’t born to be alone.

He cherishes companionship; he basks in its warmth and unspoken intimacy, he longs for the trust carefully sewn by concern and effort.

Fans join the live moments later. They aren’t a lot, but they are insistent and cute. They fuzz about their looks, about how much they miss them, about their daily lives.

Seungyoun was hesitant at first, but in a spur of the moment, he does it anyways. He shows them his tattoos, a slight unintentional emphasis in the latest: the addition of a smiling face and a sad face. Perhaps it’s due to his keenness to make them enjoy the livestream or to his untamed honesty that he vaguely acknowledges to all viewers his mood swings.

There’s blatant deep worry in Sungjoo’s eyes and in the words of some fans, yet he also finds understanding. Empathy. Appreciation. Resemblance.

I go through the same thing, oppa, he reads, but when you come live I feel happier. Safe.

Seungyoun’s lips twitch. He hides it behind a smile that ends up being genuine.

The feeling in his chest, though, he can’t hide it from himself.

“A gun,” the tattoo artist repeats when he swings by the next day. “In your hipbone.”

As he shows a few pictures for reference of gunslingers, cowboys and fancy vintage Colt revolvers, he has the urge to explain his motivation. “My mind might seem a strange place sometimes, I know, but I want to protect the ones I care about. Although it’s not always seen, I carry this weapon with me, inside me, ready to do anything for them. That’s my meaning.”

The tattoo artist nods curtly and begins to sketch in a paper.

“Be careful, boy, you could shoot yourself.”

The whole group reunites at the end of July to celebrate Wenhan’s birthday and both Leo’s birthdays in advance. Outside, rain is pouring non-stop, but inside the atmosphere is starkly different. They’ve turned the practice room into a noraebang and their favourite song is an improvisation about fruity juice that they keep on singing, each time louder than the last time. It’s truly noisy and playful and diverts Seungyoun’s attention fortunately.

For a moment, when he just got there, Wenhan looked about to question him if he needed to do a trip to a batting cage, but then Yixuan tried to engage Seungyoun in a talk about Korean food and Seungyoun took the chance. He wouldn’t like to burden Wenhan. He has his own burdens in his home country.

With Yibo, he is not as lucky.

“Spill,” the younger orders after they wrap the vlive.

He’s wearing Seungyoun’s big semi-rimless specs and they look good in him. It’s kind of distracting.

“Nothing. Really, nothing. I’m just… like still water.”

Yibo looks slightly aghast and preoccupied. “That’s wrong. Worse than nothing.”

So, while he’s in Korea, Yibo goes to great lengths to keep him busy, as it is his only schedule from then on. Barging into the studio to demand they do a new choreography, spamming his phone to go drinking together, crashing at his house because “I’m tipsy and Youn-ah wouldn’t let me go in this state, right?”—and no, Seungyoun would never. This is Yibo. The one whose face is blank one moment and the next is pouting, unintentionally. The one who laughs at how awful Seungyoun is at videogames and then acts like he’s petting a shiba dog. The one who every night slides into his bed and snuggles Seungyoun to sleep.

They fall into some sort of too fast too loud new routine.

It’s nice and comforting, a sweet taste of the earlier years. Yibo hugs him tightly when he thinks Seungyoun’s fallen asleep, unaware that Seungyoun’s sleeping schedule is even more fucked up than before. And Seungyoun’s chest bursts with a feeling he no longer remembered, but missed. It’s cozy and warm and tingling.

A divine feeling.

As a summer storm, Yibo makes him feel too much in too little time. And then, he continues his path toward Beijing, leaving damped stubbles on his tail.

August comes with its intrinsic meaning of summer, sun and fun. Common knowledge has taught that August is when monsoon season starts to taper off.

August has a different significance for him: it’s his and Yibo’s birthday. They call each other at midnight, always o’clock, and greet each other with loud cheers. In China there’s still an hour left for August 5^th, so Seungyoun does a dumb joke about being more mature and wiser and Yibo calls him a hag in return. None of them mention that an hour ahead Seungyoun still is stuck in a damp while the kid that always trades times in between flights is slowly thriving.

Instead, Yibo talks about being interested in race motorcycles lately and tries to coerce Seungyoun into buying him one as a gift. “Or place your bets on me, Youn-ah. I’ll make you win real money someday.”

Seungyoun chortles, charmed. “I don’t gamble.”

“Then start.”

Maybe he should. Find another interest, a hobby or something, that could become a side job or spark something in him. Because, for now, he only has a single collaboration with BEAST Lee Gikwang to brag about in friend’s parties and family meetings.

In my house, everything is not a single, but a double
But this is a dream, (you’re not next to me)

You don’t need to do anything, just stay by my side
Please don’t let me sleep alone
I want to wake up every morning with your lips on my own

                Dreaming – Lee Gikwang ft. Luizy

Except:

“When will you grow up?” an uncle asks him over dinner, alcohol flared up cheeks and widened nostrils. “Until when you’ll be lazing all day like a log? ‘My dream this, my dream that’, you are too much like your father. Meanwhile, your mother is the one actually sustaining the family. Tsk. Didn’t your five minutes of fame already pass?”

Seungyoun nods slowly, mechanically. His lips are twitching and he avoids ducking his head not to seem disrespectful.

The words I am a hardworking person threaten to slip out his mouth, but is he? Can you call hardworking to a person that barely has the opportunities to work?

His mother defends him with a soft tone, hard stance. “He’s young and already paying for his own stuff. I barely provide him anything. And even if I did, why are you bringing it up? Are you questioning how I raise my child?”

“Young? He’s 21!”

“Don’t listen to him, Seungyounie,” his mother tells him later that night. “He’s just drunk. And banned from coming back here from now on.”

“Don’t worry, mom.” And he kisses her temple.

Seungyoun doesn’t tell her that he did listen and that it had already sunk in him. Slipped through his ears like freezing cold air and collided against the warm breeze inside of him.

August only brings the promise of reaching the tail of monsoon season. Storms are always looming, though. And what August doesn’t promise is that the storms won’t be the biggest ever lived yet or that they’ll clear soon.

Deep into the wee hours of the night, Seungyoun is slumped. Back leaning against the wall, fingers idly tracing the fabric of the sheets and his pyjamas, eyes transfixed in the curtains—staring at nothing.

Most of his youth is gone.

When did he lose so much time? How?  He was just a boy training and following his dream not long ago. His debut was not less than three years ago.

Does this mean his diamond chance is gone too?

Was it stolen?

Sometimes, Seungyoun wonders if during the last decade of his life spent training and travelling around the globe to keep on training hasn’t he skipped puberty. “Puberty begins with the confusion of how I am,” he whispers into the night as he stares at the cotton curtains, motionless. Same words he’ll tell someday to a magazine, maybe. Or maybe not. “I know who I am,” he adds into the white noise of his room, of his mind. A firm, convinced tone; full of tiny waves.

Is not who he is, but what is he doing here. Nothing. People around him are growing, succeeding, thriving, meanwhile he’s—nothing.

Stuck in inertia.

Society has treated life as a race, many times. Now Seungyoun apprehends: Life is a short race—and he’s already losing.

Some days, Seungyoun has to literally haul himself.  Out of bed, out of the house, out of the pool of ennui he is drowning in.

The best fighters against lethargy and apathy he finds are his 3 a.m. thoughts. It’s a nasty tricky battle because night punches the hardest, but sometimes allies with the enemy and Seungyoun is pushed even further down the surface.

He wants to fight it. He wants to fight it so bad and get out and breathe. He just has to endure it enough to gain strength.

I’m just a jumble of thoughts.  I’m trying.

Is he? Realization hits him hard one night—isn’t he doing what drowning people do moments before liquid fills their lungs to the brim and their whole body system starts to collapse?

“I should cry for help,” he mutters to the reflection in his window—dormant city lights glowing above the albums in his wall.

Naver’s first result says to seek professional help. He could do that. Go to a private clinic and pay in cash, so his mother doesn’t have the burden of a dumb social stigma.

Write a journal, naver also lists. And Seungyoun could definitely do that.

His mom is getting scared at his sleeping schedule—better said: his lack of sleeping. The dark circles under his reddened eyes, the skinny paler cheeks, the extenuation deep in the bones, the mood in the crankier side. Seungyoun might be on the verge of insomnia at this point, playing tiptoe on the brink.

“Seungyoun-ah, weren’t you in bed the whole day?”

It’s pretty ironic how sleeping a few hours a day is okay when you’re overworking yourself, but suddenly is extremely wrong when you have nothing to do. Nothing but going to the studio to help Nathan out with the production of some tracks. At least, his newfound interest in RnB and longing for funky sounds come in handy.

“Right on time, Seungyoun-ah. Check this,” Nathan says upon hearing his arrival over the booming RnB melody he is playing from the beginning again. He always asks for Seungyoun’s opinions—after all, from M.O.L.A., is all he has. Jimin is at her MC job, Hyunggu is in the midst of comeback preparations, Hansol is engaged in Seventeen’s schedules again and again.

Seungyoun is the only one with free time. Wasting seconds and minutes and hours and days in barely surviving.

And yet, there’s two guys there. One sitting in Seungyoun’s chair, staring at the screen; another sprawled on the sofa, moving his head in rhythm with the music. They introduce themselves as Park Gyujung and Lee Hwimin in a shy manner, so Seungyoun immediately tries to make them comfortable—big smile, what are you up to, shake hands, that’s a cool shirt!

"We're trying to do a melody that is....huh," Lee Hwimin speaks from his spot on the sofa. "Do you know April in Paris?"

"Ella Fitzgerald?"

"Yeah! Like her song, we want to allude to spring and love without mentioning any of those. But our version will be more about falling in love in spring. And more EDM, possibly."

"Cool. Can I listen?"

"Be our guest," says Park Gyujung, the actual guest.

At his side, Nathan just laughs and points out: “These guys are groovyroom.”

Seungyoun isn't fond of sharing how he’s feeling these days. Rare, slumped, scarified alive, bored, raw—all of it, he tries to keep it to himself. He doesn't want to burden others just like he doesn't want to burden himself. Most times, he receives a half assed “Cheer up!” that doesn’t do anything to cheer him up. If anything, it makes him feel guilty, powerless, at fault for not being able to come up with some cheerfulness.

UNIQ Cho Seungyoun is bright and funny and talented, or so the last quite old articles he read said. Cho Seungyoun right now feels like an empty shell, an impostor wearing the flesh suit of a dreamer.

If he talks, he’ll expose himself.  So he attempts to bottle his feelings and thoughts up, to cage them in the depths of his mind, but they are so loud and hurtful that feels like a constant screeching inside his head. He only lets them out, honest and raw, to his journal—some sort of diary, but with many missing dates and full of messy 2 a.m. scribbles.

At some point, he writes the most hopeful thought of the last months. Music is fun again. Music clenches his heart and energizes his soul, and maybe this is what deliverance feels like. It’s both scary and rousing.

He’s been going to groovyroom studio more and more lately, meeting a few other producers, including some industry big names.  Listening to their compositions, letting the beats sink into his body and race his heart. It’s wonderful. It’s like a match of a whole different league. And Seungyoun may not be on the field, but he’s getting the adrenaline bumps even as a mere spectator watching from the first row.

And the thing about spectators is: they aren’t in control. They let everything unfold in front of their eyes, a river following its course.

Soon after, he starts the process of re-learning to enjoy making music. Creative people, he is told, can’t stay still forever— the itching to create is bigger than themselves. He hangs out more and more with his new composer friends, he begins again to take guitar classes and he contacts a vocal coach that compliments him every class in his vocal tone. He even buys new machines for M.O.L.A studio.

For a moment, he thinks of taking it slow. Baby steps. But he has never been used to slow, his life has always been fast-paced and hectic, from one country to the other, from hard training to a draining schedule. Run at a 7.35 m/s speed, do high jumps and long leaps. And moreover, he fears that slow will take him immediately back to the pit he’s trying to leave behind.

So he decides he’ll let everything flow. Like when you try to grab water—the harder you try, the bigger amount of water slips through your fingers.

He gets a candle and the word faixao tattooed in his back. A reminder. A this is your passion, don’t let anyone blow this out again. Not even yourself. No matter how much it weights on your shoulders.

“Seungyoun-ah,” his mother starts over dinner one day, then she closes his mouth. Her cheek hollows, so it can only mean she’s biting the inside. “Do you…perhaps, want to work with me? Or maybe your uncle could get you a job at Hana tour?”

His lungs halt for a moment, refusing to breathe.

With a thin voice, he promises her he’ll think about it.

And he does it, hard, for maybe half a day. He’s twenty-one. He should get a job or at least a degree, so he’d have a bigger income in the future. He hasn’t even finished his Entertainment and Broadcasting major at Dong-ah Institute of Arts, for God’s sake. And his savings from his UNIQ activities are almost non-existent by now.

He’s already twenty-one and jobless.

Michael Jordan dropped basketball once and tried baseball instead. He could follow his steps.

“Mom, I still want to pursue music,” he mutters. A confession, almost.

His mother caresses his cheek. “Of course, dear. No pressure.”

But the pressure is still there. Inside him. Bubbling like boiling water.

He needs to release it somehow before it explodes. His diary is too personal and not enough. He needs to share it. He needs to tell others, maybe his friends, but without actually telling it. To deliver the message without spelling it out loud.

Music is his answer. Music might be a source of stress, but also his way to unwind, after all.

So he launches himself into a new, personal project. Focused, he pulls two or three all-nighters in the studio working in a hip-hop melody with a dark and disruptive rhythm, anxiety driving and yet upbeat. An energy burst, a warning, a complaint, a reminder. A punch in the soul.

In a spur of the moment, he distorts his voice until it sounds like a chorus of kids screaming a nursery song and layers it in the background—harsh harmonies to his tentative lyrics.

Life is short and it’s kind of a race
When time is running, it’s like riding a horse
You have to be careful not to fall from the horse
You have to be careful when you enjoy the speed

Romantic vibe and Nangma life
Fall and look back. What did you drop?
Do you carry your dreams well?
What is it that you carry on your shoulder? (…)

We know we need more money
But time is still tick tocking
I don’t wanna be a fake boujee
So what do I gotta do? Enjoy your life.

Life is short and life’s a race
Whip, whip. Your time is Tick-tack

Eeny meeny miny moe
Catch the freakin’ money but
Youth is slipping, let it go
Eeny meeny miny moe

                Buck – Woodz ft. punchnello

Aware that the song is way more personal than it maybe should, he shows the draft to Nathan. His friend nods along to the tempo, a small smirk dancing in his lips. Then, when the melody reaches a moment of silence only to abruptly continue, he whistles. As soon as the melody finishes, Nathan plays it again.

“You can still improve it, but it’s already freaking fantastic. So experimental,” Nathan comments, a serious and honest tone. He doesn’t even have to look at Seungyoun, because Seungyoun can read it in the way his friend has his eyes fixed in the draft. “And so real.”

Seungyoun smiles. If Nathan felt identified with the song, maybe more people could. Maybe he could sell it. Maybe he could dedicate his life to be a producer, to compose and sell music, to be in the backstage, in the strategy room as he couches newer players to take the field and sing his creations to life.

As Jimin rightfully complains about JYP not giving her a new album and babblers about big companies being the worst and that she’ll just leave to a smaller one that actually care about her as an artist, Seungyoun is struck by a realization: maybe he could release something on his own. Go the indie route.

Be the best musician he can, exceed his own limitations, and maybe be the inspiration of a few, instead of the sweetheart of the lot.

It was nice to say as UNIQ that they’ll still perform even if there were only five fans left. But let’s be real, Seungyoun-ah—that won’t happen soon, maybe ever, so you could do music for yourself and those five fans left.

He talks with his friends about it and they seem enthusiastic, coming up with ideas and ways to procure him a good (re)start. Soon, he puts together a team.

When he's decided, he heads down to Yuehua—being realistic, he won't be able to do everything on his own. And, after all, he’s still under their contract. To his own amazement, all the staffs give him a green light. They will release his music and promote him in the indie circle as their solo artist.

“It’s been a while since you submitted something,” Ilkyu manager says, a faint smile on his lips. An emotion akin to relief. “Upper management said they don’t have a lot of resources available tho…”

“It’s fine. I want to be in charge of the whole creative process. That would lessen the budget, right?”

As his first creative choice, he decides to change his stage name. Luizy was the essence of passion, youth and cheerfulness—not a representation of him anymore.

WOODZ. After carefully thinking it and doing some searching, he favours that name. He likes nature. He likes the feeling of grass under his feet and of leaves between his fingers. He likes big trees he can lean against, and climb their trunk and marvel at the hundred thick and fine branches that create a lush, intricate picture.

Deep roots, light branches—he goes for that. His heart is heavy, determined; his thoughts are light, versatile.

A wish, a resolution. Something to live by.

“I want to become nobler and stronger like a tree as time goes on,” he’ll tell an interview someday, maybe. He’ll tell that to himself every day, for sure.

He goes for his eighth tattoo: a phrase in his forearm that reads can’t always be the same, the last three words circled vehemently. To the naked eye, a confusing statement; to him, a memorandum. Embrace the changes, but don’t completely let yourself go.

Getting tattoos is just another way to remember things—like writing in his journal, like composing a song. A record of his values.

On instagram, he writes:  Even in a repetitive daily life, every minute and second is different. My emotions, my thoughts and everything else cannot always be the same, so let's just spend every moment happily.

Sungjoo is, as always, the first one to congratulate him. And, as always, is by totally ruining the surprise. The moment Seungyoun jumps on him in the middle of the company to share the news with him, Sungjoo blurts: “I heard you snatched two Cha Cha Malone songs.”

The rumour mill lately has been going crazy with the possible plans for the Yuehua trainees that had gone to a survival show, so Seungyoun didn’t think people would notice it. There’s an odd feeling of satisfaction churning in his guts about the fact that he still can give people something to talk about in the halls.

“What can I say, hyung? He loved my voice. Pure honey.”

“I bet he didn’t love your ugly smug face,” Sungjoo replies, a fond smile forming in his lips. “And your hair. When will you cut it? You look like a granny.”

“Hey, but it’s inspired by you.”

“You, little shit!” And Sungjoo runs after him through all the halls of the building, cursing him in colourful ways and asking for a truce at the same time, his breathing heavy. Seungyoun, on the other hand, increases his speed and crackles like a mad man, eyes crinkled and boisterous laugh. Sungjoo finally gives up and sprawls on the conference room floor. In between gasps, he mutters: “I’m really glad to see you more often and here again.”

Seungyoun lies down on the floor next to him and rests his head on his shoulder. There’s a sudden and constant prickling in his eyes. And Seungyoun lets it become tiny tears.

At the beginning of spring, UNIQ reunites in China. They meet at the Yuehua Annual Party, they have a photoshoot to renew their profile pictures, a live for the fans and the talking of a new digital song—all the schedules they hadn’t had in months packed in two days. It’s a refreshing yet tiring change.

They take advantage of the wasted time between schedules to catch up on their lives and mock each other, easily sliding back into their loud and messy atmosphere. They mostly tease Yibo for being selected as a Dance mentor in Produce 101, when he’s younger and more baby than all the contestants. Then they all start to tease each other about their roles in dramas and to take ugly pictures of each other as retaliation. Although, Seungyoun stays a little behind. “I’m just a producer now,” he says and laughs.

Yibo looks annoyed the most. He might be the one teased the most too.

Avoiding envy the best he can, is not hard for Seungyoun to come with terms with the fact that his Leo twin counterpart is everything he isn’t. As he was entering China, he started to notice it. Almost suddenly, Yibo is no longer his scrawny group member, but rising star Wang Yibo—successful actor, famous variety show host, acclaimed dancer, CF favourite celebrity. A diamond, definitely. Shiny, strong and desired. Loved by everyone: general public, masses of fans, his fellow cast members.

And Seungyoun did listen when Yibo was talking in fast Chinese about how he is getting really close with his fellow drama main lead—to have a better chemistry on screen, or something along those lines. A lot closer than what Yibo is letting him know, just as they are growing distant, more and more. Every step feels like five miles in between.

Really, Seungyoun doesn’t want to be envious, so he chooses to be proud and annoying.

“Yah, Yibo. Still can’t sleep alone?” he asks suddenly while the other guy is playing games on his phone, but not as sudden as the shivering death glare Yibo sends in his way. A very effective and hilarious fuck off.

Seungyoun can’t help but laugh, doubling his laughter when Yibo hits him and curses him for making him lose the game. Soon after, Yibo discards his phone and leans on him. Rests his head in his shoulder, links their arms, caresses his knee, intertwines their legs together, snuggles closer at every chance he has. Tries to make himself at home again—not that Seungyoun has ever kicked him out. It feels like Yibo is trying really hard to counteract all the moments they’ve been away from each other. Or like he’s trying to persuade himself upon something—puzzling feelings, maybe.

Again, Seungyoun’s chest is invaded by a warm and cozy sensation. So nice and slightly off at the same time.

Seungyoun doesn’t get amazed, even less speechless, by his ethereal beauty as before. It takes him a while to realize he barely looks at his lips anymore. Lately, he’s only been looking at people in the eye, and Yibo now is no exception. Something has changed. They both have changed.

It’s a bit woeful and hollow not feeling his heart racing again, but Seungyoun is embracing change. And it’s kind of soothing too, honestly.

“Hey, my drama is going to be released in a few months, maybe next year. Are you going to watch it?” Perhaps he’s hearing wrong, but there’s some anxiousness underlying Yibo’s tone. That need to be babied, Seungyoun assumes.

“I don’t know. Do you tilt his chin with your sword?”

“Fuck off.”

Nevertheless, in the solicitude of his own mind, he admits to be somewhat envious. Yibo is getting all they had dreamed about when they were younger and naïve. Maybe it’s because he is not a diamond or maybe it’s because he hasn’t persevered enough, but Seungyoun has taken a different, equally enjoyable path.

In this path, he has chosen to be the most honest possible—with the world and with himself.

He might not be a diamond like Yibo, but it doesn’t mean he can’t be another gem. It doesn’t even mean he is a gem. But he can make it work.

He will make it work.

One of his friends and part of his creative team proposes the idea of a youtube documentary and Seungyoun immediately agrees. HOW is born—a documentary intending to show how ordinary he is, how ordinary we’re all. To show the process of a normal group of people working hard to come up with something good, something honest, even raw. Something that could be the most close to a diamond.

How something remarkable can actually come out of mediocrity.

“You think they’ll show this documentary once you attend Billboard?” his friend jokes from behind the camera.

Something coils in Seungyoun’s guts. A mix of hesitancy and hope. A long dismissed dream.

“We still don’t know what will happen. I don’t think it’s impossible,” he admits, faint resignation in his voice. Then he reassures: “But I’m not doing this just for the sake of it. Let’s just make it fun.”

Decided to show not only his artistry, but also his values, Seungyoun opens his diary and opens himself. He reads through the journal he’s been writing these few last years, seeking through his 2 a.m. scribbles for suitable verses to the track he has in mind. It doesn’t take long for him to come up with the lyrics, picking out and bleeding his inner demons in it.

Everything is meaningless.
Everything is in vain.
What am I chasing after?
I don’t know why I live now.
Even if work, I don’t know why I’m doing this.
I think deeply when I get home,
I can’t sleep again.

I get lost every day. I get lost every day.
Keep it away. Take off the worries from me.
They only make me more complicated.
I think I don’t need think too much.
The deeper everything is, the scarier and darker it gets.

I want to find who am I.
How shall I find? (I’m forgetting).
Even my emotions lie to me.

Who said weather makes you feel?
I’m upset the weather is different with what I’m feeling.
How long do I have to wait for rain?
When will the sky wash me?
I want it all to float away
Hoping there’s nothing left.

I want to lie on that cloud
I don’t want to worry about anything
Say goodbye to the things bothering me,
And stay there warmly.

                Meaningless – Woodz

He adds the sounds of heavy rain in the background when the track reaches the bridge, yet the rain is stopping by the end of the song. The sky is clearing again.

Seungyoun is absolutely satisfied with the outcome.

In Melon, more than four thousand avid listeners. A few thousand more of casual ones.

By all means, in the indie circle, is a good start. A great start even. He’s described as a talent to keep an eye on by a few interviewers and gets some recognition between his peers. A few more collaborations and a bunch of commissions as lyricist and as producer come to his inbox and his mother looks really happy when he invites her to a fancy restaurant.

The thing is: Seungyoun keeps on doing Instagram lives. He has never stopped, actually. Every live he starts, a few viewers less. The viewer’s count is going down and down and there’s not much he can do. People lose interest when they aren’t given good new content, when the streamer isn’t someone interesting or important or both.

And, when it comes to indie artists, people usually don’t care about them personally. The only aspect of entertainment they care about is their music, not their personas. Attention-seekers shrivel.

At least, 227 people are still tuning in. Seungyoun wants to keep them, to cherish them, and also want more. More, more, more. Has reached a goal and wants to surpass it greatly.

Greediness is his bigger fault, it’s always been, but as he feels enclosed, trapped inside the four walls of his studio, inside his own flesh, inside the cage of his chest, he starts to dream again of big stages, of the deafening screaming of fans, of the adrenaline rush that comes with fame and sleeping only a 40 minutes nap before the next schedule.

Nostalgia is a faux-ami, he knows. But it can’t be worse than numb emptiness and he already overcame that.

So he decides to make a virtue of his fault.

The early morning rush hour traffic is starting, Seoul’s grey and sunlight-tinged streets jam-packed with cars and unrested commuters, when Seungyoun arrives at the company. He has barely slept for two hours, but energy and anxiety are thrumming through his body and keep him with his eyes wide open. But he’s here even earlier than some of their staff, especially his manager, so he has to burn energy somehow.

A mindless talk with the staff in halls sounds good. Maybe even eavesdropping on conversations that shouldn’t involve him.

This is how company rumours are created, he reasons, thanks to boredom and caffeine. A few trainers pass by him, speaking in hushed tones, wondering which trainees they should send to the upcoming survival show.

“Send me,” he says, without thinking twice. Determined.

“Seungyoun-ah, this is a competition for trainees. And you are… a consolidated artist.”

Chary words. The truth used as a double edged knife. “A second-hand idol, I know,” Seungyoun says, without missing a beat. No need to cry the truth. “But Xuan ge and Wenhan ge are doing it, too. And they are succeeding. I’ll do it too.”

More staff members are coming up to them, all dubious expressions on their faces. “China’s market is different, the public doesn’t care about…” the employee trails off, maybe trying to come up with nicer words to lessen the blow. But he gets it. Chinese public doesn’t care if they have debuted or are new shiny, undiscovered and unpolished talent. Korean public, on the other hand, is well aware about the industry average window of five years. 

And Seungyoun is well aware about it too, about how close he is to the five years mark, to be called a successful artist or scratched as a mere failure.

“You’ll become a trainee again.”

Nu’est did it. They swallowed their pride and tears and they suffered. They also hit homerun after that.

Desperation is pooling in Seungyoun’s stomach, way heavier than his pride. And if there’s a driving force more potent than dreams and greediness, is desperation.

Go big or go home.

“I’ll represent Yuehua.”

A static point can’t become a star.

Ball three.

Seungyoun knows that his life story is one interesting enough to catch people’s attention, to make them raise their eyebrows or sigh in sympathy. But that’s something that should be reserved for interviews or variety shows, not a competition. Seungyoun wants no sympathy, but to be known.

Sympathy won’t get him that. Barely five minutes of screentime and no appeal.

So when he goes to the pre-audition interview, he just says: “I’m Yuehua Cho Seungyoun, who came as a trainee to share my nine years of experience.” A highlight of his virtues—humbleness, tenacity, perseverance, affability.

Anecdotes are valuable, intangible assets that one should share slowly, almost spontaneously to keep the other hooked, itching for the chance to dig deeper.

The fact that he has to deal with a sore throat the day he has to film his 20 seconds long PR video would be a funny anecdote one day, but right now? Just his fricking luck.

His friends support his decision, as always. Jimin engages him in a long nonsensical banter, but ends up being the first one to film a short video to promote him. However, Yugyeom’s video comes as a surprise. “I hope Seungyoun does well,” his friends says on screen, almost as scripted as any idol speech. But then: “I hope you stay strong. I’m happy if you are happy.”

There’s something startling and quite exciting about trying once again, once more, and at competition of this magnitude. This is not only impressing the trainers acting as judges, but impressing the whole public, the whole nation, millions of people worldwide. This is Go really big. And, suddenly, he’s doing it on his own.

The obnoxious and infectious smile in Sungjoo’s lips shrivel when he’s rejected during pre-audition interviews—the hyung is old jokes aren’t that funny anymore.

“Why the long face?” the other says, almost nonchalantly. Acting as if he hadn’t been as excited as Seungyoun when this opportunity arose. “I’ve been saved from having to deal with keeping your high tension ass at line. Now that’s another person’s problem.”

“I’m sorry, hyung. I know you wanted to participate too.”

“Why are you sorry, Seungyounie? Context has always been the enemy. You better end this thing with at least five fansites or I’ll disown you.”

Isn’t like he’s hesitant of doing it alone, but of fitting right in. The two Yuehua trainees that were also accepted practice by his side and Seungyoun has to control himself not to release the nit-picking perfectionist he has nurtured through the years. I’m good at teamwork, he reminds himself. The problem relies in the type of competition—he has to outshine the rest while still blending perfectly in. Attack and defend.

Calling him out on his overthinking, Nathan assures him: “You’ll do well. Stuff like these is not about being perfect, but charismatic. And you have what they call, huh, overflowing charms.”

Sometimes Seungyoun forgets that Nathan participated in a survival show once. Since then, his friend has decided that spotlight wasn’t for him. Music plays a minor role in spotlight, sometimes, and Nathan mentions it like a sin.

They compose a song for his audition from scratch and Seungyoun barely struggles while writing the lyrics, unlike when he does it for any other artist.

We’re flying upwards now
Disclose your problems to the clouds.
Everything is good when I’m with you.
Don’t worry about the possibility of falling.
Because my path is just in between dream and reality.

                Dream – Woodz, Nathan

His mother squeezes his hand and tells him they’ll go for pizza later.

When he is asked his desired final rank, he chooses 12^th place.

The interviewer seems slightly shocked. “Not first? Should I remind you that only eleven trainees will debut in the final group?”

Being first place sounds nice. The nation’s first pick, the centre boy, the crown bearer. Skyrocketing famous. The diamond chance.

And Seungyoun is a greedy dreamer, but also more mature and realistic. People won’t like him that much even if manages to charm them lot. The moment people start digging in his past, they wouldn’t be as welcomed of him. He has tattoos, he has a failed career, he has stigma.

Smudged paint and curved lines instead of a blank canvas.

And Seungyoun is okay with that. He had learnt to be honest and embrace himself, so no, he won’t be ashamed of having had lived. Of his experiences, values, disillusions.

“Oh, are you that type? A gag character? Like Yoon Jisung.”

“I think I’m good at variety too, yes,” Seungyoun answers, carefully picking his words.

PDs have made clear they are not looking for a Cho Seungyoun, but the new Kang Daniel. Too bad that he’s too stubborn to present them any other persona but Cho Seungyoun. He’s aware that it won’t secure him the center, not even a spot in the final group, yet he isn’t going to back-pedal in his decision. 

Besides, from time to time, he isn’t even sure if he wants to debut. The recognition is his final goal—attainable even without making the cut. He just has to endure and last enough in the competition. And he’s quite confident of doing that.

Starting at 67^th feels like a low blow, though.

At first, he doesn’t recognize him.

Worries and nervousness have a hard grip of his focus, paired with some astonishment. He’s coming back to the idol track. He’s finally getting back into the game and soon he discovers: some rules have shifted, among other things. He also discovers that as he has grown distant from the idol industry, the idol industry as grown distant from him too. His seniority is virtually non-existent—a long forgotten idol in this fast industry.

At some point, Seungyoun even wonders out loud why people are on their feet longer than etiquette dictates when the Top Media trainees walk in. They are all the same now, Seungyoun reasons; some trainees more experienced than others, just that.

Later, as the overextended auditions finally reach an end, they are directed to go with their baggage to the appointed dorm for each rank. B rank feels like a relief and a mock after years of knowledge and barely a few weeks of practice complemented with a failed stunt. He could have done a lot better. May it serve him as a lesson to work harder.

In the middle of a room filled with bunk beds and noisy boys, a glimpse of a cool and prince-like aura makes Seungyoun blink stupidly, stunned. Once, twice. And then he wants to curse, he wants to curse so bad, because fuck. 

Big eyes, long lush eyelashes and small mouth, fine pouty lips. Slim, petite body and long legs. Ethereal, elegant beauty. A starkly calm presence in the midst of lively chaos.

That’s bottle blond pretty rookie boy.

The now fluffy brown hair and sharper angles misguided Seungyoun, but those features could never fade into oblivion. That’s the boy that reminded him of Yibo, yet doesn’t look like Yibo at all at the same time. The boy—Kim Wooseok, he learns later, Kim Wooseok a.k.a Wooshin from Up10tion—is completely mesmerizing on his own.

And fuck, because Seungyoun has finally found him again, but during a competition. During the last chance Seungyoun has to put his career back on track. And he isn’t sure if Wooseok will play defence or attack.

It’s not like Kim Wooseok gives him a lot of time to ponder on it. “There’s a boy over there, in the hall, fawning himself because you’re his favourite indie singer,” Wooseok informs him, with the flattest tone Seungyoun has ever heard—and that's a feat, taking Yibo in consideration. But then the fine lips curve into a tiny smile. “Woodz? I had to search you in Melon. You have a new listener, sunbaenim.”

The tips of Seungyoun’s ears feel on fire and he ducks his head, a grin breaking through his face at lightning speed.

“But what is a real artist doing in an idol show like this?”

“Aren't we all artists?" Instead of a verbal answer, all Wooseok gives him is a look full of meaning, full of decades of society's underappreciation. "I started as an idol. I wanted to give it another shot. I sort of missed it.”

Wooseok nods, understanding. “What was it for you? The deceptive glamour of fame or the loud multitudinous validation?”

Seungyoun shrugs. Maybe both, maybe something else, maybe something more.

Soon, he figures out that Wooseok is a team player too. He must have been, or he wouldn't have belonged to a group with twice the number of members than UNIQ. The only reason only two members of Up10tion joined the competition is because good teammates have to be egoistic too.

Produce 101 theme songs have become iconic enough that even outsiders of the industry know them well. There wasn’t a single variety show where Nayana hasn’t been played at any point or a Myeongdong store that hasn’t played Pick Me at least once a day. Seungyoun himself has sung Nekkoya along many times without even noticing it.

This time, he is the one that has to sing and dance X1-ma, to be in the platforms and don’t forget to smile to the camera.  The moment he reads the lyrics, he decides to embody them.  

Don’t give up on your dream. Don’t lose the battle with yourself.

The vocal trainer tightens his lips during practice and clearly judges Wooseok’s performance: “I don’t know why you sing like this when you can relate to the song the most.”

Seungyoun bites his inner cheek. He gets it. Desperation is quirky like that—it can push you forward into the wild or make you shrink into a tiny ball. It all can depend on context. It all can depend on one’s stance. At the end of the day, experience is the one that can help you control the situation and keep your cool, and yet, sometimes, is the one that could play against you.

There’s a shift in Wooseok’s demeanour: he swallows hard and bites his lips, fingers clenched and wrinkling the paper. He is coolly fired up, not even allowing a consoling word in his way. “He’s in the right. I have to work harder. Seungyoun-ah, let’s go to A.”

They throw themselves into long days of practice, practice, practice. A remembrance of his trainee days at YG, from the never-ending training and scolding, to the small water breaks, to the crowds of pretty trainees—most of them middle and high schoolers. Except that, this time, Seungyoun is the hyung, the older one, who could stand out as a sore thumb. But, at the same time, he could just blend in, disappear in the midst of a hundred of pretty kids, be edited out.

There’s a fine line there, but weariness is starting to catch up on him fast enough to not let him ponder on it.

Fatigue isn’t only affecting him as the days go on. The other trainees start to slack off, to extend their breaks and to question themselves. Nothing new—Seungyoun has seen, has felt it, many times already in his life, but it’s kind of disheartening to witness it in young kids like Son Dongpyo.

So Seungyoun tries to be his most energetic and lively self to cheer them up. To help them understand that perfectionism is a good quality, but it could make you give a detour into anxiety. Meanwhile, energy and spirit helps you to improve. He adds some creativity into it—after all, cameras are rolling and Seungyoun hasn’t forgotten how not to fall out of camera.

But, after re-evaluations, Wooseok goes up and shines in the centre battle, while Seungyoun remains as B. It’s not a betrayal, but it feels like one.

Fortunately, the show’s schedules haven’t slowed down, haven’t given him enough time to dwell on it nor do anything else than eat and shower and put the final touches to a due song. They get a few hours of sleep after they film the Main theme MV, then they are sent right into the beginning of the Group X Battle evaluation, into the nervous wrecking moment of deciding teams.

Something pulls at Seungyoun’s guts and pushes him to act like a kid again, doing cute faces and begging with his eyes to be picked. Me, me, please, me.

Sweet golden child, Keum Donghyun, calls his name and relief washes Seungyoun over. Especially when he’s chosen to perform EXO’s latest hit song. And not only him, but Kim Wooseok is also in the team, already humming Love shot’s hook.

“I chose my team members to show unexpected charms. I picked those who seem to have sexy and masculine charms inside them,” Donghyun says, confident and a little abashed. The kid has sharp eyes, for sure. He even knew how to find the right balance between experience, talent and popularity.

Sitting in a corner of the big practice room, it becomes evident Donghyun also chose eager people. Seungyoun might be the most eager, bringing the center picking subject into conversation and raising his hand first as a candidate, yet the others soon follow him. The atmosphere is light and friendly, almost too careful, too aware of the cameras. Early drama isn’t good for the teamwork nor the audience, thus their appealing for center goes smoothly and organized.

“Since this is a sexy song, I think I could go well with the sexy concept on stage,” Wooseok points out, even if he looks damn cute with the round specs on.

“I think it’s rather a decadent song,” Seungyoun replies, going even further. Beyond the alluring beat, lyrics rams about hedonism, heart-racing pleasures and a push-pull about love. Falling in and out of it in the span of nights, dirty and enticing. Seungyoun is quite aware of what pushes him to comment: “I’d like to appeal one more thing: I have a good figure.”

“I think my appearance suits the song,” Wooseok arguments back, body leaned forward and stare fixed on him. Good lord. Is that competitiveness or shameless flirting? Or is it all Seungyoun’s flared up imagination?

Thankfully, Lee Hangyul intervenes. For a buff dude, his tone is playful and appeasing as he shows off his collarbones and lowers the sudden tension in the atmosphere. As Seungyoun follows his game and presumes his own collarbones, Wooseok abruptly straightens his back and raises his hands. “Guys, it’s not time to appeal your sexual attraction.”

Then Seungyoun wonders: when is?

As per a PD suggestion, each one of them end up performing the center part. It should be the expected cringe fest, full of second-hand embarrassment, but none of them were counting on their confidence and decision. Moreover, Seungyoun wasn’t counting on Wooseok definitive experience in sexy concept. Decadents, even.

When he’s called, Wooseok shows a controlled, perfect face. Hooded eyes, heavy breathing, parted lips. Sultry and brazen. Dirty and enticing. Luxurious even in that bright pink sweatshirt.

The poster child of decadent elegance.

A look that could haunt Seungyoun at night.

It doesn’t help that in their now shared tiny dorm room, Wooseok’s bed is in front of his. Seungyoun could even count his eyelashes if he wanted to—he won’t. What he is doing is turn away and memorize lyrics as if were his own. To get immersed in the song and the concept until he would be able to portray it perfectly.

A tricky task, because Love shot revolves around lust and tipsy decisions, yet there’s also an underlying anger and blue emptiness, and Seungyoun could relate to it all in different levels.

He can still do it. He’s confident. After all these weeks of practice, he had finally loosened the last remains of stiffness in his body, now he can use it to get rid of all this…horniness.

Because that’s all. Hormones. Seungyouns’ body getting back at him for all the time he couldn’t think clear, all the time he was trapped in the eye of the storm, all the time after he went from fucking around to completely shut himself in. This is Seungyoun feeling excited and attracted to someone after so many time. This is good, actually. It’s just some good-natured horniness, he tells himself. He just has to be careful not to let it show.

Nevertheless, he can do it. Seungyoun resisted Wang Yibo.

He endured sleeping in the same bed, cuddling and intertwined their legs, with someone for whom his heart beat fast, he can endure this.

“You have lots of tattoos,” Wooseok comments out of the blue, catching Seungyoun off-guard. They are getting ready to sleep, changing into pyjamas and, in his case, peeling the nude tape he has to hide tattoos with per show rules off. Seungyoun raises his eyebrows and giggles, slightlty embarrassed. Sometimes he forgets he has eight already and becomes aware of it when he sees his reflection or someone points it out. “They are…" Wooseok wavers. It seems like it's hard for him to find the right word, eyes transfixed, going up and down, from his shoulders to his hipbone. “Cool. I have none.”

“You don’t like them?”

Wooseok clinks his tongue. “My company wouldn’t let me. They want me to be this perfect model kid of purity,” he says, obvious disagreement in his voice. “I guess this is the difference between mere idols and real artists.”

Seungyoun shakes his head. "You are as good as any 'real' artist. The true difference is the company contract.” 

For a fleeting moment, Seungyoun moves forward, his hand outstretched to give the other guy an encouraging pat on his thigh, but freezes.

He has heard the word in the halls. Boss team leader, Han Seungwoo, has been proposing his team members to shower together. As a joke, he said, but insistent enough that Lee Jinhyuk had to remind him another show rule: Unnecessary touching can kick you out of the training camp.

This is a competition and a show, after all. That it’ll be broadcasted to millions of people. If Seungyoun wants to succeeds, he shouldn’t be involved in any kind of rumour. 

Maybe he didn't think the perks of anonymity through.

Working again in a group, Seungyoun notices he missed it—having someone to rely on, not carrying a whole song on his own, to share both the load and a goal.

Trainers give their team good feedback and the others trainees express their admiration or plain envy at their skill and progress. Already ready for an above than average stage, more practice and it’ll border perfection. Words go out, fast and unbridled, travelling halls and practice rooms. They start to get called the Keumvengers, the assembled teams of golden trainees, the new contenders for an angel edit. 

“Most companies sent their newer trainees or second-hand idols. They think of our show as a free promo, free training, no investment chance,” a PD rants to a co-worker one night in the halls, when Seungyoun stayed back to help Sejin with a dance move. “They totally disregarded this season’s concept too! Pretty boys with no talent and possible rough gems versus already polished skills. It’s clear who’ll stand out.”

“Edition will be a nightmare, tsk.”

Sejin’s breathing becomes even more troubled and he has to cover his eyes with his palms to hide his swelled eyes. He’s pressing, actually, trying to contain his tears. Fighting pressure with more pressure. And Seungyoun knows clearly what it’ll happen—he’ll broke.

He releases it later, to the whole team gathered and the intrusive camera in a small soundproof room. “I’m not good. You can’t wait on me forever. I feel… helpless. I don’t want to be an inconvenience. I need to do great and show a great performance. But since I can’t do it, I’m disappointed. And you guys end up having to monitor me.”

Vast and lasting frustration. Seungyoun has witnessed it at YG many times. Seungyoun has suffered it, endured it and overpowered it too. Not all, because frustration is vast as the sea. And when you dip your hands in it, you realize it’s cold and musty, an ugly nasty feeling. So when you take your hands out, you realize: your hands are already damp and grimy.

Frustration is always there, lingering. Especially when you run by the seaside.

“We’ve been practising for years already. Of course you’ll struggle at our side,” Seungyoun tells him, soft voice, comforting tone. “So what if the others are slightly disappointed in you? So what if you’re not doing too well? Despite that, you’re giving your all. You’re still persevering.”

Take it from someone with experience, he wants to add. Take it from someone that has been called a possible rough diamond and then was told he wasn’t enough. Take it from someone who had been cursed and then praised by the very same aspects of himself. Take it from who is here, right now, still fighting for a dream, still persevering.

He shuts those words before even enunciating them. They are too personal and sympathetic, bordering narcissistic. And, moreover, it’s not what Sejin needs.

“I’d like you to be less pressured,” Seungyoun says, instead. To the other and to himself. “You’ll do well soon.”

He remembers what his father told him once: I want you to enjoy your life.

The day of the performance, all Seungyoun sees for an instant is rouge. Rich, vivid, passionate. His legs tremble and his strength is quaking. In a no-man church, he’s about to kneel down and pray indulgence.

“Shouldn’t Seungyoun hyung use the red suit instead of the blue one? Wooseok hyung is the cool and calm one,” Hangyul asks in a joking manner, as he plays with the collar of Wooseok’s black shirt to annoy him to. Sihoon explains: “Center has to use red. It’s the colour of Kai sunbaenim.”

Wooseok looks—for the lack of a better word—good. Insanely good.

The perfect fit of the three-piece suit highlights his small frame and good proportions—the long legs, the slim waist, the delicate curvature of his lower back. Crimson, bordeaux and ebony compliment his fair skin and mysterious aura, adding nuance and a stroke of dauntless to his overall beauty. The outfit covers his whole tiny frame, zero skin at sight, yet oozes sensuality.

Purity and decadency knit together flawlessly.

And when Wooseok gazes at him through his reflection in the vanity mirror and smirks—the epitome of allure. A trespasser to his will. All Seungyoun wants to do is corner him and kiss that smirk off his face until his cherry lips become plum. And then, do other sins.

For a moment, Seungyoun wonders if he could sent this whole show straight to hell and blow this guy in a bathroom stall. Swell his lips, tousle his hair, wrinkle the tight ironed pants, mess his makeup with sweat. Wreck him. Turn purity and decadence into sheer indecency—slowly and vehemently.

“So you are showing your collarbones at the end. And more,” Wooseok comments, his eyes following the lines of Seungyoun’s royal blue outfit—notch lapel jacket, no shirt, just a choker. “Appealing to your sexual attraction… are you dressed to steal center’s spotlight?”

Seungyoun laughs. “Would never. But I’m a hoe for attention.”

The crowd’s cheers and murmurs go in crescendo as they step into the stage. The stage lights are too strong and the sound is too loud and his senses quickly become numb and hyperaware at the same time. His body tinges with energy and adrenaline and something akin to anamnesis. Quite possibly is just dopamine. Seungyoun then realizes: it’s been three years since the last time he went on stage.

He missed it. He missed so, so bad.

By the corner of his eye, he peeks at Wooseok, who is waving at the audience, and wishes him merde. Then, Seungyoun looks upfront, decided.

In a scale, his dream always weights heavier.

Good thing he can use all this pent-up horniness at least.

First Elimination day comes faster than he’d wish. He barely had time to bask in the feeling of a good performance being done, of the fervent response of the public, of the relief of winning the song battle and the bonus points. At least, he thinly managed himself not to feel floating through the skies when the other trainees praised him or when Sungjoo texted him your ugly face is getting viral.

Not even when Starship Kang Minhee, his contender, jokingly complained that it wasn’t fair, that Seungyoun on stage is S rank.

Now, nervousness is carving itself a home in his guts, harming the seemingly tranquillity he has built as all the trainees walked in into the studio and as the PD once again mentioned they are forming a worldwide famous group, one that’ll be recognized by Billboard in less than three months, so they need trainees’ participation, isn’t that much to ask, is it?

“This is an inevitable moment in the race of your dream towards making a debut,” the host Lee Dongwook opens the event, his voice smooth and already full anguish. After that, he introduces the rules to the camera and starts the long, nerve-wrecking announcement of the ranking.

Among all the trainees, only 1^st to 60^th will survive. Last time the rankings were made known, he had climbed up to 38^th. Technically, he’s still inside the competition; technically, he can breathe, away from any worry.

But why isn’t his name called yet?

Ranks are a variable that is too frisky, too volatile, too anxiety inducing. Soon, Seungyoun finds himself biting his lips or his nails, waiting for his name to be called, applauding to the ones mentioned, comforting the ones that had already given up. Glancing around, perilously staring at nothing.

Maybe he got it all wrong. Maybe people thought he wasn’t enough, maybe he hit the ball again too late or too soon and it fell short, maybe he should have stuck to the strategy room. Maybe he isn’t enough.

From time to time, cameras move to get him into focus. Just to film the candidates to each rank, just to create tension. They are reaching the threshold of Top30, halfway to the end, and Seungyoun is sick of appearing on the large screen for the first time in his life.

The host introduces place 31^th as someone who mesmerized everyone his clear high notes as main vocal and all the trainees start to mumble Han Seungwoo’s name. Seungyoun has to remind them that it could also be him in thin voice, barely higher than a whisper.

It’s not. And Seungyoun doesn’t want to feel like giving up, but reality is composing itself in a different way from his hopes.

Although he will have to fight some frustration, his heart is in peace. He’ll be able to look at the records his father left him and to talk to his mom about his future plans.

If he is going home after tonight, at least he knows he has done his best.

“Next, is the trainee in 28^th place. He makes me feel good just by watching him. He has great energy,” Lee Dongwook starts. Immediately, Seungyoun’s lips curve into a smile, Sungjoo’s text in mind. The rest of the trainees turn to him, expectant, and he has to remind them and to himself that it might not be him. Again, it might not be him. “From Yuehua, trainee Cho Seungyoun.”

Relief washes him over, relaxing his muscles and the fists he hadn’t even realize he was clenching. Congratulations come in his way and some kids hug him, yet he can’t see who they are—bliss is curving and wrinkling the side of his eyes, the smile in his lips growing fast and warm.

He’s inside. He won’t have to look at his father’s records nor go back to the backstage room yet.

He’s still in the race.

“I’d like to thank National Producers who brought me to this level when my ranking was very low,” Seungyoun starts his speech—a mix of what he’s been taught years ago and of his most sincere feelings. With a great disregard for the composure lessons, he lets voice waver as he continues: “I don’t want to say sad things when I’m so happy, but I feel like my father is with me from up there right now. I try to live with the romance you instilled in my heart. Your son is doing his best. Please watch over me. Thanks.”

It wasn’t his intention, yet he notices people on set blinking fast, holding back emotions and sudden blues. Seungyoun bows, but doesn’t apologise.

By the end of the day, the Yuehua trainees he came with are eliminated. And, for a fleeting second, Seungyoun feels bad for having stolen their spotlight, their chance to show themselves to the world, to reach their dreams. “We’ll be rooting for you, sunba--. Hyung.”

But this career with all its chiaroscuros is Seungyoun’s dream too. And he still is in the game, running.

For the next round, Seungyoun has made up his mind. This is a competition and a show. A survival show. He should seek and size up the competition, form a solid strategy, attack and defend Step up his game. Be good at teamwork and transcend expectations on his own. Also, he should not neglect the concept of the season: Potential.

Potential to be a solid performer, a future role model, a polished diamond. An all-rounder.

He was more than okay to lose the center to Wooseok because he was made the main vocal of the team instead and that had secured him many lines. But that was merely because he’s the only one with a vocal range high enough to hit the notes.

When it comes to positions, it doesn’t take him long to notice: too many dancers and vocalists, barely a few rappers in the competition.

There’s also a thick atmosphere of distress and nervousness, coupled with the desperate need to prove they could be good at more than one thing. That’s what X position takes advantage of—showcase your potential at both dancing and rapping or dancing and singing and win the double amount of bonus points. A high risk, high return situation.

For a fleeting moment, Seungyoun considers it. He had tried to manage China and Korea before.

“Hyung, what are you choosing?”

“Rap.”

This is not a safe bet, he tells himself. This is strategically thinking.

X position songs demand too many people in one team to work with and beat, but give not enough time to prepare a good stage. Meanwhile, rapper position has to be able to rearrange music and rewrite their own lyrics. Seungyoun is good at that. It’s been his line of work during the last couple of years.

Soon after, he’ll discover trainees were actually afraid of being in the same team with him.

His rise as team leader is quite sudden and undisputed. His experience speaks for himself, apparently, as the murmurs about Show Me the Money 5 follow him to the practice rooms.

And yet, he doesn’t get center again.

The main position goes to Nam Dohyon, a boy almost 10 years younger than him, too tall and too awkwardly adorable for his own good. And for Seungyoun’s, because he wants to cuddle and protect him instead of compete against him. He’d rather collaborate together; especially when he notices how hardworking and talented Dohyon is. And if he judges by the way Dohyon looks at him almost starry eyed, he feels the same.

The other members are two vocalists whose ranks are 59^th and 60^th. This team was their only choice left, their foreseen doom. Nevertheless, they accept to tackle the assignment with predisposition the moment Seungyoun promises to teach them. Even if it means to tackle the basics of hip-hop and lyricism.

“Have fun. Let’s do a good stage,” Seungyoun says as he helps them with tone, diction, lyrics, flow, emotions—all the things it took too many tumbles for him to apprehend.

“Legendary stage,” one of his teammates corrects him, excited. The same one that later points at him and remarks: “He’s the one that made it sound this good.”

Trainees that have come to check on them, to hear their practice, seem amazed. Slightly intimidated too.

At some point, Wooseok comes too, the Center and Leader stickers wrinkling his shirt at the height of the heart. If he’s here out of curiosity, for advice or comfort, Seungyoun isn’t sure. Wooseok doesn’t tell him. Just stands there, nodding along to their version of Zico’s Yes or No.

When Seungyoun is about to go to the stage, to meet the cheering crowd, he’s asked if he’s ready. “I’m 98 per cent ready. My performance will only be complete when National Producers watch it. That’s the other two per cent.”

Before the first beat drops, Seungyoun looks to the floor and takes a deep breath. Then, he raises his head and stares upward—to the bright lights, to the ceiling, to the sky above.

My role is All-rounder
It just happened
First, I was Main Vocal
This stage is gonna be mine~ too
I’m a little greedy, sorry
but I pull it off, don’t I?
I never look down
Step on the cloud, I fly
That’s where I’ll live
                Yes or No – 119! Version

Again, Seungyoun doesn’t win.

But he gets something equally important: recognition. Trainers ask him with absolute and genuine seriousness if there’s anything he cannot do. Peers call him the highlight of the performance. Loud cheers follow his name and he gets 2^nd place—another step forward, another more.

“You have quite a harem inside there,” Wooseok tells him and nods toward the waiting room. Then, he traces his hipbone with a hand, almost a slicing gesture, yet slow and teasing. Dumbfounded, it takes Seungyoun a moment to realize that Wooseok is mimicking him: “Mine~. If I’m a little greedy, sorry. Cho Seungyoun is mine~ man.”

Wooseok leaves him speechless. His breathing halts for a moment and his heart thumps fast in his chest. Perhaps it’s due to the adrenaline of a good performance, he tries to convince himself.

On stage, Wooseok looks princely and angelic. Also quite vulnerable as he sings to his past youth and ends up breaking into tears on stage. It saddens Seungyoun deeply. Suddenly, he’s overcome with blue emotions too and some sort of resemblance.

Afterwards, he looks for Wooseok. To comfort him, somehow. Yet the moment he sees his small frame, it is accompanied by a small smile on the cherry lips. “I won first place in my team,” Wooseok whispers.

Without being able to contain himself, Seungyoun engulfs him in a quick warm hug. He loudly congratulates him and pats the smaller shoulder, genuine sincerity in his words, yet trusting that the backstage noise will eclipse whatever is reverbing inside his body.

Once again, the awkward ugly feeling of falling behind. This time, it doesn’t bother him as much, though. This time, Seungyoun feels like he’s in the right place, at the right pace—catching up.

Next time the ranks are announced, Seungyoun has climbed to the 19^th place.

“And here I was thinking being a meme was your only strategy,” Jimin mocks him over the phone. There’s some noise in the background, distinct voices and percussion, which gives away the M.O.L.A reunion they are having without him. Hyunggu cutely screams something along the lines of we’re voting for you! Followed by a noncommittal hum from Jimin. Maybe he should have been wiser in choosing which friend to call. “Yeah, yeah, we do, but no so much. You’re getting quite a fandom out here. “

A quick search of his name had bared him he’s getting known. As Dispatch’s pick, as Mine boy, as the true all-rounder. He’s finally getting known. For his charisma on stage, for his personality and for his life choices. And he’s getting love for all that, for being himself. He’s also getting some bad comments for all that, for being himself.

However, if there is one good thing about competition it’s: no time for thinking and overthinking. It’s just practice, practice, practice. And then practice some more. Even during breaks, the training camp is so overcrowded that Seungyoun can’t hear his own thoughts.

This time, he has made a conscious effort to learn all the names. Between mirrored walls, rolling cameras and water breaks, he has nurture a friendship with all the older trainees—Park Sunho, Lee Hangyul, Lee Jinhyuk, Kim Wooseok, Han Seungwoo, Lee Sejin, Choi Byungchan— and has become a good hyung for the younger ones like Nam Dohyon, Choi Sunhwan, Son Dongpyo, Song Hyungjun. A supportive, joking fellow trainee for everyone in the camp, from low ranked trainees to PD’s blatant favourite Kim Yohan.

Seungyoun finds no time to be alone. Deep down, he’s relieved by that.

“And we all are trying to get you the best song for Concept Evaluations,” Jimin continues, “so don’t fuck up.”

Intrigue accompanies him the following days, until he is handed a yellow card and is dispatched to a practice room where many of the older and manliest-looking trainees are reunited. One of them even jokes that it’ll be their end if they are given a cutesy song, which Seungyoun disagrees with—at this point, he is ready to pull any concept off.

The song picked for them ends up being a Mainstream pop, hip-hop infused melody produced by Zico. Indisputably, one of the most ear-catching and popular songs. The one that, upon listening to it, Seungyoun declared: “As well as my mind, my heart told me I must do this song.”

Indisputably, it’ll be one of the most expected performances.  

A great ball is coming his way. It’s not the time to be faint-hearted. He has to ace it.

Go big or go home.

Once again, he steps up as leader and everyone agrees right away.

“Every stage you’ve been in has become a legendary stage, sunbaenim,” Lee Jinhyuk jokes. There’s sincerity in his tone, however it’s clear that the prime reason is that he doesn’t want to handle that kind of stress again. “Lead us to victory, Cho leader.”

Even if this team has many more members, it’s not really difficult when all of them are really determined. This is, arguably, one of the most important stages of the competition. And they are all note-worthy trainees ready to conquer it, as ready as they are to fight a fiery battle for the center position.

Impact, Seungyoun knows, is better caused when you go first. When you do it with all your might, you set the standard. A high standard. And avoid discouraging and thwarting yourself as you wait for your turn.

It’s a lesson he learnt out of impatience and nurtured self-consciousness. He uses it at every chance he gets and most of the times he comes out victorious. If not, at least he has no regrets.

And this time, he definitely has no regrets. This time, he wins.

The ambitioned Center position is his.

“Seungyounie hyung suits the song the best.”

“This is why he joined Show Me The Money.”

“His confidence impressed me.”

“Aigoo, our leader and center!”

Gratefulness invades him in big waves as Hangyul places both stickers above his heart. More than ever, he wants to work hard and make it work.

However, make it work isn’t to motivate nervous kids to do their best. This time, most members are motivated enough on their own, but injured—seriously, even. Broken bones, strained muscles, torn ligaments. This time, Seungyoun has to prevent them from falling into impotency and deep frustration, on top of worsening their physical states.

Seungyoun assumes his position as a moodmaker with total solemnity. He makes sure to become enthusiastic and loud and cheerful. To create a good atmosphere, to carry on with the practice and don’t let anyone fall behind too much, to share his joie de vivre, to make them believe they’ll do well.

He puts loads of energy on it, and yet:

“You didn’t meet half of my expectations,” the choreographer says, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched. “I’m mad. You are all better than…this. Will you be able to do a good stage?”

“Yes, sir!”

Seungyoun nods and takes in every word, every disappointment, every discontent. He has to—for the sake of the whole twelve membered team. As the leader, he has to take the responsibility. He is the one that has to make sure to replace all that dissatisfaction and boredom with fascination. He is the one that has to make sure the members feel well in order to do well.

It keeps him awake at the wee hours of the night.

He gets painkillers for the throbbing pain and nice, encouraging words to soothe their nerves. He does dumb jokes and gives free massages. He tries to make them feel less tired. Enjoy it, guys, enjoy it, even if pressure is bubbling inside him like boiling water.

Enjoy it, guys because, for some trainees, this would be the last nice moment they’ll have in the competition. He isn’t excluded, sadly.

Second Elimination day is as nerve-wrecking as the first one. He can’t wait for his name to be called and, at the same, he hopes for it to be pronounced way later into the ceremony. Top10 has become a solid wall, almost impossible to surpass, but that doesn’t stop him from looking with eager hopeful eyes at the popular trainees’ seats.

One day, maybe. Or maybe not.

Perhaps, all the hard work he has done until now will soon become another memory, another unsuccessful attempt.

“To fulfil his dream as a global idol, he risked everything and tried to do it all over again here,” Lee Dongwook introduces the next place in the rank—an overwhelming kind voice, yet it rings farther in Seungyoun’s mind, almost blending with the cacophony of the studio.

Trainees point towards Han Seungwoo again and murmur. No doubts, he’s been attracting attention lately and he is one of the few publicly known idols that have come to the show and he was the leader of his group, who could risk more than that?

Who could risk more than that?

It could be me.

“Who is it?”

“I can’t wait to hear the name,” Han Seungwoo says, a nervous smile in his lips.

“Yuehua Cho Seungyoun!”  

As he stands up, he gets engulfed by applauses and cheers. Relief washes him over and, even if he hadn’t climbed up so much, he hasn’t fallen down the rank either. He is still in.

To fill the silence as Seungyoun is congratulated and walks toward the main stage, Lee Dongwook keeps on talking: “He shows a new side of him for each evaluation. He’s too good that it’s almost deceiving. After position evaluations, he’s known as Mine Boy. He showed a great leap of 50 steps from first week. Now, he is a threat to everyone. He could be in the debut team as one of the strongest candidates,” he reads with a firm, believing tone. Like if he is wishing it too. And then: “Congratulations.”

Seungyoun smiles to his heart’s content for the rest of the night. He claps every time another contestant’s name is called and he barely holds back tears for the ones whose dream come to an end. The moment first place is announced, that Kim Wooseok walks towards the top of the pyramid, Seungyoun can’t help himself but screams congratulations. You did it, Wooseok-ah. You look good, you look like you belong there, you look like the rightful crown bearer. Dazzling, as always.

For some reason, Seungyoun’s chest is warm with happiness and pride when Wooseok leads the final greeting. As much happiness and pride as when Yixuan texts him the following day to tell him he had trended on weibo and on many Korean portals.

Curiosity is a powerful, ruthless persuader. Seungyoun trades hours of sleep for intiz articles and naver comments. Unlike other times, he doesn’t have to dig much deeper.

A hidden gem. Born for the stage. Sky-rocketing, meteoric rise in the ranks. This season’s dark horse. Most comments mention those words, followed by he’s my pick!

Also a thug, a failure, the reason his parents divorced, the reason his father is no longer alive. And a lot more things Seungyoun has no heart to withstand.

“Grow a thicker skin,” a staff recommends him. “Things get pretty ugly when the show is airing. Hate campaigns become the norm. As common as fans promoting you. Take it as a measurement of your success. Last time, it was a bloody battlefield but look at Kang Daniel now.”

He is not Kang Daniel but Cho Seungyoun, he wants to remind them. He has tasted a lot more and worse things than bad-mouthing—isn’t that the reason he’s in the show after all? To battle negligence, emptiness, frustration? To come out of it soul carved and ink scarred, but triumphant and esteemed?

His skin is rock solid by now. But, also, paper thin.

Context has never been on Seungyoun’s side. But that didn’t stop him and won’t stop him now. He texts his mother not to look through internet, though.

The real measurement he’ll guide from is when the show’s PDs went from barely showing him on screen for reactions and variety purposes, to actually asking him to MC the special segment of Cheerful X Field Day alongside PD and Nation’s favourite pick. That should mean he’s doing really okay.

Without missing a beat, Seungyoun confesses: “I used to play baseball.” There’s something tinkling in his voice—pride. Sheer arrogance. “Fourth batter in my elementary school.”

It’s innocuous—the right amount of shameless bragging to be entertaining and not utterly obnoxious. After all, cameras are rolling (cameras are always rolling, even when the red lights are off) and they are in a competition. And this is not Seungyoun’s first rodeo. He knows when is the right moment to share his anecdotes, his funny and nonsensical comments, his deep-rooted insecurities.

He was fourth batter. He was always about to be in the game, he was always behind, he was always waiting for his moment to shine. He is batting now.

The bat in his hands weights less than he remembers and, at the same time, is heavier. Maybe it’s due to the material or to his weariness. So he grips it; firm, decided—and maybe repeating some vices his trainers had scolded him about.

Putting on a show of swinging the bat, Seungyoun hits an imaginary ball of air in what could possibly become a homerun.

But, in context, in time and place, in this game, he just missed. By a wide margin.

His first thought is: ah, I fucked up.

Then, without missing a beat and turning deaf ears to his begging, Yohan blows the whistle and announces: “He blew out one candle!”

Seungyoun deflates and laughs away his miseries.

It’s fun, it’s broadcast worthy. It’s also a sudden reminder that Seungyoun is playing on full count.

Upon seeing him, Zico raises his eyebrows. “What are you doing here? Last time I heard about you, you were writing with Kriz and Suran.”

Seungyoun bows first as a greeting. Even if they had met many times before, they aren’t actually close friends. Besides, he has come to Zico’s company to record Move with his teammates, they can’t display any kind of brazen behaviour that might be seen as favouritism. “I’m giving it another try.”

“You want the idol tag again?” Zico snorts, sceptical.

“I want attention, sunbae.” Not really a confession, but one of the few times he says it out loud.

Zico looks at him with hawk eyes. Then, he shrugs. “Well who am I to judge? Fame is a shitty thing, but people like us can’t give it up.”

“It’s like the most uplifting and glamorous poison,” Seungyoun smirks, recalling the brief conversation he had with Wooseok months ago and that had permeated to his own beliefs. “It can be sweet, too.”

Again, Zico looks like he’s about to snort yet ends up giggling repeatedly. “Such optimism. I always wonder why us artists like to romanticize shit,” he sighs, shaking his head slightly when Seungyoun jokingly sings we are, we are, we artists, baby. “You better do my song justice, hoe.”

Seungyoun nods, eagerly. Determined. He will.

He is at a critical point—two outs in the bottom of the ninth and a full count. Move is the ball that will decide everything, he can feel it.

That’s why he’s been pushing practice the most he can to his teammates without neglecting the mood. That’s why they’ve been preparing hard to record the song the most swiftly they can. That’s why they are today, in front of Zico, proving themselves before meeting the audience.

The thing is: Seungyoun has been eroding himself. Leadership and the pressure not to let his team fall into sickness and frustration have been taking a toll on him. The pressure to do well, to do a legendary stage, to swing the bat with all his might and hit has been steadily draining his energy. From time to time, the sensations in him are too much—his bones are made of concrete and his resolve, a thin trembling music sheet.

Lee Dongwook even had to remind him to rest and not get sick.

“Okay, that was really good! You clearly know how to tighten your bodies up,” Zico asses with a tiny, satisfied grin. “Now focus on loosening up on purpose. Have fun, guys.”

Recording goes smoothly. Seungyoun goes first not because he volunteers, but because the others point at him. Apparently, he’s the one that can create the atmosphere of the song. That night, Seungyoun falls asleep wondering if it’s another way to describe causing an impact.

When asked, Seungyoun recognizes that their main contender is Wooseok’s team. If Move is supposed to be a powerful song, U Got It would be a sensual song. And when it comes to that concept, Wooseok is exceptional. Even when he goes for a quite tamed shirt, unlike Han Seungwoo and his loose deep V-neck shirt, he looks captivating. While Seungwoo has a straightforwardly sexual charm, Wooseok is alluring and exquisite. Drop dead gorgeous.

Besides, Kim Yohan is in the team too, looking quite manly and sensual, and probably provoking fangirls to scream their lungs out. There are also other popular trainees in the team that Seungyoun doesn’t want to look at because they are minors and this is a song meant for velvet sheets.

Two seats away from him, Lee Jinhyuk snorts. “Always so stiff,” he mutters as the screen shows Wooseok going up the stage, cool blank expression on. “The company has been on his ass about being a good boy, as if he enjoyed the hiatus. But this is too much.”

“Hiatus? Why?”

“He did something that seemed controversial—ah, is starting.”

Seungyoun wants to pry, wants to know more about whatever affected Wooseok, but the melody starts and soon all curiosity lies dormant at the back of his head. Jaw-slacked and mouth dry, he has to force himself to swallow saliva when the choreography demands for them to do body rolls on the floor.

Admittedly, Seungwoo does more than great in the performance. Everything he does, every movement, every gesture, every expression is so inherently sexual that Seungyoun feels warmth coils in belly. If the opportunity arises, right now he’d totally bang Seungwoo.

But then Wooseok appears on screen, hooded eyes and captivating gestures, and all pales in comparison. Seungyoun’s heart skips a beat and then dances furiously as Wooseok lures him in with his tiny smirk and his honey voice singing about fatal attraction. He looks so overwhelmingly good. So entrancing and delicate. More luxurious and unobtainable than any diamond in the world, and yet Seungyoun wants to reach out and unbutton that elegant modern poet’s shirt, button by button, with absolute care and finesse.

Rosiness spreads across his cheeks when he realizes that he's been fantasizing about making love to Wooseok for hours in the middle of a room filled with people and cameras. Seungyoun should be truly grateful for wearing thick stage makeup.

It doesn’t hit him until a few days later that he has never compared Wooseok to a diamond.

Move stage comes last in the schedule. Their main concern quickly becomes the audience. People must feel tired now and completely uninterested after already watching the performances of their picks. And just for that, Seungyoun will try to compensate. To exceed the expectations.

It is, quite possibly, the last inning they have and all their energy should go to it. Wake the audience up, shake their world, brighten their mood, amaze them. Make then enjoy.

“Confidence, guys. We can do it. We are the Six crazy. Let’s rock!”

Up on the stage, in front of the crowd, the atmosphere is completely different. It’s dense and light at the same time, it’s bright and warm by the incandescent stage lights, yet chill and vacillating. Seungyoun goes to his position and takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes, a silent prayer staining his lips, and when he exhales, he shoves all his insecurities out.

He lifts his head again, slanted eyes open, focused upfront—on the crowd, on the camera. Intense. Powerful.

Weeks of preparation are condensed in a 3 minutes performance. And yet, in what feels like the duration of a lightning breaking through the sky, the song comes to an end and Seungyoun finds himself panting heavily.

And then, the thundering chant follows: encore, encore, encore.

His lips twitch and finally curve into a big smile. Tingling warmth spreads through his body, fast and overwhelming, as the cheers go in crescendo. They are requested to do an encore. They are the first group to be asked that by the crowd. The only group. Bliss and pride take a hard grip of his emotions, paired with a deep gratefulness as he bows down to the crowd.

And Seungyoun reflects: he definitely lives for the applause.

“Hey, Seungyoun-ah,” Zico calls him, when he’s on his way out from the room where trainers and producers monitored the performances. “For me, it’s clear you are not here just for the attention. You have fun on stage, don’t you? All that energy… I’d dare to say it’s your passion.”

“Ah, thanks, sunbae.”

“Don’t thank and don’t sunbae me. I might not be the most adequate to say this, dude, but keep that mind-set.”

Later, after the audience casts their votes and leaves, the results of the on-site voting is announced. Among all the trainees, Seungyoun is first place. His team doesn’t win the bonus points because U Got It wins as a team—which he considers quite fair, honestly.

And yet: he alone gets more votes than all the popular trainees.

During the following days, he’s fueled with too much energy. He does dad jokes and funny faces and stunts and barely holds himself back from flirting with Wooseok. Third Elimination reels in and he pads into the set with resolution, ready to climb up the stairs. Or to go home, if it’s the case, with the satisfaction of having done a great performance.

Nervousness starts to inevitably carve his insides as the announcements are getting nearer and nearer to the Top10. His name hasn’t been called yet. Not even once, not even as a candidate.

“I can’t predict the rank at all.”

“This is madness. I thought it was a given.”

Seungyoun sees Lee Hangyul already seated, relieved expression on, on his mid tenths seat. He also congratulates the younger trainees he usually dotes on, Song Hyungjun and Nam Dohyon, before they walk to the main stage, to their seats inside the Top10.

A chill breeze slides down his spine. Slowly, like the first droplets of drizzle that lazily fall from the skies before a storm, Seungyoun starts to wonder if he has fallen to the 20^th place. Or if he’s directly out of the competition.

The Cho Seungyoun pierces through his thoughts. It feels both like the sudden awakening from an up-coming nightmare and like a fever dream. For a moment, he can’t believe it. He has to bite his inner cheek to come to terms with the fact that this is not a lie, this is him being called, this is him being recognized.

6^th place. He trespassed the threshold, broke through the solid wall and got in the big comfy seats. Cho Seungyoun the dark horse of the season, Cho Seungyoun the charismatic threat, Cho Seungyoun the all-rounder.

Cho Seungyoun, the one going to the final. To the live show.

And he’s going to make it worth.

“My fans ask me about you,” Wenhan comments in lieu of a greeting. He sounds somehow tired, yet happy.

As far as Seungyoun knows, he’s been going from show to show, photoshoot to photoshoot, recording studio to music video filming, and all back again. He’s been gaining lots of attention as the Youth with you winner and new boygroup Unine leader and center. He’s been acting as weird as always, or so Sungjoo assured him the other day. And considering that they had to schedule a phone call, Seungyoun believes him.

“Really? Mine ask me about Yibo.”

“You little shit…” Wenhan mutters. The anger sounds so fake that Seungyoun wonders how he got all those acting roles in the past. “Good thing I won’t have to see your face for at least another… what, five years is your contract?”

Even though he doesn’t want to have his hopes up, Seungyoun can’t help but giggle. “We still don’t know if I’m going to be in the group, ge.”

“You doubt it? You are more short-sighted than before, Youn-ah!” Wenhan screeches. “I’ll never go to a batting cage with you again.”

Seungyoun frowns. The other’s Korean is sloppier than before, yet that will never stop him from being loud and exasperating when he wants to. And the reason why the both of them always got along so well is actually because they really like to exasperate each other. Their harmless bickering is something that Seungyoun misses from time to time.

“Don’t you have new members to annoy?”

“I do. But they aren’t as dumb as you.”

“Sungjoo hyung called me cute.”

“Sungjoo hyung is dumb too. He just tried to appeal to your new hordes of fans,” Wenhan sneers immediately. Then: “Youn-ah. Even if you get ten new brothers, text ge whenever you need it,” he asks and hangs up.

To have a distinct last day feels weird. Unlike when he first debuted, that was exciting on top of all, and Seungyoun wanted it to be over so he could no longer be called a trainee, but an idol. Now, it’s weird. He might feel a little hollow when he won’t have to wake up and go to the training camp.

It felt kind of good to instil worry and something akin to fear in the others as they were beginning the last evaluation—Debut evaluation. Now, he wonders if he won’t miss the bad jokes and walking on eggshells near the cameras.

Time is a curious thing. The final live show was supposed to last 4 hours, yet the performances go by like a flash—one moment he’s wearing the blue uniform and singing don’t give up on your dreams, the next moment he’s with a mesh shirt and inviting people To my world—while the rest of the time, the final rank ceremony, stretches and strains for a longer period than their whole training time.

This is it.

The end of a show, of a competition, of a race. Possibly, the absolute end of the game for him.

For moments, he’s tired, hesitant and anxious. He can’t bring himself to smile. Seungyoun has to remind himself he came here for the recognition, not to be part of the final line-up. And yet, now that he’s here, a not so tiny part of him wishes to debut again in this group so, so bad.

Now that he’s here, he has to remind himself of his resolution. Be honest with the world and with yourself, Seungyoun-ah. He wants the fame, the attention, the energy, the feeling of belonging. He wants to have people by his side again, running towards the same goal and sharing the burden. He wants the normal and the extraordinary.

Greediness has always been his biggest fault.

His vision becomes blurry when he comes to terms with himself.

Kang Minhee’s name is called first and Seungyoun gets kind of envious. Kid opens his mouth, incredulous to the bone. But then he glows on camera—he is amazed, he is in peace, he is debuting.

The second he hears Nam Dohyon, he can’t contain his delight and his big brother pride. The kid he wants to collaborate with and dotes enormously on is also in the final line-up. Similar to when Lee Hangyul is called, so sudden that Lee Hangyul himself is stunned and Seungyoun has to tell him go, go, it’s you. You‘re finally debuting. He’s elated for them.

Ranks are a variable that is too frisky, too volatile, too anxiety inducing. Soon, Seungyoun finds himself biting his lips or inner cheeks, reminding himself that the main reason he came here is the attention, the applause, the recognition. Not necessarily being in the final line-up. And he got some of that—another taste of the sweet, sweet poison. He should be content, not helding back his breath, hoping for more, more, more. Hoping for somethingthat is always out of his reach. Glancing around, perilously staring at everything he has ever fantasized with since he was a kid, Seungyoun gradually but steadily lets it go. Second per second, rank per rank, he lets it go.

Quite possibly, his eyes look glossy and droopy on camera.  

Yuehua Entertainment, Cho Seungyoun!

His breathing halts. His reality vanishes. The boy next to him, Keum Donghyun maybe, grabs his arm to congratulate him and suddenly everything is vivid again—the loud cheers, the stage lights, the cameras pointing at his face, the congratulatory hugs, his own breathing. He is breathing. And he’s also drowning, but in a lively and tickling sensation that pushes him forwards, into motion.

And suddenly, he can’t stop smiling as he walks the short runway to his new debut.

Jubilant and filled with awe, he doesn’t even catch his cue to do his speech. He doesn’t even have a speech. His trainers back at YG would be so disappointed in him—he couldn’t care less right now.

929.311 votes. 929.311 reasons to be thankful for.

“First, I’d like to thank National Producers that supported me. Actually, I didn’t think I’ll debut, so I didn’t prepare anything,” he confesses, shrugging a little. “But I’d like to thank many people. The 101 trainees, trainers, Representative Lee, my family. I hope everyone who loves me will be filled with small happiness like these. I’d do my best to bring joy to your lives. Please keep supporting me. Thank you.”

As he goes up the stairs to meet the members of his new group, he vaguely hears Lee Dongwook say:

“He has outstanding skills and it must have been hard when he didn’t make it. I’m thankful he never gave up. Luckily, this time he’ll become a loved artist on the global stage.”

This time, his name will be remembered.

He has given his speech in a composed way. He has hugged the kids and received the new members with big applauses—Hyungjun, Seungwoo hyung, Yohan, Wooseok. He has comforted the nervous wreck Lee Eunsang had become during the long announcement. He has beamed and squealed out of sheer joy and blinked tears back, even when he saw his mother applauding vehemently.

Contentment fills his heart, deeply.

But when Lee Dongwook proclaims that the new Nation’s group has been formed, when they all bow and thank the public that has been following them and voting for their boys, when cameras are finally being turned off, when it’s real—Seungyoun breaks.

Droplet after droplet of salty liquid falls across his cheeks, his airways start to spam and his nose becomes snotty.

Wooseok is the first one to notice his tears. Even when Seungyoun tries to hunch away from the other’s sight, Wooseok quickly slides to his side and embraces him loosely, comforting him. “It’s okay. Hey, it’s okay. You deserve it,” Wooseok whispers in his ear, loud and clear. “Believe it because you’ll be walking the flowery path for the next five years. We will. Together.”

Seungyoun holds onto him and onto his words.

His friends spam his phone with hundreds of congratulatory texts and fantaken pictures of him teary-eyed. There’s so many notifications received during the few hours that Seungyoun had been caught in the emotion-filled post-show greetings and in the little celebration party with his mother, that Seungyoun almost missed Yibo’s incoming call for the second time.

“Youn-ah! Congratulations. I knew you’ll make it,” Yibo says in careful Korean, his deep voice sounds so tired it’s almost palpable. And yet, the joy and pride are even more notorious. “You are quite the talk of the company. I heard you were a crybaby.”

Seungyoun pouts. A few tears and now everybody has penned him as an easy crier.

“As if you are one to talk, Babyibo,” he snickers. “Thanks. I… at some point, I honestly thought I’ll be going back home.”

At the other side of the line, Yibo makes a non-committal sound. “You will. In five years, more or less.” Seungyoun smiles. A short silence extends between them. A short silence that somehow feels longer than the 591.71 air miles that separate Seoul from Beijing. “I guess… we won’t be together for all that time, right?”

Pressing his lips, Seungyoun decides not to answer. Instead: “Hey, Yibo. Remember what we said when we were trainees? That we’ll dominate the music landscape? That we’ll be on the top; so high up that people will have to crack their necks to see us. You in China and me in Korea?”

There’s a short, deep laugh at the other side. “I do. I thought you were bat crazy,” Yibo acknowledges, “but it was nice dreaming about it. Having all those big hopes and goals. I guess you were right after all.”

“You think?”

“Real recognizes real.”

Debut rush is actually a thing. One month to prepare it all: a new album, a brand new concept, a new choreography, a new showcase. Magazine spreads with their faces, billboard posters, LED screens, CF proposals, their names at the top of the searches. The biggest stage in the biggest stadium—20.000 seats in a baseball stadium. In Gocheok Sky Dome, where only big household names like BigBang and EXO have had concerts. The huge crowd is now cheering for him. Cho Seungyoun! Cho Seungyoun! Cho Seungyoun! in piercing screams, louder than the soundtracks.

Seungyoun is exultant. He jumps from one side of the stage to the other and sings full of emotions and laughs until his stomach hurts. He even does something as risqué as teasing Wooseok during the U Got It stage in front of the sold-out stadium and 7 million people live streaming it. At last, he bows deeply, until he can only see his own shoes.

This is it. His homerun. His diamond chance. An assembled group of too many different people, with different ages but almost identical goals, that learnt to respect and cherish the others in the span of three months, through hard work, tears and sweat. That had a similar dream ahead, coming true.

Is not UNIQ and it’ll never be UNIQ, and that’s okay, because Seungyoun doesn’t want it to be either. It’s neither a replacement nor a rebound; not even a second chance.

It’s Han Seungwoo, Kim Wooseok, Kim Yohan, Lee Hangyul, Lee Eunsang, Kang Minhee, Son Dongpyo, Cha Junho, Song Hyungjun, Nam Dohyon and Cho Seungyoun.

It’s X1.

And Seungyoun is ready to fly high through the clouds with them. 

Strike three.

Some days, it felt like a fever dream—a debut album selling more than half a million records, topping music lists, being mentioned by Billboard. Some days, Seungyoun would have preferred it was a fever dream instead of tangible trophies, thousand articles and stigma.

Someone stole his diamond chance again. People with brand designer suits and major fake interests. And it was gone both, steadily and quickly. A few months, then the nanosecond someone uses to click post, then months of arduous judgment, then a ten minutes talk where their inputs didn’t matter.

They have never mattered.

Even after all these years in the industry, he keeps forgetting that his dreams are only business for other people.

And Seungyoun finds himself wondering why he has tried so hard again to succeed when, at the end of the day, he doesn’t matter.

One month. All they asked was one month more living all together in the very same dorm they were supposed to inhabit for the following two and a half years, if not the five years of the now nullified contract. It might have been a mix of pity and bewilderment that pushed their companies to agree. Maybe some disinterest too—suddenly they have one or two trainees back for whom they barely have anything planned, so it gets easier to plan a future when they don’t have children completely under their care.

Seungyoun has no plans.  

Sure, he can go back to being just a composer. He is going to go back, certainly, but somehow it feels lacking. Awry. Dull. Like he’s going back to sit on the bench, scrapped knees and ego, as the other players continue playing on the field. Back to being a static point, tiptoeing in inertia—and Seungyoun hated inertia. Still despises it. And also dreads it deeply.

Fame certainly is a sweet poison. Uplifting, glamorous and deceiving. With a bitter aftertaste.

Especially when reality sinks in. Especially when he has to compel himself to close the news articles before the vicious comments get to him. Instead, he ends up watching cuts of the show in his phone to see when it happened—be it the rigging or where he fucked up, he isn’t sure.

All he watches is a hundred of boys working hard—some of them getting angel or evil edits, even; some of them barely getting to appear in one or two frames. All he watches is a fraction of what they really went through—the sweat, the smiles, the tears. At some point, Seungyoun realizes that he gradually gained more and more screentime, the show

He sees himself batting. Only one candle. All that hard work and he barely blew out one candle.

Is terrifyingly easy to fall back into a deep pit of dark thoughts. But when Dohyon goes to his room and lays down in his bed just because Minhee isn’t there anymore to be the first one to claim hyung’s bed and asks with a shaky deep-yet-still-pubescent voice a “Hyung, what is going to happen now?”,  Seungyoun comes to terms with the fact that he has to stand still. He’s the hyung now, he has to give the example, he can’t fall apart. Not again, no matter how tempting it sounds. Not in front of the kid, at least.

“Now we go for pork ribs and bimbimpab, and maybe some ice cream after. What do you think, Dohyon-ah?”

A smile appears quickly in the kid’s gloomy face, not as triangular and bright as other times, but still a smile. Life has kicked the boy out of the game way too early, so to still get a smile feels like a win.

“Hyung, if you could reply to the comments, what would you say?”

Seungyoun doesn’t think it twice: “Fighting.”

As the week is coming to an end, Sungjoo takes him to have dinner and a few drinks in small familiar place near the river. Seungyoun complains about the cold, but he goes nevertheless  “You’ll continue your solo career, right?”

“I don’t know, hyung. I’m not sure if I’m made for this.”

“For what? To be on stage? You were born for it, Youn-ah.” Sungjoo’s gaze is sharp, so leader-like that, for a moment, Seungyoun feels like he’s seventeen, sweating like crazy in the dungeons of YG as monitors their performance and points out their mistakes. But then he pinches Seungyoun’s cheeks and is back to being obnoxious, loveable Sungjoo hyung.  “It would be a waste of potential to go back to your studio and not release anything. The world has to know how amazing our lion cub is!”

“Hyung, people look at us weirdly…”

“I don’t care. It’s your fault for being cute and famous. Also, wasn’t it one of your dreams?”

“Yeah, but you know… when you’ve stumbled too many times while running, you become wary of the road.”

“So your solution is to step out of the race?”

“No! I just..”

Sungjoo sighs. “You’re not a quitter, Youn-ah. Xuan-ge and I didn’t raise you to be one.”

“You didn’t raise me, hyung.”

“I basically did!” Sungjoo assures him. “And because I did do it, I know that is not in your personality. It’s okay to have some self-doubts, all this was too soon…”Like a clean cut. ”But soon you’ll stand up again on that stage and will charm everybody again.”

“We could work on an Uniq sub-unit.”

Sungjoo shakes his head. “I’ll be enlisting soon. It’s my time.” He throws a napkin at Seungyoun. “Stop being so paranoid! You’ll do great on your own. Besides, people will just fall in love with me and won’t pay attention to you.”

“I take it back.”

Slowly, they start to leave. One day they order chicken finger for a small army; the next day, for seven people. And then they no longer want to order take out.

Wooseok comes into his room uninvited, like if he has ever needed one, like if Seungyoun would have ever be able to tell him no—or to any other member. Seungyoun would never be able to push away any of his group members. Especially not Kim Wooseok.

Even less when Kim Wooseok comes into his room uninvited and shuts the door with the decision, with the expression of who wants to slam it with every fibre of his being, of who wants to scream, but keeps his jaw clenched. For a moment, Seungyoun wonders if he has done something to make him angry. Yet the ire in Wooseok’s eyes doesn’t seem directed at him, but at something way bigger than both of them.

Then Wooseok throws himself on top of Hangyul’s bare bed and kicks the mattress as he mutters complains about the hole shaped in it after Hangyul’s big physiognomy.

Seungyoun wants to ask him if there’s anything wrong, but the answer is obvious. Fucking everything. So he says: “Want to talk?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?!”

“I said,” Wooseok enunciates voice clear and loud in the room, “can I kiss you?”

And Seungyoun nods. Of course, he nods. Dumbly, astonished, enthusiast.

Next thing he notices is Wooseok getting up at lightning speed and crossing the room in three long strides. Next thing he notices is Wooseok swiftly climbing on top of him, straddling his legs, trapping him between his body and the mattress. Next thing he notices is Wooseok’s gaze, filled with ire and want and foxily last-moment hesitation, just mere centimeters from his. Next thing he notices is Wooseok biting his inner lip—and Seugnyoun loses it.

They kiss, not sweet, not really dirty. Demanding.

“I almost lashed out at Seungwoo just now,” Wooseok says the moment they pull apart, almost against his lips. It feels like he’s confessing his sins, mouth to mouth. “He was telling me about how he wanted to leave last. But, apparently, Victon is gearing up to their next comeback and the company wants him to be in it.

“I’ll talk some sense into him later”

“Will you?”

“Yeah… but I kind of understand him. Is easy to lose the trust in yourself when this kind of shit happens. When you try to stand up 8 times and stand still, but they still hit you with a missile-like ball in the face that pushes you back a 9^th time. You start to wonder if it isn’t a me problem. Everything I do, everything I touch, it gets dismantled“. He doesn’t know why he’s telling him this.

Wooseok stares at him for a long second. “I get what are you saying, I felt it once, but you’re wrong. you’re touching me right now and I’m not getting dismantled. And I’ll show you I’ll stand put, no matter how much you touch me.”

Seungyoun gapes at him. Wooseok blinks and then turns full flushed. “Oh, fuck. That’s not what I meant. I--. Fuck. I wanted to confess to you since, I don’t know, since your rap evaluation? But it was never the right time. And then this shit happened and I told myself I was going to tell you before we part ways in case that, you, didn’t want to see my face anymore. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Wooseoks hisses at himself.

Seungyoun circles his arm around the tiny waist and caresses his ribcage.

“I’ll like to keep seeing your face,” he assures him. “And touch you and kiss you if you let me. Whatever you want.”

He has learnt to love the soft jazz notes and RnB sounds, the coffee smell and the space. But he also loves the fuss and mess of too many people in one room.

Seungyoun loves belonging to a group, to have members to relay on and to dream with. Even if he has never had an issue with solicitude, loneliness scares the shit out of him.

When he comes back to his mother’s house, she hugs him tightly.

“No pressures, dear. You are already doing okay.”

The thing is: Seungyoun isn’t doing okay. He’s at that stage where he’s not in an awful place, but neither in a good one. He’s steadily dipping his toes into the water and having all these fears thrumming through his body about going deeper, way deeper. All these renewed insecurities, all these uncertainties, all these…bad emotions bottled up inside him.

The noise repeats when you lock me up in a dark room
How does it feel? Feel like I’m going to drown. I can’t stand it anymore.
(How does it feel?)
To be free, a little lower
Even if I fall down endlessly (Till I die)

I’ve gone far, Get down
I’m want to walk with my breath in the air
But I don’t mind, I don’t mind
Huh, Everyone get your hands off me
In the midst of unprovoked jealousy and anger,
There’s no place for me to stay now

WHAT DO YOU MEAN? I’M A NOID
Please leave me alone,
I’m fine and I don’t fit in
YOU’RE SO BORING
I’ll cover my ears again and pretend I don’t know, I’m out, Bye
I’ll be tryna go low
I’ll be on my own oh
Let me be a noid, enough
                Noid – Woodz

“Hey, Yibo. Do you think that there could had been a bright future for us?”

“Us as Uniq, or us together?”

Seungyoun doesn’t reply.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Seungyoun’s heart beats and it’s no longer the fast, yearning beat. But a proud one.

“But life doesn’t always work as we want, right? Sometimes it goes down and sometimes the other people discover that some like you are real diamonds. Life is a game where the direction of the wind matters, where the strength one uses can make you win or, at least, stand still…”

“Don’t understand you, Seungyoun-ah,” Yibo complains and he giggles, because he can picture the wrinkles in his nose, like a small rabbit. “Don’t get too philosophical and a mumbling mess of advanced Korean. And don’t dummied it for me. As far as I know, you’re a diamond. And people appreciate you. Fans appreciate you, members appreciate you, I appreciate you. Your boy appreciate you.”

At that, Seungyoun actually becomes a mumbling mess. “What? Boy? I—don’t”

“I’m hurt, Seungyoun-ah. When are you going to introduce me to pretty boy? I see him all the time in your friends only stories.”

“You actually use Instagram?”

“Yeah, I check it sometimes before going to sleep.”

“Oh, speaking of that,” Seungyoun starts, dwelling into known territory, into harmless teasing. Far from the… friend with benefits? Boyfriend? subject. “Are you still unable to sleep alone?”

At the other side of the line, Yibo scoffs. “I’m an adult now, Youn-ah. I sleep just fine.”

“With the lights off?”

There’s a long second of hesitation, followed by a grunted curse in Chinese. “With the Sports channel on. At volume 3!” Yibo assures him in a mix of grunt and hiss, barely audible above the peals of laughter that come from Seungyoun. “Fuck off. Not all of us have a pretty fuck buddy to sleep with!”

“Are you at the studio?” Wooseok says as soon as he calls.

“Huh? No, I’m home.” Wooseok makes a sound like he isn’t happy. “Where are you, I’m gonna pick you up.”

“No, it’s fine. My manager is driving me h… ugh. Can we meet?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I can anywhere you want. Or… you can come here. My mom’s out.”

“Make tea. I’ll get us some cookies… low calories, yeah!” he says louder, to hs manager presumably.

Wooseok comes half an hour later, barely giving Seungyoun time to turn on the kettle and tidy some of his mess, and brings spicy ramen instead. So Seungyoun wiggles his eyebrows and does an off-handed joke about having Ramen and go, just as he logs in in Netflix, and for a moment he thinks Wooseok is going to punch him in retaliation. But this is Wooseok and he laughs at his joke, he always laughs at his jokes, with an embarrassed knowing smirk. And oh, God, how is that Seungyoun never realized earlier? HE could have kissed those beautiful thin lips way too much by now.

“So, what happened?” he asks after Wooseok kissed him hungrily, licking the taste of spicy ramen out of his mouth.

“My company wants me to go solo,” Wooseok groans. “Not going back to Up10tion, not even a duo with Jinhyuk. A solo career.”

Seungyoun stills. Already? Disbandment was like…2 weeks ago? “Ah, my company said something about not wasting the produce hype either,” he comments. He doesn’t remember exactly what his CEO said, he tuned him out pretty much at the beginning of the conversation, feeling not ready yet. “And you don’t want to?”

Wooseok groans. “Of course I want a solo debut. I’m a greedy asshole, we all are. But this whole…charade wasn’t only for me to get known by the public, but my whole group. And the group’s sales haven’t increased that much. And now I have to go to the dorm and breaks the news to the guys and I… how do I look them in the eyes?”

“You scared. I get it. You love them too much, so you fear they’ll take it personal. Bu they won’t believe me. If you explain them well, they’ll understand. After all, the moment we sign up for this career, we are taught that this is a race. Sometimes, some racers will take advantage. And it’s not because you’re doing something wrong. And they also love you, so they would want you to take on this diamond chance.”

“You sound so sure about that.”

“You’re loveable. Even when you give me that demon-y stinky face.”

Wooseok snorts. And then, when he calms down: “I am scared. I’ve been always in a group. How am I supposed to fill the stage on my own?”

Seungyoun inhales, the self-doubts very familiar to him.

“People won’t get bored. If anything, you’ll get a bit more obsessive about making the perfect stage. And inventive. So, in the end, people will get more and more charmed by you,” Seungyoun says. “Yes, you’ll have self-doubts. It’s only natural and that’ll push you to work even harder. And fans will notice that. They will love you even more than they do now. And when you will look back at your own stages, you¿ll think ah, I was doing okay. But more than that: you are going to do it perfect.”

Wooseok smile, shy. “An experencied artist says so, so I can believe it.”

Wooseok kiss him. Wooseok is the kind of people that likes to touch, even if it’s briefly. He doesn’t do a show of it, but when SEungyoun thinks about it, there’s always a hand lingering, caressing.

And Wooseok also likes to feel skin.

“Would you…once you debut solo, would like for us to stop?”

“What, why?” Wooseok scrutinies him. “I’ve already survived a sex assault scandal that it wasn’t even truth. If I get in a scandal and with unknown people judging and hating me, at least it’ll be for someone I truly like.”

“I like you too. A lot.”

“I know. And because you like me so much, I’ll let you take me out on a real dinner. And then we could go to your studio so you show me all the amazing stuff you’re working on that I could steal for my solo debut album.”

Seungyoun does a face. “I’m not so sure about…”

“Stop it. Let me decide that…. But ugh, next time. My manager is calling.”

Wooseok can’t come to the studio, Nathan decided after he found them making up in the chair, the melody of Noid in the background.

“What does the palm tree tattoo means?”

“I liked them. I enjoyed my time in places that had beach and palm trees. And there’s a sunset behind. I love sunsets, they are pretty and give me many feelings. The orange and blue, the romance. Important talks happens at sunsets.”

“Huh. I thought it was another reason. When I looked it up earlier, it say… Resilience.” Wooseok kisses every inked leaf and goes upwards.

Wooseok kitty licks the tattoo in Seungyoun’s back. “You know what I like about candles?”

“When they are aromatic and your room becomes a spa?”

“Besides that. That they look fragile but still burn. That you can ignite them again. And even recycle the wax, if you kniw how to. And more than anything: the blue is the one that burns you, but it gives path to the orange flame, what brings warmth and light.”

As Yugyeom say he can’t make it, he’s in talks with his company about the contract renewal and as Jimin complains again that big companies are the worst, Segunyoun is quite happy when Hansol texts a I’m free, count me in!

So they go to Jeju island to see the sunset.
“My fans are asking about you, dude. Since when am I friends with Mr. All-rounder.”

“Jihoon hyung is working on a new song. He let me hear it the other day so I can start working on the rap verse. About never giving up, no matter how many curve balls life throws at you.”

“Huh That sounds cool!”

“Right? It reminded me of you.”

As Seungyoun watch the orange and blue blending together of the sunset, he realizes: he no longer remembers his father’s voice.

“Lee fucking Jinhyuk asked me in which base are we. And then he fucking laughed at me like a fucking hyena and said something about a homerun. I wanted to punch him in the face for all the bad baseball analogies.” 

“Wooseok-ah,” he tells him over the phone. “I’m about to do it! I’m submitting my album!”

Wooseok snorts. “That’s just a … They’re going to give the green light in less than an hour.”

“Don’t kill my vibe, Seok-ah.”

“Sorry. Go for it, Youn-ah!”

“I’m hitting send!!”

“You know that we won’t be able to promote at the same time, right?”

“What?” he splutters, fingers floating above the enter key.

“Too many risks. I won’t be able to contain myself whenever I’ll see you in your stage outfits. Especially if you don’t wear anything under the jacket, fuck.”

“As if you aren’t going to wear some decadent sexy stuff either. Like leather or… fuck, let’s not promote together.”

In fact, before submitting, Seungyoun decides to write a new song in a spur of the moment. It actually takes him almost a week to finish it, to compose its haunting melody and to write appropriate lyrics that represents everything that's been storming in his mind. 

Seungyoun takes a deep breath and a closes his eyes. He’s okay. He has worked so hard on this album, he has put so much thought and care, . He’s breathing.

He swings the bat again.

I’m getting lifted from the bottom
How about the next step, yeah i’m ready for the crown
Life is short, so I gotta keep find my own town

The race has begun, Where am I?
Where are you going?
Do I have one?

Life is short, so i just wanna rush
Escape this place
To a high place I go

Now I know that high place is suffocating
Here, light reveals everything about me
I don’t run away, I’m going up more Before die

I have to withstand everything
I have to throw away a lot of things
I will go up even if I’m bitten

I’ll Run
Don’t look back anymore
I’m not done

I’ll Run
I bet my all
I’m not done

A ray of light in the darkness

I’ll Run
Don’t look back anymore
I’m not done

This is where I’m headed right?
Where are you going?
I can see a little bit of course
I don’t know how much longer I have to go, I’ll keep running

                Lift up –  Woodz

+ Bonus

 Unlike games, life not always presents you the direct consequences of your playing. Seungyoun just sees a ball flying thought the air, no clear destination or speed, as he runs towards the next base.

Overwhelmed and exultant by the fans’ response, Seungyoun smiles brightly and goes through his promotions smoothly. He’s even slightly unsure of letting it go. At the same time, he’s excited to go forwards.

As winter reels in, Woosek trusts Seungyoun’s phone into his hands, annoyed at being woken up by the insistent vibrations. When he looks at the screen, there’s a few missed call from his manager and a bunch of texts from his friend.

The moment he clicks on the link, he gasps.

• Golden Disk Nominee: WOODZ – Equal (Best album, Male soloist)
• Best K-pop albums of 2020: 4^th place, WOODZ, Equal (https://www.billboard.com/articles/news/list/9504245/best-kpop-albums-2020-top-10/)