Chapter Text
Heels. Her ankles whine. The counter of the shoe bites into her achilles, rubbing her skin red and raw, toes pressed hard against the toe box.
Maybe Chaeryeong could have chosen different heels.
She discards the thought as soon as it comes, careful with her steps so that her ankles don’t roll out from underneath her. She looks a little like a fairytale runaway with how she holds her dress up a little higher, with her glittergloss make-up on for the night. Her throat still has that angry bottleneck sensation.
Five minutes ago, she excused herself from the award ceremony after the best side character performance was awarded.
(“Snubbed, huh,” says some voice, somewhere. “Damn. Wouldn’t be the first time.")
Dull, dull anger, from beneath all those layers of celebrity wrapped around her.
She finds the door of the farthest bathroom from the event and walks in. She will give herself ten more minutes to recompose, recollect, then return.
All this month, back-to-back award shows: for dramas, music performances, actors, actresses, artists — at one point, between these events, it’s the normalcy away from performativity that starts to feel further and further away, as the slick-sludge gloss of celebrity sinks in, settles like resin beneath her skin.
It stands to reason, then, that the woman sitting on the center of the bathroom counter, glancing over at her in muted surprise, tiny gilded trophy by her side is one of the most surreal events of the night.
Pain scandents up from her ankles to her legs. Her jaw clenches around the pain, but she maintains her dignity as she bows.
“Hello, Minjeong-ssi.”
“Hi, sunbaenim,” Kim Minjeong says after a beat. She lowers her head in a demuring half-bow, a casual acknowledgment, more for friends than professional coworkers who have never met before. “You… aren’t Jimin.”
Chaeryeong sifts through her mental files. She doesn’t recognize the name. “… No. No, I’m not.” If it wasn’t for the pain grounding her to reality, Chaeryeong would have thought she lost it, brain clipping out her skull somewhere between the award show and the walk here. “You… aren’t an empty bathroom.”
Minjeong cracks a grin. Handsome, pretty, even in the too-bright light of the bathroom, dress spilling out in white rivulets from her perch. “I guess not. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
Chaeryeong has half a mind to turn around. But she’s already here. It’d be rude to step out again, and yet…
Her heel pulsates heat. It makes her decision for her. “Getting a minute away from the crowd,” she says, and steps all the way into the bathroom, suppressing every tiny flinch. She keeps her composure as she walks up to the sink. The counter becomes her makeshift crutch.
“Oooh, that looks like it hurts,” Minjeong murmurs. Chaeryeong catches her looking from the mirror. “You alright?”
“I’ve been better.” Carefully, she lifts up a foot to examine the skin, hissing when she touches the wound.
No blood yet. But by the end of the night it might be inevitable.
“Here.” Two bandaids in Minjeong’s hands. She scoots closer when Chaeryeong’s hesitance stretches longer. “It’ll help.”
Another moment passes before Chaeryeong takes the bandaids. “Thank you.”
One heel clatters to the ground as Chaeryeong patches herself up as best she’s able, balanced on one foot.
“That’d be easier if you were sitting down,” Minjeong comments.
They were far away enough from the show that people were unlikely to walk in, but Chaeryeong doesn’t want to take the risk. “I’ll be fine.”
Minjeong makes some noise of understanding as she leans her head back against the mirror. Her feet swing like she’s wading in water, not a care in the world.
Chaeryeong exhales, closing her eyes. Her feet still hurt. Head dips gently down, welcoming the darkness away from the lights, bright as camera flashes.
“You alright?” Minjeong asks again, voice softer.
(Ryujin had torn her eyes away first, walking up to stage to collect the rookie of the year award, Yuna at her side. A tiger claw talon plucks harsh at her heart.)
“Yes.” The lights sear her vision. She makes eye contact with herself in the reflection, begins the process of stitching together the tears in composure. “For the most part.”
“You know…” Minjeong studies her. “For an actress, you kind of suck at lying.”
Chaeryeong drags her gaze over to her. “You’re kind of rude, aren’t you.” She doesn’t even realize she’s said the words until they’re already said, and her hand shoots to her lips in belated regret.
There’s satisfaction in the tilt of Minjeong’s smile.
Then and there, Chaeryeong knows that Minjeong is the type of person she deals with the worst. “I think people are looking for you.” Chaeryeong says, after her heartbeat stops skipping. “Since you’re up next for the performances. You’re five or so minutes late.”
“But you’re here,” Minjeong says simply. She rests a knee on the edge of a sink. “If I had been performing, I would have missed you, and then who would have given you the bandages?”
They’re just bandaids. But Chaeryeong has spent too long on her own, nursing her wounds and abrasions in the dark, away from the industry that gave her nothing, to ever depend on another person.
She doesn’t need pity, not from a stranger, and never from someone like Minjeong.
“I would have been fine.” It’s not a snap, but the intent is there, in the bristling of her demeanor before she tamps down her ire. “I would have been fine,” she repeats. More subdued. “The help was appreciated but unnecessary. In comparison, you being on stage is much more important.”
Minjeong’s mouth tapers down. “I guess.”
“Minjeong.” Chaeryeong looks at her. Minjeong looks like one of those prey animals in the back of their cages, wary of Chaeryeong now. Chaeryeong ignores how a part of her bleeds at the sight. “Why are you here?”
A foot swings. “I wanted to take a break. Or maybe I just wanted to run away, too. ”
Irritation tastes like caltrops, lining the inside of her mouth. A vine unfurls underneath her skin. “I’m not the one performing. You chose the wrong profession if you think fame doesn’t come with its own set of consequences.”
Minjeong looks at her funny. “You’re… genuinely mad about this. At me? Or something else?”
Chaeryeong inhales. Exhales. “No matter how much devotion you pour into something, sometimes the opinion of the public is outside the realm of your control. It pains me, truly, to see you, one of the best idols of our time, waste the good faith she has with the public by hiding out in public stalls for something as —” carefully, she reminds herself, “— as fucking idiotic as needing a break.”
The walls crawl along her spine. They grow ears and eyes along the tiles and mirrors and regret has never bottomed her stomach out so fast. Her hands shake.
Minjeong looks contemplative. A little wondrous. Quite possibly the worst combination other than anger and resentment.
Chaeryeong sobers. “I — I apologize. For the outburst.”
“Is that what these shows mean to you?” Minjeong asks suddenly. “A sign of the public’s faith in me?”
“Well.” Chaeryeong smooths out her dress. “The grass is always greener on the other side. It would be nice to have some physical form of acknowledgement.”
Minjeong looks at the trophy like she’s never seen it before. “Huh.”
God, her feet hurt. And she hasn’t had an emotional outburst like that in years. Maybe Minjeong just has a maddening effect on people. Chaeryeong squared up her shoulders. “I’ll be taking my leave. Goodbye, Minjeong. Congratulations on winning album of the year.”
She bows, again, and turns to make her leave. Ignores the rustling from behind her.
There’s a sound of a stowaway star breaking in two, of one object yielding to another in a solid crack.
In Minjeong’s hands are two halves of the trophy: in one hand, a jagged serrated tooth and the other the base of the trophy.
Chaeryeong’s heart thumps, madly loud in her ears.
“You’re probably right,” Minjeong says. She looks down at the trophy with a pinch in her brow, her mouth, and thumb running over the bits of gilded bone jutting out like teeth and tongue. “Sooner or later, maybe something will go wrong, or people get tired of me, or whatever else. But…”
Minjeong raises her chin up in challenge, in glorious defiance. She grips both halves tight in a fist. “I wouldn’t wear heels that haven’t been broken in yet, not without a fight.”
“It sounds like it was a very stressful night for the both of you,” Jisu says, over a video call six months later. Jisu’s huddled over her desk and cup ramen in her dormitory, a stack of college textbooks and notebooks Chaeryeong knows has been shoved to the sides. Somehow, Jisu still looks completely put together at two in the morning, towel drying her hair. “There must be a lot of pressure on her to… conform.”
A week ago, news of the actors and actresses for Chaeryeong’s latest film role was released.
It’s a small, indie production from an up-and-coming producer known for his excellent cinematography despite his limited budget and small crew, and the risks he takes in his films — it has the potential to be one of Chaeryeong’s most prestigious films yet.
Chaeryeong plays an enigmatic heiress to a corrupt throne, with Minjeong as her guard. In reality, Minjeong is on a revenge mission to murder the king, and ultimately, Chaeryeong aids her, and they run away from the chaos that ensues.
It’s neat. Maybe overtly tidy. In the end, Chaeryeong’s younger, less corrupt brother, becomes king. The job is hinted to break him, but it’s open-ended enough that the audience may consider what they wish, after Chaeryeong and Minjeong flee their responsibilities and earn their happy ending together.
That same night of the news breaking, an unknown number sent:
hiiiiii it’s kim minjeong
i got your number from yeji-unnie after i found out !! (´｡• ω •｡`) ♡ happy to be working with you~~
She attached a picture of her holding up a peace sign with Chaeryeong’s name written on her palm.
Chaeryeong has not responded since.
She waited with bated breath and mounting anxiety for some kind of backlash from her encounter with Minjeong — whether it be from the idol herself or some paranoid, part of her brain giving her nightmares of that same bathroom growing eyes and ears, and waking up in the middle of her celebrity downfall to her blaring alarm. But nothing’s happened.
On a whim she texts Jisu. Chaeryeong didn’t expect her to actually be awake at this time of the night, but she’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“‘Pressure’ for me doesn’t usually mean career-ending breakdowns in public,” Chaeryeong says. “I’d disappear into the NPIO basement and never come out, sans a smattering of roles as a zombie film extra. Bodies one, two, and three if I’m lucky in the next five years.”
Jisu’s staring at her kitchen ceiling as Chaeryeong cooks up some late night tteokbokki. She stirs attentively, adding in the fishcake, ignoring how Jisu’s eyebrow raises from the corner of her eye.
“You’re still mad about this.”
“Ugh. Ugh.” It’s not spicy enough even for her. Chaeryeong thwacks in a spoonful of chili powder harder than necessary. “No of course not. Why would I be mad when it was months ago? It’s just — you’re a Winter fan. You’re not immune to her propaganda.”
“Riiiight. For one thing, I follow her passively, and for another, she’s always had these here-and-there scandals pop up. Attitude problems, as you call it. Most of them were either debunked or from… male idols or male classmates, and most people didn’t really give it much thought. Her high school career is too spotless for it to really gel in public perception.”
“‘I follow passively’, she says.”
“Oh shut up. Everyone and their mother knows who Minjeong is, this is just the first time I’m hearing all of those rumors validated.”
Chaeryeong’s mouth burns. She turns off the heat and brings the pan and her phone to her dining table, propping the phone up against her glass of water. “Are you disappointed?”
Jisu shrugs. “It’s not going to change how I listen to her music.”
She should have grabbed milk. The fridge is too far away, though. She hisses in and takes a gulp of water — Jisu’s introduced, again, to the ceiling — the water doesn’t help much. “I wish I could have half the good faith that she does while, somehow, doing the bare minimum to keep herself out of scandals.”
Jisu tilts her head. “You don’t know that Minjeong doesn’t break her back for this, either. Her stress could just manifest differently from your camera shy, performance anxiety.”
Chaeryeong grimaces. “Maybe what I really want is her PR team.”
She knows Jisu isn’t wrong. Time and distance has softened her, and nothing has blown up in her face. But also Minjeong was an asshole. Some complicated mix of that must show on her face, because Jisu laughs.
“Aigoo, Chaeryeong is so cute with her grudges. Give her a chance, it means something that she hasn’t mentioned you once, right?”
“She offered me a corpse of her accolades and you expect me to give her a chance.”
(“Do you want a half?” Minjeong offers one end of the trophy. a second before Jimin — her manager — bursts into the room, seething.)
Jisu starts laughing so hard she snorts on her ramen.
“I hate you.”
“No, you’re right, you’re right. It’s not like you have a problem giving people chances or anything, this isn’t anything of the sort. This time you have reasonable cause. You’re so funny, my god.”
Chaeryeong bites her tongue. “With any luck, I won’t have to interact with her at all beyond our scenes together.”
“Cut!” The director calls, and Minjeong steps away from where the trick blade’s hilt presses up against Chaeryeong’s body. “15 minute break before we shoot the next scene. Great work, everyone!”
The entire studio exhales in one big sigh of relief. The hard coal of anger in Minjeong’s eyes softens as she steps away from Chaeryeong’s embrace, grinning towards her — about to speak, perhaps, before her attention catches on somewhere else, and whatever she is about to say is swept up in the commotion, and Chaeryeong is buffered away from Minjeong by a small crowd. The novelty of her presence still hasn’t quite worn off.
Chaeryeong feels whittled down, emotions carved into shape. Reflexive tears collect in the corner of her eyes as she bows to the other cast members. It will take her a little longer to come out of the scene.
“Here, Chaeryeong-ssi,” one of the lightning crew member says, holding up a water bottle. Seeun, bubbly and sweet, and one of the few who doesn’t talk to Chaeryeong with some distant, professional wariness. Chaeryeong finds herself endeared.
“Thank you.” Chaeryeong accepts the bottle, and Seeun uses that as permission enough to talk about the shoot. She’s having a lot of fun, she says, watching Chaeryeong and Minjeong act. Both are so talented and gorgeous underneath the lights. It’s hard to believe it’s Minjeong’s first time acting.
“I’d agree,” Chaeryeong says before she thinks about it. Minjeong was rough around the seams when she was first starting off, brash and lacking subtlety. She’s since ironed out the issues with unnerving competence.
“She’s a comfortable person to work with.” It’s a begrudging admittance, but no less of the truth, even as envy scrawls over her ribs. “And she makes everything look so easy.”
There’s fingers on the crook of Chaeryeong’s elbow. “Gossiping about people behind their back is rude,” Minjeong says, having finished her host of conversations.
“It’s something I’d say to you directly.” Chaeryeong fights the urge to turn wooden. “Though, you could do with a bit more focus while filming.”
Minjeong hums. “To be honest, I’m only doing so well because Chaeryeong is my partner. You make me want to understand my character better. Or at least, portray her to the best of my ability.”
Chaeryeong’s ears burn. She clears her throat. “You’re already a natural, I’m only doing my job.”
“So? It’s still true.”
Seeun looks between the two of them, wide-eyed. “I didn’t know you were friends.”
“It’s news to me, too,” Chaeryeong says dryly, but Minjeong’s fist smacks her shoulder in a friendly gesture.
(Everywhere, Chaeryeong feels eyes like hawks watching them. The rising idol and the black sheep actress. She compels herself to stay still.)
Seeun exits the scene once she’s called over to help with the lighting, and Chaeryeong slides a glance to Minjeong. “You’re terribly clingy.”
Minjeong laughs, and guides Chaeryeong over to the side, hand still at her elbow. “Funny, Jimin says the same thing.”
Once they’re away from prying eyes, Minjeong rounds back on her. “Listen, I think we got started off on the wrong… foot.” She almost touches her face before she remembers the make-up. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“Look, it’s fine. You don’t have to keep…” She lifts a hand and gestures to all of Minjeong. “Doing this. We work well together as coworkers, and we’ve kept it professional thus far.”
“But I want to be friends.”
“Why?”
“You made me mad,” Minjeong says. One foot rests on the back wall. “I think it was the first time in a long time I ever felt like that.”
Chaeryeong remembers how rage made a home in her bloodstream for a week after that encounter. “And that’s a good thing?” She asks, dubious.
“It means we care, right?” Minjeong questions. “I don’t like just going along with what they want me to do. Sometimes I want to stop trying, and other times I want to run away. I think we just… care in different ways.”
Minjeong tilts her head. “You put too much thought into your performance not to care.”
Chaeryeong folds her arms together.
“I chose the heels,” Chaeryeong says. “I was the one who suggested them to my stylist.”
“... I see.”
“I chose them because they made me taller. Because they make me feel dignified.” Chaeryeong pauses, and shrugs. “And they went with my outfit.”
“You shouldn’t do things that make you too uncomfortable.”
“I can’t afford not to, Minjeong.”
Minjeong looks up at the lights above them. “Do you want to go out for food sometime?”
Chaeryeong still feels their eyes on her, watching them, scouring over their interactions. Minjeong’s likeable, approachable… beneficial.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Chaeryeong scrutinizes Minjeong’s signature on two of the deluxe albums. One is dedicated to Jisu — it’ll keep her strength up during exams — the other is dedicated to Chaeryeong.
“I can’t even give this to anyone because you wrote my name on it.”
Minjeong pouts, resting her chin on the table, in a far back corner of the comfort food establishment, holding back a yawn. “Uh, hello? It’s a gift and a collectible, from Winter. Deluxe and signed, with personalized messages.”
“... And the poster?”
“For your room. What, did you want one of those life-size cardboard cutouts instead?”
Jisu… might actually appreciate it.
“Are you… thinking about it?” Minjeong sounds deeply amused.
“No,” Chaeryeong denies swiftly. “Never mind. I think Jisu already has one.”
Their food arrives, just as soon as Minjeong’s laughter fades off, and her head was starting to droop.
“Have you been sleeping okay?” Chaeryeong asks.
Minjeong’s foot taps against Chaeryeong’s ankle. “Just — album stuff is starting to pick back up again. It’s fine, nothing I can’t handle.”
Chaeryeong frowns. “Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”
Minjeong waves her off. “Speaking of which, do you know how hurt I was when you couldn’t even name three of my songs?” She complains between bites of her sujebi — she eats like an animal.
They’re at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant near Minjeong’s place. Chaeryeong had been in the mood for warm, comfort food, and the owners are kind enough to avoid advertising that Minjeong has been here, even as a celebrity.
“Don’t take it personally, I don’t listen to idol music in general. It reminds me too much of being locked in a training room all day.”
Chaeryeong sips the soup from her bowl of ramyun. Despite the fact that she still envies Minjeong’s abilities, and the good faith she’s afforded, something about Minjeong makes it easier to talk to.
There’s no judgment. Their opinions may differ, their approaches to fame are different, but they both feel it. That arm's length distance from everyone else. For better or for worse, Minjeong is one of the few who understands.
Chaeryeong’s more affected by the idol than she thought she’d be.
“Did you like being an idol trainee?” Minjeong asks.
Chaeryeong sweeps through her bowl for stray noodles. “I don’t know. I wasn’t particularly close to anyone, and the post-training food runs or pre-training meet-ups were the best part. I was always out filming something else. I connected with the others only on rare occasions.”
Minjeong leans into her fist. “Being a child star must have been a double-edged sword, huh.”
Chaeryeong shrugs. “At first it was just to expand the skill set I already had as an actress, but the dancing and singing lessons didn’t stick with me. And then I left.”
Chaeryeong taps the side of her mouth, and Minjeong clears the stains sticking to her lips. “Yeji talks about her trainee days, sometimes. She said you felt pretty unapproachable because of the ‘child actor in several award-winning movies’ thing.”
Yeji’s name still sits oddly in her stomach. Chaeryeong resists the urge to ask how Yeji is doing. She was one of the only few who tried to break through the celebrity barrier. “Why are you asking me questions you already know the answer to?”
“Because I wanted to hear it from you. I’m still offended on Yeji-unnie’s behalf. She composed a few songs on the album, you know. On Nmixx’s debut, too, the cutest nine-membered girl group I’ve ever seen.”
Jisu had mentioned. “I know.”
“And you still haven’t given it a listen?” Minjeong looks exasperated. Chaeryeong shrugs helplessly.
“Ugh, okay, we’re actually doing this. Scoot over. Hand me your phone.” Minjeong pushes her bowl to Chaeryeong’s side of the table, fishing her headphones out of her pocket, and slides in so close that their thighs touch, a shock of sudden warmth. “C’mon, gimmie. I’m not going to do anything.”
“You do not care about whether or not people listen to your music.” Chaeryeong smiles for the camera anyway when Minjeong brings her face closer for a selfie, and hands Chaeryeong one end of the headphones. “And wired?”
“Airpods are just less romantic. And I care about your opinion, alright? So what?”
Chaeryeong sighs, deep and heavy. She notes the tingle in her fingers, the uptick of her heart rate, the warmth of Minjeong against her side, and gently files away the sensations. To be examined and buried later. “I should have just walked away when we first met. Just pick a few of your favorites or something.”
“Fate works in mysterious ways,” Minjeong says mystically, eyes sparkling. “Anyway. I wouldn’t want this to be your first time experiencing the songs, without an earbud, or even like… listening to the deep cuts out of order, but if I didn’t hold you at gunpoint you wouldn’t listen to it at all.”
Chaeryeong gives her a strange look. “Album… order?”
“Who listens to an album out of order, you monster? It’s like watching a movie by skipping around the entire time.”
Chaeryeong doesn’t comment, and Minjeong steadily looks more and more betrayed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Whatever. Just play your little mixtape.”
Filming winds down as quickly as it started, weeks melting by like snow.
The grueling work went faster with Minjeong as a second lead. Or with Minjeong treating her to dinner, lunch, with Minjeong breaking the dam for other cast and crew members to approach her.
(“Most of us have always wanted to talk to you,” Seeun said once to Chaeryeong, quietly on break.
“… I didn’t know that. I thought they wanted to keep things professional.”
Seeun shrugs. “I think they just wanted to meet you at your level.”)
It lures Chaeryeong into security, working with a crew who understood how everyone operated. It has to do with the production size, maybe, with how small the team is, but they learn to work together. The other lead actor teases both Chaeryeong and Minjeong as siblings. The make-up crew makes conversation with them.
Over the course of the last few weeks, Minjeong becomes more daring. During filming, and in private, as Chaeryeong’s heard from Jisu.
“She talks about you nonstop on her bubble,” Jisu says.
Chaeryeong had just returned home from an interview about the filming process. She wasn’t surprised, but most of the questions had revolved around Minjeong, and she tried her best to swerve past anything incriminating, or anything that portrayed them both negatively.
“‘Filming is almost over! I miss Chaeryeong! She didn’t want to eat with me this weekend…’ She sounds like a dog waiting for her owner to come home. Or… a schoolgirl with a crush,” Jisu continues.
Chaeryeong tries not to rise to the bait. “I already have two pets at home. I really don’t need another one.”
“What happened? Two months ago you were going on about how unprofessional she is, and now you’re humming her songs while you read your lines.”
Heat crawls up Chaeryeong’s face and she jerks up from a new script, for a new drama role to be filmed in the upcoming months. “They’re catchy,” she defends, mumbles.
“Hey, I’m glad you’re making friends.” Jisu says. “Gal pals in progress, or whatever.”
Chaeryeong rubs her forehead. “Jisu.”
“And I’m not going to complain about free albums and posters and tickets and fanmeets that I’ll be kidnapping you for.”
“You’re shameless.”
“I prefer resourceful nepotism. In between talking about you and the food she eats she’s been mentioning working on a new album. And if like… she mentions anything…”
“I can do the stunt,” Minjeong says.
Her mouth is set in a stubborn line. Exhaustion softens her spine and determination. Even as she says the words, Chaeryeong has a hand on her arm to keep her steady.
“I told you to take care of yourself,” Chaeryeong murmurs. “You have to learn how to balance your priorities.”
“Shut up.” Any intended heat in her voice is made nonexistent underneath her fatigue.
The director glances at them both, hard set in his mouth.
The skies had thick and heavy clouds but no rain, for once — a rainstorm had thrown their final schedule off course, and Minjeong’s deteriorating constitution even more so. The last few scenes are long, oneshot takes of action sequences.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” the director says finally. “We only have a limited amount of props and daylight. We can’t keep on messing up this one scene, Minjeong.”
“I’ll do it right this time,” Minjeong says. She’s frustrated. At herself, at the situation. “If I don’t do the stunt, then why did I spend so many months in those action classes?”
“I understand how you feel,” the director says. The cast and crew are a murmuring wave, watching on. “But everyone’s schedule is at stake, here, too. Are you going to force everyone to wait just for you?”
Chaeryeong’s nails burrow as knives into the idol’s sleeve, when the tendons in her arm tighten to steel underneath Chaeryeong’s touch. Jimin shoots up from her distant seat in warning.
In any other scenario, Minjeong’s immediate answer would have been ‘Fuck you. Yes.’
Chaeryeong, like Minjeong, like a starved animal turning feral for food, craves, desires, hungers to make her mark on films. The difference between them is that Chaeryeong has made her peace with how sometimes a perfect take was catching lightning in a bottle. Sometimes Chaeryeong bit her tongue hard enough to bleed and said good enough.
It felt like plucking out teeth, molar by molar, betraying her innate perfectionism. But movies weren’t made as a solo effort.
(The cast and crew watch on, holding their breath.)
Minjeong needs creative control, like the tides need the moon. Chaeryeong would always yield for a greater gravity. This is something they will never agree upon.
“Minjeong.” Chaeryeong’s voice is low. A trace of fear. Months ago this would have been about the movie. But her wires cross, jumble when Minjeong sags against her. A puppet losing the guiding hand of its owner, swaying without control.
Chaeryeong pressed the back of her hand to Minjeong’s forehead and makes a small noise of alarm.
“It’s just hot out,” Minjeong mutters. She loosely tugs her arm from Chaeryeong’s grip, only for Chaeryeong to hold on tighter. “Don’t — don’t tell Jimin —”
“Alright, get in positions everyone,” the director says, clapping his hands loudly together. We’ll try one more practice before calling it quits.”
“Chaeryeong,” Minjeong whispers. She looks vulnerable. “Please don’t let them do this without me. Just — once, I want to do something for me.”
Chaeryeong glances at the shorter girl at her side. Her heart pounds like a sledgehammer in her chest, using her skull as a bell, ringing. She sees her younger self in Minjeong.
Fuck.
Her tongue knots. Her stomach twists when gravity presses her heart to her stomach. Out her mouth, anyway, “Can you do it?”
Minjeong looks at her. Uncomprehending. Chaeryeong shakes her arm hard. Again, harsher, “Can you do it?”
Minjeong snaps out of it, straightens up as best she could. “Yes.”
“She’ll do it,” Chaeryeong says. Her voice trembles until she says it again, louder to be heard, “She’ll run through the scene!”
The director looks speechless before he composes himself. “We don’t have the time to keep on letting Minjeong practice —”
“She’ll do it perfectly first try,” Chaeryeong says. “Minjeong has done all of her previous stunts, and this is one of the most climactic parts of the film. The entire composition of the scene would be thrown off completely with the previous shots.”
She’s glad she’s an actress. Her body projects the confidence the animal in her rejects. That, and she’s decidedly fucking lying, bluffing just as hard as she hopes the director is, and banking on the fact that he thinks Minjeong’s wildly fluctuating health takes priority, and rather than anything as legitimate as time restraints.
Minjeong looks at her like she’s something inexplicably holy. When her hand rests against Chaeryeong’s back for support, it feels more as though she’s searching for angel wings.
The director remains conflicted for another moment, glancing between the two of them, then his eyes harden. “You get one chance.” The relief in his voice undercuts the threat.”
Minjeong exhales, and stands fully upright, like the clouds parting for the sun had finally given her new energy.
“I’ll make it count.” She steps away from Chaeryeong with a smile so wide it was hard to believe she was ever exhausted in the first place.
Chaeryeong stares, openly, feeling a magnetic tug impossible to ignore as Minjeong mouths the words ‘thank you’, and then she’s running towards the set.
The familiar creep of wistful envy wraps along Chaeryeong’s feet, watching the crew members burst into cheers at Minjeong’s return to the stage. A small part of her still wishes for Minjeong’s easy faith. But now, watching Minjeong prepare for the scene, smile smoothing out to embody her character… Chaeryeong steps back, and admires.
They finish as soon as the sun sets.
There’s whooping and hollering and clapping, and a round of bows for all the staff members.
Minjeong performs her scenes the best she’s ever had. There’s sweat on her face and collar but she’s beaming so wide and so bright that it could outshine the stars.
They break off into smaller groups to celebrate for the night. Minjeong finds Chaeryeong after they’ve all finished changing, bounding up like a dog and all but tackling into Chaeryeong, with Jimin at her side.
“Thank you for convincing the director,” Jimin says, with the warmest smile Chaeryeong’s ever seen directed at anyone else asides from Minjeong. “I know how much the movie means to you both.”
They’ve only talked in brief, polite exchanges several times on set before this. The sudden acknowledgment turns Chaeryeong’s cheeks pink.
“The director wouldn’t have agreed if he didn’t have trust in Minjeong’s abilities,” Chaeryeong says. “I didn’t do much to tide him over.”
“I would have given up if you said no, though,” Minjeong says. She breathes out clouds. “The movie is more important to you than to me, at the end of the day. I would have been disappointed and frustrated with myself, but I would have said ‘fine’. For you.”
Minjeong grins, a sure and handsome tilt in her mouth, eyes creasing up, and the air resists outward motion in Chaeryeong’s chest. “So. Thank you for your trust, Chaeryeong. I knew I was too adorable to refuse.”
Chaeryeong shares an exasperated look with Jimin, before the woman excuses herself for a phone call.
Minjeong kicks at the loose concrete on the path towards the parking lot, scuffs up her shoes. “Hey, now that filming’s over, I think I have a free day coming up if you want to get food, or see a movie, or something.”
“I have scripts to learn,” Chaeryeong says. “And interviews to prep for. Didn’t you say you needed to write new songs, learn new dances?”
“Everything is secondary to you,” Minjeong says, cheeky. “But for real, I can take a day or two off. Just let me know ahead of time.”
“You know, if you keep talking like that, people are going to start getting the wrong impression,” Chaeryeong says, unthinkingly. The weight of the words catch up to her. Her face blooms with heat.
Minjeong’s footsteps pause. “Are you sure it’s the wrong impression?”
Chaeryeong stops walking, too. They’re closer to the parking lot, now, alone, with the last bits of sunlight tapering off into afterdark blues. Minjeong slides her hand into Chaeryeong’s, an action done many, many times, but Chaeryeong can’t tell whose hand is trembling. Minjeong’s gaze shines earnest with intent.
“Is it not?” Chaeryeong asks, after a long moment. Minjeong’s eyes search hers; her brow raises, and there’s an adoring smile on her face. Chaeryeong’s heart bottlecaps in her neck.
“What do you think?” Minjeong asks. “Out of curiosity.” Her eyes are so dark, out here.
“I… I…”
There’s someone swearing, and stumbling off in the distance.
Chaeryeong lurches, tears herself away from Minjeong’s grasp. Nearly stumbles. Puts what feels like miles of distance between them. “The wrong one. It’s the — wrong one.”
Minjeong stares at her. A candle wick snuffed out. She shoves her hands into her coat pocket. Her foot meets the concrete louder, scrapes in the silence. “I mean. If that’s what you want.”
Chaeryeong feels nauseous. She doesn’t respond.
“Minjeong!” Jimin calls. “We should get going.”
Chaeryeong leaves without another word.
Minjeong (3:12): sooo I hung out with Ryujin today since you’ve been busy, for like. weeks, apparently.
Minjeong (3:12): not guilt-tripping or anything tho.
Minjeong (3:14): But Ryujin went suuuuuper quiet after i talked about u
Minjeong (3:15): i see there’s a Pattern of Behavior when it comes to running
Chaeryeong (3:32): Are you trying to pick a fight? At three in the morning?
Chaeryeong (3:33): Pot and kettle, much???
Minjeong (3:33): lol. lmao, even
Minjeong (3:34): maybe if u didn’t like… avoid ur problems
Minjeong (3:36): anw ryu sulked for the rest of our date and im tilted. also i think they miss you.
Minjeong (3:40): stop leaving me on read asshole!!!!
(read)
Minjeong (10:32): oh fuck i just saw everything
Minjeong (10:38): im sorry it was my fault
Minjeong (11:47): chaeryeong?? Please talk to me, we can fix this
“Do you still talk to the others?” Chaeryeong asks Jisu.
She’s cradling a tub of ice cream. Jisu sits next to her, on the sofa, with a plate of cookies and chocolate, other such decadences. There’s some bland drama on Netflix, but it’s enough to hold their middling interest for now, and Chaeryeong doesn’t feel like reaching for the remote.
“I think he’s going to die,” Chaeryeong says, in the extensive pause as Jisu turns to look at her. “He raises all the flags.”
“You… haven’t asked about them in a long time.”
Chaeryeong curls into a ball on one end of the couch, and eats another spoonful of her ice cream. “I’m feeling nostalgic.”
Jisu twirls a pencil, glancing up from the notebook in her lap. “Ryujin and Yuna are preparing for more Nmixx promotions, so I haven’t kept in touch. Yeji I still talk to on and off, and we meet up every once in a while when we can.”
“How are they?”
“Yuna’s alright. She’s doing great, actually, loves having people her age around to play with. Yeji’s not as sad anymore, I don’t think. And Ryujin…” Jisu thinks. “Well. I think she’s learning as she goes.”
“... She hates it, doesn’t she.”
“Oh absolutely,” Jisu agrees immediately. “She’s never been the leader type, you know this. I think she’s finding it really really hard to take care of all of them, and with the pressure of living up to Twice? She was a wreck during the first cycle of promotions and beat herself up constantly.”
Chaeryeong lets the TV play out. Not five minutes after her prediction, the boy dies. “Do you ever miss it?”
Jisu sets down her notebook. With gentle ushering, she tugs Chaeryeong into her shoulder, the tub of ice cream left on the table.
“I know you didn’t see it like this, but those were some of the best days of my life,” Jisu says. It’s a quiet moment on screen. “I loved being with the girls. I loved how we always had each other’s backs, and how you — even with your busy schedule, still tried to make time for people who wanted to talk to you.”
Jisu smiles wistfully. “I think the five of us could have been something special. Like the best group in the world, or something.” She laughs. “Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”
Chaeryeong curls further into Jisu’s side. “Auuuuggh.”
“Sweetheart, I don’t regret where I am, now,” Jisu says. “I’m happy stepping down, and turning to fashion. Now it feels like all those years in those training rooms was just a dream. Do you regret it?”
Chaeryeong makes another ineffectual noise against Jisu’s shoulder.
Jisu sighs. “You make your choice after I saw you scrutinize and question and agonize over the decision for months, and then you end up half-regretting it, anyway. You’re so silly. You and Ryujin are like the same person, I swear.”
Chaeryeong can’t will herself to look at Jisu. “But what if I made the wrong choice?”
“Would you have been happy as an idol?”
Chaeryeong wonders.
What would she have been like with a whole team at her back? With people to depend on? Would it have been less lonely, would it feel like mirror souls who understood her just as much as she understood them? Maybe she wouldn’t have had to build her self-confidence back up, painstaking, delicately, brick by dogged brick, and apply layers and layers of defenses around herself. Spotlight-electric tang suffused in her skin, and warding off even those who wanted to come close to her.
And yet she feels the thrill of embodying new characters, new people, people she could never be in front of cameras. And when comparing that to idolhood a part of her feels sick, a churning in her stomach, that something is wrong.
The episode ends. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Then there’s your answer.”
Chaeryeong loses interest in the show. She paws at the remote to browse. “I don’t know. I think… I think my decision would have changed if I was as close to the others as you.” Her chest aches like a wound.
“Could have changed.”
The doorbell rings.
“Whatever. I’m still stuck on some stupid decision I made three years ago. And everyone already moved on ahead.”
“Chaeryeong.” A hand combs through her hair. “That was our dream, too. Of course it still hurts. Of course we still grieve. But you won’t know that unless you talk to them. You don't have to be alone.”
Chaeryeong opens her mouth to respond, but then the bell rings over, and over, and over again, desperate sounding. She pulls herself away from Jisu. “Are they serious?”
“Is that our pizza?” Jisu asks, amused.
“For god’s sake —” Chaeryeong’s glad for the excuse to draw away from the conversation, she palms at her eyes.
“You only have to ring it once,” Chaeryeong all but snaps, opening the door, but her voice trails off.
Minjeong’s standing on the other side.