Chapter Text
The panel of five producers displaying various stages of interest is not an unfamiliar sight to Mingyu. The producer at the far right end has her manicured nails drumming against the table in a way that is scarily on-beat to the erratic rhythm of his heart, and the producer at the end has his legs up on the table in a way that very much reads that he’s trying to seem impartial about the whole thing.
“That was an excellent read, Mr. Kim,” The center producer says, her eyes briefly making contact before flipping through the papers before her, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions before we conclude?”
“Of course,” Mingyu smiles a well-practiced, winning smile, “I would be honored to spend this time with you, Producer.”
Behind the table, there is a camera set upon a tripod, the little red light blinking every other second (by Mingyu’s approximations). He tries not to fall into his usual habit of fidgeting with his fingernails or shuffling from foot to foot, and attempts to imagine himself as a tree with his roots spread firmly into the perfectly white laminated flooring of the studio.
“Could you tell us why you, personally , want this role?”
The male producer at the end yawns, and the one next to him simply flicks through Mingyu’s portfolio. His own headshot on the front page stares back at him, and Mingyu has to force his eyes back forward to keep himself from overthinking such a simple action.
This is the seventh audition he’s been to this month, and the second callback he’s been to in the last three. Why is he so nervous?
His arms feel like he’s been lifting all day, limply pinned to his sides like he’s got no further strength to move. The more he gets in his head about all of this, the more interesting the wall behind the panel table seems.
This is the first audition that really feels like it matters in a long while. Mingyu doesn’t have much of a problem breezing his way through background actor scoutings or minor speaking role auditions. His agency, though, apparently tugged a few strings to get Mingyu into this audition. It’s high-profile, judging by the idols and better-known actors that Mingyu had seen in the green room, which Mingyu didn’t anticipate when he’d heard it’d be an adaptation of a soon-to-be finished webcomic. He hadn’t heard of it before, but he sure as hell binged it as soon as he was handed the monologue to rehearse with.
The news of the greenlit production did trend #1 on Naver for a full day, though, which might be why he’s so nervous.
Mingyu licks his lips– damn it –and takes a deep breath. His manager had prepared him for questions like this, so why’s he taking so long to answer —
He folds his large hands together in front of him to conceal the way they shake in a gentle lock of his fingers before mustering enough courage to respond.
“Well... I think that I’m a rather inexperienced person. Just like Seo Woohyun, we both think romantic love is something that seems like a goal to accomplish later in life. Despite that, Woohyun is someone that sees love in everything. We feel it in the air on the way to work. We feel it in the clink of glasses as we throw back soju with friends. We see it in the gaze of our friends, without knowing fully well what it means…”
Unable to keep himself from shaking with such a loose grip, Mingyu brings his hands to his chest, resting them above his heart.
“Woohyun has never uttered the word love before, not until the end of the story, but he is a person that loves so deeply. He loves everything he sees just like a little kid would, and I loved that. He thoughtlessly spreads his whole love to everyone around him, even if he isn’t really aware of his own love. I think that I can, even with all of my inexperience, love in just the same way. I haven’t had many relationships, haven’t had anyone I could ever really call a lover, but because of that, I think that I can love in a more whole, pure sense. Seo Woohyun is a very pure boy, just on the cusp of becoming a man, and I think…”
“I think you have conveyed your point well enough, Mr. Kim,” The producer smiles as she folds Mingyu’s portfolio pages shut, and Mingyu watches with horror as she pins her incredibly long notes on top of the packet.
“Thank you for your time. The board will deliberate; You’ll receive a call within a few days if you’re needed for another round of callbacks.”
Mingyu nods as he pins his hands to his sides and launches himself into a low bow, his entire upper-body coming with it.
“Thank you for your time, Producer! I’m honored to have made it this far.”
Mingyu flashes one last smile before the producer reaches up to stop the camera’s recording, and waits until she begins to withdraw her hand before turning on his heels. He tries not to inhale too shallow or too deeply as he makes his way from the room, not wanting to reveal just how he feels about how badly that went. His reading went fine, but they only asked one question.
That’s basically a death sentence.
He waits until he’s made it out of the green room where the other handsome young aspiring “Woohyun” candidates wait to heave a sigh.
The biggest audition he’s had all year, and he’s most definitely fucked it up.
Contrary to popular belief, summer tends to be sort of a dead period for auditions. The lack of new work has given Mingyu more than enough time to mourn what could’ve been. For the first few days, Mingyu tried to be positive about the whole thing. He wistfully hoped that maybe his rush of words came across as silly and charming, and not incredibly rude and inexperienced. He wanted to relay somehow that he’d studied the character in some way, but idiot , everyone studies. It’s all a part of the job.
Surely, if he had made it into the next round of auditions, he’d have received a call already. He’s grown quite used to this feeling, of perpetually waiting on that call back, but knowing deep in his heart that he just won’t get one. It’s another role he’s fumbled and dropped, and it really shouldn’t bother him as much, but it does. It bothers him so much.
When the seventh day since the audition hits, he’s allowed himself to sink deep into the mourning period. Sure, there’s going to be more auditions, but Mingyu actually really wanted this. Call it impatience, but it’s been a minute since Mingyu’s felt like he’s actually getting somewhere in this town. In a city full of beautiful faces and captivating personalities, it’s difficult for an inexperienced kid from Anyang to get far fast, and it’s going to be hard to avoid the reality of rent spikes if he doesn’t start landing roles with better paychecks…
Mingyu’s gaze is turned away from the muted television screen when his phone vibrates on his chest. As if the universe wants to taunt him, the notification isn’t a text or from his social media, but it’s the update of the webcomic of As Seasons Go By , the webcomic of the role he apparently didn’t get.
“Should unsubscribe,” he mumbles to himself, but doesn’t do anything about it, his phone flopping back onto his chest.
The comic is about a heroine who gets hired at her dream job in the fashion industry, only to be faced with a devilish (yet handsome) CEO that manipulates her every move. He rips off her designs, promotes her and demotes her at will, and even when she’s about to meet her wit’s end and quit her job, she can’t bring herself to, unable to betray her dream. Unsurprisingly, her CEO loves her, and only stole her designs so that she would see them on the runway. Despite his veiled affections, she already has given her heart to her childhood friend, who has supported her each and every move from the moment they had met. Yet, as brilliant and lovely as he is, he can’t seem to understand the difference between platonic love and romantic love. Of course, as the CEO and the heroine grew closer, despite the CEO’s manipulative tendencies, the childhood friend finally began to understand exactly what love is. It’s cliche, it’s cheesy, and some might even call it bad.
Admittedly, he wasn’t the biggest fan of the story, but it’s surely a staple in the romance genre. It’s topped the charts for many years, even despite a relatively standard plotline. The success speaks for itself in order to become a long running series, and for all of its tropes and cliches, fans of the series have been waiting for it to end for nearly 11 years. The ending has been announced to run concurrently with a live-action production recapping the series and ending with the author’s official end. Fans of the series had exploded with uproarious glee, and most of the entertainment industry had started buzzing with typecast rumors from the moment it was announced.
No use in lingering on it now, he supposes, and distracts himself by slinking off of the couch and over to the tiny kitchen in his studio apartment. The place is entirely too small for him, and had all but robbed him of his love of cooking with such depressing confines, which led him to a nasty habit of relying on snacks.
But a little bit of chips wouldn’t hurt. After all, he’s sad, and today’s his cheat day, so…
He stares down at the bottom of the bag, resolute.
Mingyu promptly falls into a spicy rice cake chip induced blackout.
The doorbell rings a while later, and Mingyu looks down at his bag of chips, two chips away from being entirely emptied.
He hisses through his teeth and crumples up the bag, throwing away the evidence into the trash. The doorbell rings again, and he yells, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
He does a quick rinse of his hands and stops at the mirror in the partial hallway before the door, fussing with his bangs for a brief second before learning over the door and pressing his eye against the peephole, finding a bouquet of flowers and a pair of legs blocking his view. He cracks an eyebrow at the sight, blinking himself in and out of reality, but the bouquet remains.
After another moment, a familiar, husky yet high-strung voice pipes, “Would you open the damn door already? It’s me!”
The voice of his manager is just as familiar to him as the voice of his mother at this point. Seungkwan is more of a personal assistant than a manager with everything he does for Mingyu, and even the definition of a personal assistant becomes foggy when taken into account of how many things they’ve done together outside of work. Mingyu was incredibly lucky to get assigned a manager the same age as him, and despite the professional relationship, he’s probably the best friend he’s made since he moved out to Seoul three years ago.
Mingyu doesn’t hesitate to open the door and stands aside, tilting his head to beckon Seungkwan inside.
“You missed my birthday by a long shot. It’s July,” Mingyu taunts, a snarky little grin on his lips.
“I know when your birthday is, stupid,” Seungkwan huffs, waddling over to Mingyu’s well-organized kitchen and sets the rather large floral arrangement down. Mingyu follows close behind and reaches out to touch the arrangement of white daisies, blue morning glories, and yellow carnations.
“Mm, then what’d I do?”
Seungkwan gives a rather long look-over of Mingyu’s general appearance, wearing a relatively ordinary outfit of a plain black polo and jeans as he’d initially planned to go to the grocery store later, before silently digging into the navy sling-bag across his chest. Seungkwan’s tuft of bright blond hair bobs around a bit as he takes out an incredibly thick packet, but stuffs it into his chest.
“Give me your phone. The producers told me to record this and send it over. They want to put it up as an announcement, so be cute.”
“What?” Mingyu belatedly gapes, but is quick to move into action. He’s at his couch and back before Seungkwan can blink twice. “Wait, be cute? Do I need to fix my face, or..”
“No, natural’s probably better,” Seungkwan says, holding his hand out for Mingyu’s phone. Mingyu gives it without complaint, and Seungkwan assuredly unlocks it.
“Did I land a role? Which one? I’ve been to a few callbacks this month, so…’
“Shh. I’m gonna record. 3, 2, 1…”
The familiar ping of the camera app lets him know that Seungkwan is recording. Mingyu does a little hop-step in place, a giddy smile forming on his lips. Behind the phone, Seungkwan makes a charade of blinking as big as he can, so Mingyu takes the hint and closes his eyes. He nervously reaches up, smoothing down his bangs. Something nudges into his chest, and Mingyu’s hands fall over it, caressing the surface. It’s smooth, thick, and, oh wait, he already knows it’s a packet. It’s rather thick, though. More of a book.
“Can I open my eyes?” Mingyu says, punctuated with a nervous giggle. There is a lack of response, but Mingyu figures that it’s fine.
Mingyu faces downward at the packet and looks down at the laminate cover of the packet. It’s a script, thick-bound, the cover a mixture of pastel pink and yellow, an image of a thinly drawn heroine in fashionable clothing, holding up an empty hanger. Written in big, bold letters, the webcomic’s author has signed her name. YEUN-HI. The name makes fireworks explode in Mingyu’s chest, and the hot embers tingle at the ends of his fingertips. His eyes scan lower to a hand-written message, which Mingyu reads aloud, “Congratulations, Kim Mingyu. I loved every single one of your tapes. I could not have chosen a better young man to be my Seo Woohyun.”
Mingyu looks up slowly at the camera, his mouth agape. He looks at Seungkwan behind the camera, a smile so genuine on his face and reflecting so brightly in his eyes that it gets Mingyu tearing up instantly. Seungkwan nods, the camera moving along with it, and Mingyu makes an airy sound as his vision goes blurry and wet.
He did it.
It was terribly odd for Mingyu to see his own name trending, especially because he had been so relatively unknown. He had taken a photo of it, received a few texts from high school classmates asking if it was really him who’d landed the role, and a rather tearful call from his mother. What was most startling about the whole thing was the sudden wave of followers and activity across his accounts. Going from around a hundred thousand followers to half a million the morning of the announcement was jarring, and though Mingyu had always been pretty math-savvy, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the whole thing.
If a million eyes were going to see what he could do, he was going to make damn sure he was going to do things right.
Once he had signed the preliminary contract, he received several pages of guidelines of things he could and couldn’t do until a year after the drama’s airing concluded. A majority of it was pretty standard, like posting unauthorized spoilers, leaking crucial information, and other things that might hinder production efforts, but it was the first time he’d been told to keep a strict watch over himself. He was given a particular weight to stay at, with no more or less muscular change than given, a shade of color to dye his hair before the start of production, and a code of conduct.
No scandals. No nightlife. No changes of marital status. No sudden cosmetic procedures.
Not like Mingyu had much to worry himself with, though. He kept himself under a pretty strict schedule to begin with, and spent a long time perfecting his own outer-appearance to his own liking. He wasn’t going to blow this one shot he’d been given, and that was all to say on the matter.
He did worry a bit about if that caramelized chestnut brown hair would suit his complexion, though.
The beginning of August came quicker than Mingyu had expected it to, thanks to the various production meetings and script readings he had attended. More than anything, he was thankful that everyone on the cast and crew seemed to be pretty nice. Yoon Chae, in particular, was notably wonderful. The role of the heroine, Kang Ye-rim, was set to be her big comeback after her marriage and pregnancy, she seemed determined to make production move as smoothly as possible. She never hesitated to sit by Mingyu at script meetings, and gave Mingyu relatively constructive feedback if they had a moment to themselves. Off the bat, Mingyu respected her, and felt as if he got along rather well with her.
The only thing that had Mingyu worried was the empty seat at the end of every script reading.
Jeon Wonwoo was announced to be attached to the project not too long after Mingyu had been. Without a second after seeing his name, Mingyu knew what role he would be playing, and he knew it would be perfect. There probably wouldn’t be a single actor in the industry that wouldn’t feel a bit of excitement upon seeing the Jeon Wonwoo’s name beside their own. Being able to branch out from the Korean acting industry and being able to have a successful film career in Hollywood was not something many people could boast about.
This role was meant to be his big Korean comeback, similar to Chae. Having remained in America for the last 4 years to focus on film productions and brief stints on broadway, fans of his in South Korea held little hope that he would someday return. Though his filmography was extensive, ranging from an early childhood career starting pre-adolescence to his mid-twenties, the 36 year old actor would again return to the bustling Korean industry.
Mingyu couldn’t be more excited about working with such a respected senior. It’s most definitely not because he, like, thought he was cute when he was 14 or something. That’s just his mom’s hypothesis.
Of course, he understood why Wonwoo couldn’t show up. He was probably busy, and especially with living in Los Angeles and all, simple script reads probably just didn’t warrant enough importance to take his time. Still, at the end of each reading, Mingyu would glance over to that empty chair. Amongst the entirety of the cast and crew, it felt as if that chair, set off to the side, was what kept Mingyu anticipating the start of filming the most.
“Mingyu,” Chae smiles, stepping into the open door of Mingyu’s dressing room, “Are you ready yet? Can I see?”
Surrounded by hairstylists and makeup artists, Mingyu preened, buzzing with the same excitement that one would expect from a child going to kindergarten for the first time.
“Almost,” Mingyu responds, raising his hand and twisting his wrist a little uncomfortably to give her a little wave, “Did you want to take a picture?”
“Yes,” Chae says, holding up her phone to eye-level, “It’s an important day for you.”
“It’s not my first day on set ever, you know,” Mingyu rolls his eyes, but is promptly instructed to shut them when a makeup artist jabs her brush at him, needing to clean a bit of powder from beneath his eyes, “I’ve been in front of a camera before.”
“Let me be proud of you,” Chae whines, playful and youthful.
It’s a little odd for Mingyu when he receives a reminder that the two of them are the same age. He couldn’t imagine being married with a kid at 23, much less being able to balance a career and a human being. The best structure in his life is his skincare regimen and his strongest point is impeccable foresight when it comes to meal-prepping. Everything else kind of just happens to him, whether he wants it to or not.
“Whatever you want, noona,” He snorts, trying to shake the feeling away, “I’ll pose as soon as I’m done.”
“I’m finished, don’t worry,” The makeup artist teases, her sleek, platinum dyed hair pulled into a stylishly tight ponytail, “I’ll just be packing up. Tell me if you need me out of the way.”
“Thank you,” Mingyu nods his head in a slight bow, earning a little grin from the makeup artist. She is quick to turn away, sorting her brushes and palettes, and Mingyu’s attention is immediately drawn to Chae as she bends over his shoulder.
Mingyu raises two fingers to throw a little peace sign at the camera, readying a beaming smile as Chae rests her cheek by his temple, throwing her own peace sign over Mingyu’s shoulder. The picture is quickly taken, with Chae standing up just as quickly as she’d bent over.
“Ah, cute,” Chae smiles, stretching and zooming into the picture with her fingers with a precision of someone who’s taken a few hundred-thousand selfies. Mingyu can relate, honestly.
“Mr. Kim? Mrs. Yoon?” A voice calls, and when Mingyu glances over his shoulder to look, he finds the Assistant Director standing there, glimpsing up from the tablet in her hands up at her, “I’m told you two are ready for set?”
Mingyu stands up, giving a cursory bow to the A.D, parroting out a quick response as Chae simply breezes forward with the gentle smile that seems to permanently grace her features. Before stepping forward, he turns toward his personal bag to briefly shut off his phone and check his belongings one last time. He shuffles his phone and his palm-sized notepad into the inside of his hoodie, folding the fabric over until satisfied. He turns to jog after the two, following them toward the open-street set outdoors.
It’s a closed set, and although occasional scenes are set on real, open street locations, today’s filming blocks are set within the studio’s prebuilds. The rush of staff immediately fills Mingyu’s lungs with excitement and a certain brand of vigor that makes him feel like the tips of his fingers are going to start shaking. His head repeatedly bobs, nodding toward anyone who even glances his way. The set is warm in comparison to the backrooms, hundreds of lights simulating the natural glow of a sunny afternoon lighting, and Mingyu feels his skin itching beneath the black costume cardigan he’s wearing.
“You two,” The Director waves from where she stands behind her monitor, “We’ll go over blockings real quick and get everything rolling quick!”
Mingyu smiles as the instant recognition hits him. From his callbacks to every script reading, Jeong Jisoo is quite the kind woman, and Mingyu has found himself grateful that someone as kind as her is at the forefront of the project. He hasn’t been on many, but man, he’s seen some real pieces of work at the helm of some projects.
It isn’t a hard scene to film, and aside from the cursory repeat takes just to get a few different angles, there’s little need to reshoot. Quick, easy, and painless. A majority of the day is.
Mingyu’s portrayal of Woohyun is bouncy, sweet, always touching something and almost always smiling. In the comic, he’s often drawn as quite puppyish, with ears and a tail sprouting from his figure at times, so he attempts to relay just that. A guy that’s constantly distracted, easily surprised, and quite sunny. The only time that Woohyun seems to focus on anything at all is when Ye-rim is with him.
Ye-rim sighs, and Woohyun glances away from the storefront they sit in front of in order to stare properly at her. Acutely aware of her little sounds, her facial expressions, and her minute shifts of her, Woohyun doesn’t need to stare long in order to know she’s bothered.
“Stop thinking so much about it,” Woohyun says, a little whiny, “The more you think about him, he’s just going to get the better of you.”
“That was my boss , though,” Ye-rim groans, placing her hands over her face, “He looked at me like I was nothing during the pitch meeting. Everyone I looked at stared at me the same way.”
“You wouldn’t have been hired if you didn’t have potential,” Woohyun says, and Mingyu pauses for the shot change before bending over to match Ye-rim’s defeated position. Ye-rim simply shakes her head, as if childishly refusing to look.
Just that interaction is enough to define them. Childish.
“Hey,” Woohyun speaks, openly whining a bit more, “Hey, don’t be like that.”
Ye-rim whines.
“I can get a job there if you want. I’d smile at you all day.” Woohyun says, which prompts Ye-rim to chuckle in a way that’s just the slightest bit ugly. She turns her head, and Mingyu shimmies his shoulders playfully, unbothered by their silly position.
Ye-rim stands abruptly, stretching her arms over her head and breathing a little sigh through her grinning lips. Woohyun watches her from behind, eyes somewhat clearer than before.
“I’m over it now,” Ye-rim sighs, wrists twisting before bringing her arms back down, “Let’s go eat, yeah?”
Woohyun just nods, watching as Ye-rim walks out of frame, before smiling a little wider and hopping up to follow.
“Cut! Standby,” The director calls, and the typical playback stillness ensues.
Mingyu’s eyes drift around the set until he inevitably gazes toward his director, only to find a tall, striking man standing behind her.
It takes no more than a second for the recognition to hit him, heavy, like the steel beams holding up all of these lights came down to crush him at once.
There he is, in something less than all of his glory. He moves like an oncoming storm, like slow, low-hanging grey clouds drift across a sky. He’s not in costume, not yet, but the little hints of makeup that smooth out his complexion and sharpen his brows, a slight smoking of brown liner beneath his lower lid. Jeon Wonwoo is absurdly gorgeous, his jawline perfectly squared as if carefully carved that way, bangs just barely hanging over his cool, inspecting eyes. He’s thicker than he looks in person, less slender than he seems in his films, but just as lithe: befitting of someone who’d once been on Broadway.
Maybe it’s just because Mingyu is seeing him now, as a real human being rather than someone on a screen, but he can’t help but be utterly dumbstruck at how a person that absurdly gorgeous can be real. His presence itself feels like rolling thunder, rumbling somewhere deep in Mingyu’s stomach.
Wonwoo’s eyes find his, somehow, across the distance of the set— and Mingyu sees fucking lightning. Mingyu’s heart stutters in his chest when Wonwoo raises a hand from his folded arms, cocking his wrist upward to beckon Mingyu over with just a finger.
God! If Mingyu was 15, he’d probably have gotten an erection because of such smooth, simple authority.
He scurries over, offering a bow of his head.
“You move too much. Aside from your blocking, it’s going to create continuity issues if scenes need to be edited down,” Wonwoo says, and Mingyu is entranced by that deep tenor of his, like silk, navy sheets, like…
Wait, huh?
“M-My apologies, sir,” Mingyu bows his head immediately, his heart racing like a child being chastised.
“You’re also smiling too wide. You’re trying to look youthful, not like an idiot.”
Damn .
“Right,” Mingyu nods, “Um… D… Do you have any other notes for me?”
“I’ve said all I needed to.” Wonwoo says, already turning over his shoulder, “I’ve got to get back to makeup or I’ll be set behind schedule.”
Dazedly, Mingyu watches as he goes. He hadn’t realized how utterly crushing Wonwoo’s presence was until it began to fade, his broad stature shifting Mingyu’s perception of depth. His mouth slightly agape, he looks around, finding just a few staff members staring. And that, just that, is enough for the embarrassment to hit him like another set of lighting structures.
“He’s being strict,” Jisoo smiles like soothing ice over a burn, “Your smile is exactly what we need.”
You need someone who looks stupid?
Mingyu gives a slight smile, mumbling a diminished “thanks” as he looks toward the monitoring screens. He is fidgeting a lot, isn’t he?
“We’ll roll it again,” Jisoo says, clapping once, “Return to first blocking, please.”
The sight of his own apartment is not really a view he admires. More or less, it’s just a view he’s grown accustomed to.
When he had first moved to Seoul, fresh out of high school and away from his parents for the first time, he had already been imagining where he’d like to live: A sleek penthouse in Gangnam with floor-to-ceiling windows. A kitchen with an island separate from the counters. A real fireplace with an HDTV mounted above. A guest room for his parents to sleep in when they want to take trips to Seoul. An infinity pool overlooking the city, and if he was lucky, with his own wine cellar. Artsy and modern with a sense of opulence.
This is a far cry from that. It’s just a studio apartment without any rooms, a kitchen with a partially functioning electric stove, and a flight of stairs with steps so thin his feet often slip right off of them mid-step. He’s done his best to make the place cozy, of course. He bought a nice black couch for the place and printed out a select few photos he’d taken on trips with his friends in classic black and white frames. He lined the staircase with twinkling fairy lights, and hung up his polaroids over the headboard of his bed. Sometimes, he’ll project movies on the sheet white roll-down curtain of the apartment, or even just a view of a better place. Better than here, where his view is the second floor of a chinese-korean fusion eatery.
He didn’t think he’d be stuck here for so long. Certainly not for five years.
He punches his thumb against the keypad of his front door, a random series of numbers that has become mindless muscle memory to him. There isn’t so much a smell to his home, because this place isn’t one, and the absence of musk and cedarwood reminds him that his air diffuser has long broken. He refuses to think about it, instead placing his shoes within the shoe cabinet and slipping on his padded slides instead. There’s better things to think about.
Like an instinct, he reaches down for his bag, already fishing for his notepad. He gropes his bag a few times before finding the loose flap along the front side, flipping it open and finding his notebook first and foremost. Once he has it, he relieves his tired shoulder of its duty and hangs the reliable old bag up on the hanger within the shoe closet.
When he woke up today, he didn’t expect to feel so tired at the end of it. He thought he’d feel elated, excited, or something else that starts with an E. In the place of his assumptions, he just feels exhaustion, and before he’s aware of it, he’s staring at the mirror he’d hung up near his front door, a step away from the shoe closet.
Five years later, and what has he got? The smile of an idiot?
Scowling like this, he reckons he hasn’t even got that going for him.
Mom always told him to leave a bad day at the doorstep. Once you’re home, you’ve ended it.
“So lighten up and smile,” He sighs, forcing himself to crack a small grin at his reflection before heading into his apartment.
In the back of his mind, he can hear his mother’s gentle voice whispering to him the rest of it, her voice an ever-calming hush: ‘Cause baby, you’ve already been through the worst of it.
Trudging to the couch, he flips his notepad open, collapsing onto the couch as he happens across the page he’d been scribbling on all day. Notes from set, from staff. Constructive criticisms. Pages of it. Pages of things he’d jotted down just by watching Chae work, by working with her. Every detail he could think of. Every last little bit.
Underlined in a jagged scribble, he sees it again. Look less like an idiot.
He deflates a little, melting into the cool, untouched texture of his couch. The leather is worn from years of use now, softer, but still cool to the touch. No one else lives here, after all. Cold surfaces, in absence of warm bodies, is something else that Mingyu has grown used to.
Maybe looking at this so long, lingering on it like this, is just making it worse. Maybe he’s actively leading his own brain cells off of a cliff by retreading. the same ground over and over. Yet, here he is, doing the same thing again.
If it isn’t an insult to his work, what the hell else could it mean? Is it supposed to mean anything?
In the subsequent hour that Mingyu pores over his notes, he attempts to read between the filled lines of the notepad, only to find the same white spaces that he’s already seen before.
They film on a block schedule for the most part, which means that Mingyu ends up having quite a bit of spare time to himself, with entire days where he doesn’t have to be on set. On paper, it seems that these days are somewhat of a rarity–with him being a member of the leading cast–but it’s nice that he’s got the option to rest. Though most of the time, he is requested to be on standby, waiting around in case there’s a gap in filming that some of his scenes can be filmed in, since most of the others are already on set.
Today is one of those standby days. For the entire week that they’ve been filming so far, this is his first actual one. It feels odd to not have to be immediately rushed into costuming or makeup, instead left to his own devices. For a while, he simply soaks in the glamor of having his own dressing room labeled with his name. Granted, it’s just on a piece of paper slipped into the plastic room sign, but it’s gratifying nonetheless. The novelty quickly wears off, leaving him scanning over the schedule to see who would be on set. Down the list of scenes, filled with mostly ones of the heroine, a certain name catches his eye.
It’s Jeon Wonwoo, of course.
With how early on it’s been into filming, and how little overlap there is with their characters in the first part of the drama, Mingyu hasn’t even had a chance to watch him act yet. He’s seen him before in movies and dramas throughout his childhood, but never once in the flesh. Despite their sole rigid interaction, Mingyu figures that this may just be his only chance to watch Wonwoo. Up close. In the flesh.
He grabs his notebook and his pen and makes his way toward the main set, the shell of the indoor office that the bulk of today’s filming would take place in. The hallways closer to the set still has plenty of staff clamoring about, looking for props and attempting to figure out who has went where and what has gone wrong before it’s even happened, so Mingyu doesn’t feel too much like the odd one out as he slinks through the open doors of the set.
He settles down by the catering table, where a few other members of the cast and crew linger, flattening up against the wall to remain as out of the way as he can. With someone as big as he is, and with how many wires are perpetually on the ground, it’s just better this way.
Chae is silent, doing a quick breathing exercise as her eyes trail over the blockings on the floor. Just behind her, Wonwoo is sitting at an ebony-stained wooden desk, his neck craning upwards as a makeup artist gently blots sweat away from his brow. He looks flawless, damn near porcelain, and the smile he flashes to the makeup artist as she removes her hands and backs away is almost enough to make Mingyu stop.
It is an instant reminder of the way he feels when he sees an incredibly handsome man at the subway, getting off just a stop away from Mingyu’s, never to be seen again. It reminds him how he feels when he sees someone with a smile he could never describe holding an equally gorgeous woman’s hand. A sense of loneliness that comes after the realization that something is unattainable. Only meant to be beheld, but never kept.
Feeling a bit more than just a bit starstruck, Mingyu pushes down the horrendously familiar feeling in his gut and waits for the director to call the start of filming, for the rush of the crew to still to a deafening silence. A staff holds the clapboard up for the camera, the sound of the plastic hitting against itself enough of a reminder to remain in their stillness. The staff is quick to dart out of frame, scuttling into the far reaches of the set. A buzzer sounds. Mingyu holds his breath.
There is a subtle shift in Wonwoo’s expression, hardening in the slightest as he smoothly settles into his role, a smooth glide into comfortable, warm waters. The infinitesimal shift in his aura, notable even by Mingyu’s inexperienced standards, is enough to send Mingyu spiraling.
All at once, he feels too big, pressed up into a wall within a corner of the studio like he’s taking up all of the air around him. An unfamiliar envy expands in his chest, pulverizing his sense of self, and suddenly he feels so small. He’s crushed beneath the weight of the waves that tug at his legs and take him beneath the undertow.
He struggles as he takes a single breath in, swallowing the rest of the scene as if it were a bitter pill, ingesting it as the seawater fills his lungs and leaves him drowning in Wonwoo’s gentle wake.
The familiar screech of the brakes on Seungkwan’s old Hyundai prompt Mingyu to look up from his phone and over at his manager who is currently rounding his way around the sidewalk bay.
“Hey, hotshot,” Seungkwan greets, somehow scolding at the same time, “Too good to use the subway all of a sudden?”
MIngyu rolls his eyes and shoves his phone into his back pocket as he hunches down into the vehicle, the seat already pulled all the way back for him. Not like Seungkwan drives anyone else around these days, but it’s still somewhat unfortunate that they can’t even use a company car.
“No,” Mingyu mumbles, buckling himself before Seungkwan can warm, “I’m just… not feeling too great today.”
“I’m not your mom,” Seungkwan bites, but his hand is already searching for Mingyu’s face, motherlike, “Are you sick? Did you eat something off?”
Mingyu just nods, because even though he’s an actor, he’s a shit liar. Seungkwan could smell bullshit from a thousand yards away and come running to break his kneecaps as punishment. The silence seems enough for Seungkwan to ease up on his attitude, and Mingyu can feel as Seungkwan touches around his forehead just in case.
“Well, you did good coming in today,” He says, shifting into a softer tone, “It’s always good to be standby even if you aren’t on schedule.”
Sometimes it’s maddening just how good Seungkwan is to him. Yes, there may be a contractual obligation for the two to at least be kind towards one another, but they’ve crossed the line between what is typical for a manager and client quite a few times before. Seungkwan has spent the night at Mingyu’s place helping him memorize scripts plenty of times, and Mingyu has nursed Seungkwan out of more hangovers than he can count. On one of those occasions, Seungkwan had accidentally divulged the nature of his drinking habits to the younger, which inevitably drew the two of them closer.
“The car smells good,” Mingyu mumbles, a quiet attempt at conversation.
Seungkwan beams. He recently quit smoking. A vice he’d picked up from his ex boyfriend.
“Thank you,” Seungkwan chirps, nearly humming with happiness, “I got the inside detailed last Sunday. No thanks to that first paycheck of yours.”
It’s a miracle that Seungkwan has been with him as long as he has. Seungkwan was his first manager, and has stayed that way. It didn’t matter that Mingyu made crumbs compared to other bright-eyed kids in his agency. Seungkwan is a staunch motherfucker, for better and for worse. Mingyu’s just glad that Seungkwan is finally getting his dividends.
Feeling less privy to conversation than usual, Mingyu just closes his eyes and crosses his arms, letting the car ride lull him to sleep. In the back of his mind, he’s a little kid again, falling asleep on his way home from school as he listens to his mom humming in the driver’s seat.
The rest is ultimately short-lived as they pull up to Mingyu’s apartment, Seungkwan simply just rattling his keychain around as a sort of wakeup call.
“I’ll walk you to your door at least,” Seungkwan says as Mingyu makes bleary attempts to unbuckle his seatbelt, “Can’t have you collapsing up the stairs and breaking your nose or something.”
“I don’t feel that sick,” Mingyu mumbles, the seatbelt buckle just barely missing his face as he stumbles his way out of the car. He makes no real attempts to stop Seungkwan after that. The company, no matter how short lived, would be nice.
The way up to his apartment is short. He’s only on the second floor out of fourteen, so it’s quicker to take the stairs than to fuss with the elevator. Once he’s home, he punches in his code and moves aside to open the door for Seungkwan, who slips his shoes into their usual place next to Mingyu’s little storage closet by the door. He takes a quick left into Mingyu’s kitchen, rummaging around.
“Want ramyeon?” Seungkwan asks. Mingyu hums. Simple as that. The sound of plastic wrappers being opened is an instantaneous response.
“Have the directors talked to you at all?” Mingyu asks, slipping his shoes into his closet, “Any notes for me at all?”
“No. Everything I hear is nice. They like you.”
Mingyu shuffles his feet as he walks, sliding around the floor. It’s an odd habit, as many of his friends have commented, but his footsteps are quieter this way.
“I don’t know. When I watch the playbacks, I feel like I’m always lacking a little,” Mingyu shrugs, setting his side bag down onto the living room coffee table. He’ll probably dig through his notes a little more later.
“You’re working with a bunch of big names, but you can’t let yourself get too intimidated by them,” Seungkwan chides, “Are they not being nice to you?”
“No, they are…” Mingyu sighs, “But maybe it’s disingenuous, you know?”
Pots and pans clamor about in the kitchen, and soon the sound of running water greets his ears. It’s not the first time they’ve just silently decided to eat dinner together like this. It’s nice.
“I’ll ask around to see if I can find anything out,” Seungkwan says, “But you should believe in yourself. I think you’re doing a fantastic job, even if I haven’t seen any of it yet.”
Mingyu wants to believe him. He really does. But he knows that Seungkwan has probably the most biased opinion he could get. Seungkwan is his manager, his supporter, and probably the best friend he has.
As if he’d taken some odd sort of psychic damage, Mingyu feels like something inside of his brain is stabbing him, and he flops downward onto the couch. He brings an arm up over his eyes to keep the light out of them, but the absence of all else makes it clear that there’s hardly any escape for him. His mind is a jumble, a mess of fragmented lines and shapes and explosions of color that are all too vivid and too much for him to bear. If he focuses at all, he can feel that same internal shift he had felt earlier, the overwhelming inferiority.
“I’m gonna nap again,” Mingyu says, nudging his head beneath one of his pillows instead.
Thankfully, he’s always been the sort of person that doesn’t struggle with sleeping. Once he sets his mind to it, he’s out like a light for just a blissful little while.