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The hard part is remembering that Minghao’s name is different now.
Seokmin was careful to memorize the pronunciation, with the tones he had to practice a few times to get right. They don’t speak Korean on the planet Minghao came from. Minghao smiled at him when he got it. A real smile, with teeth. It was the first time Seokmin had seen it.
Jungkook rolls off his tongue much more easily, but it sounds wrong enough that Seokmin stumbles over it every time.
He’s lying to himself, a little. Remembering that he isn’t supposed to call Minghao “Minghao” isn’t easy, but it also isn’t the only hard part. Practicing without him is hard, too, and so is seeing him with the rest of Bangtan’s current lineup. Seeing him across the room with the successors, when before he would have been with them.
The trainees and the successors cross paths a lot. They all live in the same dorm and eat in the same dining hall. But there is a divide there, where the seven of them stand together and everyone else is on the outside, no matter how close they were before.
There is a difference between the successors and the trainees, for all that they are all idols.
It would be silly to pretend otherwise.
Seokmin is aiming for that difference. They all are. He tries not to be jealous, but every trainee is, if only a little. How can they not be? Succession is the goal for every trainee who sets foot in the practice room.
Jungkook has reached that goal.
He will have other goals now. The successors aim ever higher, just like those below them.
They are all idols, after all.
Seokmin opens the door to the studio and backpedals immediately. J-Hope and Wonwoo are inside, talking quietly with their heads together and their kirara looping around each other in the air. J-Hope looks up, and his face breaks into a smile like sunshine. “Seokmin! Come in!”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Seokmin says. He checks Wonwoo’s face to see if he should leave anyway, but Wonwoo motions him in with a little nod.
J-Hope’s kirara is a star. It is shaped like one and it shines as brightly as one when he performs. He has the brightest kirara of all the members. Now, in the dim light of the empty practice room, it glows more faintly, but it is still the brightest kirara of their three.
No wonder. J-Hope has stage presence like no one else Seokmin has ever seen. Wonwoo says he was like that even as a trainee. Seokmin can’t imagine him as a trainee, can’t see the powerhouse in front of him as anyone or anything other than Jung Hoseok the Twelfth.
All seven of the successors were where Seokmin is, once. There are no foregone conclusions, even if it looks like destiny once it has already happened.
“We were about done, anyway. We’re going to do Cyphers, if you want to join.” J-Hope grins at him.
Seokmin is not a rapper. He has tried, but he highly doubts he will ever fill any of Bangtan’s rappers’ shoes. Still, invitations to practice with the successors aren’t to be taken lightly. Seokmin nods.
Wonwoo smirks. “You can be RM,” he offers, which is nice of him, because if Seokmin has to try to rap Suga’s parts, his abysmal performance might summon Suga himself down here in all his 5’4” glory to deliver a righteous smack.
“Actually,” J-Hope says. “I’m feeling Suga today. Why don’t you be me, Seokmin?”
Wonwoo shoots J-Hope a look that Seokmin sees but can’t even try to read. He doesn’t argue. “Alright. I’m RM, then.”
J-Hope laughs. “Let’s see how you do. Cypher 2, then 3. Let’s go.”
The thing about becoming an idol is that it changes you.
Seokmin came all the way to Seoulstar with a dream and a smile. He didn’t have to run a blockade like some hopefuls of the past did (and thank the stars for that), but Bangtan Sonyeondan isn’t for the faint of heart, even without the looming specter of death at every illegal concert.
Public opinion about Bangtan and its sister group Sonyeo Sidae has changed a lot over the years. Sometimes Seokmin wonders what the originals would have thought of it. Being a member isn’t the same job as it was in their day.
(The originals forged their own paths. They made their own names. They flew and fell on what the audience gave them and on what they could make of themselves.
They didn’t carry the weight of legacy, but they didn’t have the certainty of it, either.)
They knew the power of music, though. They may not have had kirara onstage with them, but they knew the effect a performance could have on an audience. They knew what kind of impact a song could lend to a message. They touched hearts and minds the same way their successors do, even if the light is more literal these days.
Seokmin knows he is already different from the boy he was when he arrived. If he decided tomorrow that he couldn’t take it anymore and headed home on the next shuttle, he would never be the same as the Lee Seokmin who stepped out into the spaceport going the other way.
Seokmin has come to realize that he has always been more confident than he knew. Some days, it’s hard to remember, but he believes in his ability to push through now. He never did before. When he passed the video auditions and scored a shot at the second round, he expected to be sent home after.
But he wasn’t, and he is still here. And he is different now.
Becoming an idol changes you, and the trainees are already idols. Sure, they aren’t on level with the successors, but the cool thing about the home stadium is that the trainees get their chances to shine, too. They move forward, even when it feels like they are standing still.
Becoming a successor changes you even more. Seokmin has only seen it happen twice, but twice is enough to know. The trainee from Angelstar who became V wasn’t someone Seokmin knew well, but it was obvious even from the outside. In Jungkook, who was once Seokmin’s fellow trainee from the same generation, it is only easier to see.
Sometimes, Seokmin wonders what they think of what they’re doing. Of giving up their own names and taking on others, of carrying a legacy instead of trying to leave their own. He wonders what he will think of it, if he ever gets the chance.
Seokmin isn’t sure he could leave a legacy of his own, but he wasn’t sure he could make it on Seoulstar, either.
(Maybe if Bangtan wasn’t an option, he would try.)
The trainees attend every concert. On tour, they act as security, though they haven’t been needed since the fall of the DGTO. The successors’ microphones are still fully equipped with beam sabers, just in case.
Seokmin didn’t expect the combat training when he auditioned for Bangtan, but he ended up enjoying it. He also enjoys getting to watch the concerts from different angles. In the home theater, they watch from backstage or from the balcony, but on tour, they get to see the show like the fans do.
It's…really something.
Seokmin went to his first Bangtan concert when he was thirteen years old. He was with friends he has since lost contact with. They had joked about auditioning, all thinking they wouldn’t have a prayer of succeeding. Seokmin went home with stars in his eyes anyway.
When there are kirara around, the stars are more literal. He didn’t know it at the time, but idol ambition shines. Kirara feed on energy, and they give it back. Kirara light catches in eyes, on clothes, in hair, painting idols with a glow that makes them seem otherworldly. Ethereal.
Seokmin has seen footage of himself onstage, showing the same effect. It’s intimidating. It’s exhilarating.
He knows the secret. There is no superpower that makes a person glow under the kirara. It is all the drive to perform. The will to give the best show you possibly can.
The magic is there for anyone who chooses to reach for it.
The tour schedule takes them around some planets. The DGTO may be gone, but it left a mark. The hearts of the people lie quiet still, and it will take time before Bangtan is allowed back.
Their predecessors would have blasted into the system in a blaze of kirara light and entered atmosphere for a guerilla concert. In those days, they didn’t even land the ship, because they usually had to leave in a hurry. They sent idols out on hover platforms, and trainees were positioned in mechs to launch against attacks. Set lists were more optimism than actual plans.
The successors still use the hover platforms, but now, it is about artistic choice. Seokmin has seen footage from the guerilla concerts. Today’s idols don’t do anything like the death-defying stunts Park Jimin the Seventh pulled off.
BigHit Future tries hard to respect the boundaries planets set for themselves now. There are no more guerilla concerts. Seokmin is glad for it, but he wonders if maybe they aren’t failing the mission set before them as idols.
The hearts of the people lie quiet. It is an idol’s job to reach them and stir them to life. With the right chords and the right timing, music can cut through the gray and the enforced calm, can make a person laugh or cry or stare in awe. The planets that bar Bangtan from giving concerts are the planets that need it the most.
The tour schedule takes them to a friendly planet, and Seokmin performs a job designed for a harsher time.
The mic drops.
Seokmin’s ears ring with the echo of the announcement.
Graduation.
The audience hears one thing. The trainees watching from the balcony railing hear another.
Succession.
Bangtan Sonyeondan has seven members. Always. From the beginning, to the stars, through all the years between and since. Bangtan is seven. When one member leaves, another rises to take his place.
RM is the leader, and his succession is rare. He is always the leader, and trainees chosen to fill his position are only selected if they are up to the task.
Seokmin stares at the stage, nearly empty. Filled by one man, alone under a spotlight and his own kirara’s glow, who makes silencing the theater on their first night back look easy.
There are twelve trainees at the railing. Who among them can do the work that RM has done? Who among them is capable of the balance?
Who among them will be called to take RM’s place?
RM stands straight and tall before the crowd as it goes wild. He makes his bows and smiles at them one last time, and then he steps back and lets the curtain swallow him as the stage goes dark.
Not everyone retires.
Most do. RM—now Seungcheol again—chose his graduation. From what Seokmin understands, it isn’t unusual for graduated members to stick around and join BigHit Future’s management team or find related industry jobs. The tenth V is a well-known photographer now. One of Bangtan’s dance trainers used to be Hyoyeon in SNSD. They’ll probably see Seungcheol around.
Jeon Jungkook the Ninth went center nova.
As a fan, Seokmin always assumed that the center nova phenomenon was a manufactured part of the groups’ mythology, done with special effects. Bangtan and SNSD use a lot of flashy lighting and unusual visuals. The constant concerts and fanmeets are their original trademark, but their particular brand of flair is just as important. Idols fly around on hover platforms. Confetti falls on the crowd from nowhere. Outfits seem to change with the songs. It can be hard to tell what is kirara and what is ordinary technology, and only now that Seokmin is behind the scenes does he know just how much is the kirara.
Having members occasionally vanish onstage? Surely just more smoke and mirrors.
Seokmin thought that while he watched the kirara light get brighter and brighter as the ninth Jungkook stole the show. He thought that as Jungkook stepped into the center spot of the formation and disappeared in a blinding multicolored flare. He thought that right up until Jungkook didn’t appear in the dining hall for breakfast the next morning. Right up until Minghao started showing signs of succeeding him.
The center nova phenomenon is not well understood, their managers say. There is a very simple reason for that. Idols who go center nova don’t come back.
Seungcheol’s graduation is on all of their minds the next morning. Seokmin assumes so, at least. It is certainly on his.
Seungcheol doesn’t appear at breakfast. Somehow, it is unsettling, even though Seokmin knows he didn’t vanish like the ninth Jungkook did. It would probably be just as weird if Seungcheol did come to breakfast, though. There has been an upset to the equilibrium of the dorm. How does someone fit, if he is more than a trainee but no longer a successor?
The after of being an idol isn’t something Seokmin thinks about much. He knows he could go home at any time. He does consider it sometimes, but it always feels so abstract.
He isn’t going home. He isn’t going anywhere. He isn’t finished yet.
Seungcheol is, though.
“Where’s Wonwoo?” Mingyu wonders out loud.
Seokmin blinks. “You don’t know?” As the last of his generation of trainees, Wonwoo has his own room, but Mingyu never seems to let that stop him. If anyone should know where Wonwoo is, it’s Mingyu.
Mingyu just frowns and looks down at his plate. “Hmm.”
“What hmm?” Seokmin asks helplessly, but Mingyu doesn’t answer.
The rest of the day passes strangely.
Everything is normal. Everything is different. Everyone is on edge, buzzing with nervous energy.
As a fan, Seokmin had assumed successors were chosen by management. The producers and trainers would evaluate the trainees, decide whose skills were sufficient and who best fit the profile for the empty spot, and announce the appointment first to the company and then to the public.
The weirdest part of being a Bangtan trainee is realizing how much of the group’s mythos isn’t manufactured by the company. So much of what the fans see is real, and they don’t even know it.
Wonwoo finally makes his appearance at dinner, after training and rehearsals are done for the day.
Seokmin takes one look at him and knows why he wasn’t at practice.
Wonwoo looks weak, tired and drawn. He’s leaning on Jimin’s shoulder for support. He’s also smiling, just a little.
They all know what this means.
“I knew it,” Mingyu hisses, quiet enough that Seokmin is the only one to hear him. “I knew it would be him.”
Mingyu is closer to Wonwoo than Seokmin is. He was closer to Minghao—to Jungkook—than Seokmin, too, before. It is hard enough for Seokmin. He can’t imagine what it must be like for Mingyu.
“RM,” Seokmin murmurs. Somehow, it fits. Seokmin isn’t sure he could have called it, but right now, he can’t see any of the other trainees filling Seungcheol’s shoes as well as Wonwoo will.
The kirara know an idol’s heart. Those they choose are always right for the position, somehow.
Age hierarchy in Bangtan is a strange thing.
The trainees tend to be similar ages, but an idol’s career can be long. Most often, successors spend less than seven years in their role, but sometimes, it is more. The potential length of a successor’s tenure means that the age distribution can go all over the map.
The age order of the originals is something every trainee has memorized, because nearly every fan of Bangtan knows it. The fans know it because it affects the way the members treat each other to this day.
Jin was the oldest, and his word carries weight, even when the youngest member of the group wears his name. J-Hope was in the middle of the lineup, and that makes him approachable from both sides, even when his successor should be at the top. Jungkook was the youngest, and he wouldn’t have made it into the group if his skills weren’t the best—and that clicked into place neatly with Minghao’s personality.
So there is the age hierarchy of the successors, and then there is the age hierarchy that their legacy lays upon them. To complicate matters further, there is seniority in the group. It all adds up to a complex situation for Wonwoo—for RM—to step into as the new leader. He is the most experienced trainee, but he is the newest successor. He is a skilled rapper, which fits, and he has a quiet smile, which doesn’t.
Seokmin doesn’t know how the kirara choose. They are strange and mysterious little creatures, and he hardly knows a thing about them, even now that he has his own kirara companion. If anything, watching his kirara gives him more questions. He doesn’t know why or how his kirara chose him, and he doesn’t know why or how the kirara choose successors. He doesn’t know what happens during a succession or why it has a physical effect on the idol chosen. He doesn’t even know for sure that successors are chosen by the kirara, though the trainees all agree that the physical reaction couldn’t come from anything else.
There are so many aspects of being an idol that the audition guides don’t warn about. Seokmin certainly didn’t know what he was signing up for.
It doesn’t make much difference, in the end.
Very few hopefuls who make it through the audition process go home without spending at least a year in the dorms. They all come in walking on dreams and reaching for stardust. Knowing the truths of Bangtan only builds the staircase higher into a future they can almost taste.
The trainees are a competitive bunch. Perhaps it is to be expected, since they self-select for ambition. Nobody makes it far in this career by not being willing to chase their dreams. Seokmin had to dig deep for his courage and confidence, but he never lacked for desire.
Bangtan Sonyeondan locks trainees in ruthless competition by nature of the group. Seokmin used to think the successors could relax a little on that front, but when he got here, he slowly learned that he was wrong. The successors have won their spots, but they have to compete with their predecessors and with each other. The fans are fickle in their favor, and with every succession, the shoes get harder to fill.
Once a year, BigHit holds seven solo concerts for Bangtan’s members in the home theater. The successors get a great deal of creative freedom for them. The solo concerts are both triumph and test; getting one means that you have won but also that continued success is up to you.
Jungkook’s solo concert will be brilliant. Seokmin saw him at work as a trainee, refining and inventing, his kirara glimmering brighter with each epiphany.
Late at night, with Mingyu snoring away in the next bed, Seokmin can’t help but think about what he would do with creative direction for a concert. He isn’t the producer type and never has been. The twisty originality of Jungkook’s mind is not something Seokmin can hope to possess. All he can do is admire it from afar.
Seokmin isn’t so sure about himself, but Jungkook could have made his own way.
One of the holdovers of the age hierarchy is that Jin’s solo concert is always first. The seven concerts are scattered around the calendar, which allows the company to easily handle the logistics and the fans to build hype. They run in age order for the originals, with Jin first and Jungkook last.
The current Jin always debuts a different hairstyle at his solo concert. J-Hope has mentioned that Jin hated having long hair when he tried it out, but the debut of the short haircut thrilled the fans so much that he keeps experimenting.
(Seokmin keeps that one in mind as a reminder that the successors’ choices aren’t totally their own. In some ways, the trainees have a lot more freedom.)
Jin always keeps his new hair a complete secret. Only the stylists and the other successors know what his plans are, which means even the trainees can get in on the hype. Of course, the trainees’ speculation takes a different tone from that of the fans…and it involves a lot more betting.
Last year, Jin’s hair was blond with carefully shaped bangs. The year before that, it was pink, which came in as a close second to what most fans recognize as Jin’s best hair of all time: shoulder-length and an almost metallic blue.
Seokmin stands with the other trainees at the railing above the top row of seats. It isn’t often that they watch from here during concerts in the home theater. The trainees open for Bangtan when they perform on Seoulstar, and not even all the solo concerts have them watching from the audience. Jin is dramatic, though, and he maintains his secrecy to the last. The trainees aren’t allowed backstage today.
The lights go down. The cheering begins. The music starts to swell, building from every direction, and the theater’s kirara flare. From behind the curtain, Jin’s voice rings out. “Down from the moon to see you, who is it?”
The cheering takes form as the fans catch on. In no time at all, they are all chanting his name. “Kim Seokjin! Kim Seokjin!”
From behind the curtain, Jin laughs.
The music shifts, transitioning smoothly into a drumroll.
Then, as it builds to a crescendo, the curtain rises, and out he steps—with short black hair.
The fans go wild, but Seokmin can only blink. Has this Jin ever had black hair?
He almost turns to ask Mingyu, but the show has begun, and for now, they are the audience, and their job is to watch. The trainees will be idols again later. For now, the idol’s role is filled by one person alone at center stage.
Later, when Jin reveals that tonight’s solo show was his finale, Seokmin isn’t as surprised as he should be.
When Seokmin is ready for the day, Mingyu still hasn’t moved.
“Come on,” Seokmin says. He shakes Mingyu’s shoulder. “Don’t you want to see who won’t be at breakfast?”
Mingyu rolls over and blinks bleary eyes up at Seokmin. “Mrph?”
“You know I don’t speculate, Gyu, but I know that you do.”
Mingyu lets his eyes fall shut. “C’mon, Seok,” he mumbles.
“Seriously, you’re not getting sick, are you? I mean, today—” Seokmin cuts himself off. Very abruptly, he feels like an idiot.
He stares down at Mingyu, cataloguing fatigue and bright, foggy eyes.
Oh. Duh.
“Alright,” he says. “Okay. Yeah. Yep! Fine. You just. Go back to sleep. I’ll go find…somebody. RM. I’ll look for RM.”
Seokmin heads for the door, but he hesitates in front of it.
He doubles back to squeeze Mingyu’s hand. “You’re going to be incredible, you know,” he whispers.
Mingyu, already asleep and out of reach, doesn’t answer.
Sometimes Jeonghan smiles, and it’s like he never stopped being Jin.
Jin is an interesting idol, and his successors always have interesting personalities. They aren’t all interesting in the same way. Each one is offbeat and unexpected. It makes sense, Seokmin supposes. They wouldn’t be all that interesting if they were the same.
Seokmin isn’t actually sure what Jeonghan’s job is. Seungcheol is straightforward enough—he’s on the production team now. Jeonghan, though, floats around the complex like he has nowhere better to be. Sometimes he shows up at dance practices and just watches for a while. Sometimes he pulls frustrated trainees aside during breaks and talks to them or walks them through moves.
Jeonghan was once a trainee, just like every other member of Bangtan, but he has been the hyung here for a long time, and it shows.
If Seokmin is perfectly honest, Jeonghan and Mingyu are both weirdos. But they’re different kinds of weirdos. Seokmin was surprised when it was Mingyu who was called up to succeed Jeonghan, though maybe he shouldn’t have been.
The new Kim Seokjin is still settling in his skin. Seokmin knows him well enough to see that. He is getting there, and the differences are already starting to show. Soon, Seokmin won’t know him as well anymore. Becoming an idol changes you.
The hard part with Jungkook was remembering not to call him Minghao. The hard part with Jin is the silence of the dorm room.
How did Wonwoo deal with this, before he was RM? There were a lot of generation 96 trainees. Being the last is so strange. Maybe he deal with it better, though. Seokmin likes having friends in his space. The dorm setup really worked for him.
It should be fine. There are plenty of trainees. He still spends a lot of time socializing—way more than he ever did back home.
His kirara has taken to singing when they are alone in the room. It sings a lot, but this is new. Minghao would have mentioned it if it wasn’t.
“Are you worried about me?” Seokmin asks it, after a few days of this. It coos back at him. He reaches up as it flits past his head, petting its blobby little tail. It coos louder and comes back for another pass, making him giggle.
At least he has his little buddy. The silence would be much worse without it.
Seokmin has come to suspect that being a choreographer for Bangtan is a frustrating job. The songs are old, and the choreography is old, too. Changes happen for special events, but often those changes are twists on entrances and exits. Transitions change by necessity and to facilitate smooth progression of the set list. On tour, Bangtan and the staff work with what they have. In the home theater, everything is always the same.
There are minor changes to account for members being absent, for illness or injury, but those, too, are worn smooth by time and repetition. Seven members, classic steps, well-known beats and blocking. To change too much is to risk disappointing the fans, who come for what they know.
Choreography for the trainees is a different matter.
The trainee setlist is in constant flux. It includes well-known classics that aren’t in Bangtan’s current set, and it includes deep cuts that half the fans won’t know. It includes songs with lost choreography, songs with no choreography, and songs where part of the draw is that the choreography is subject to change.
Occasionally, the trainees even perform an original song. For all the creative freedom the members get, originality in the setlist is something they will not or cannot do.
Kyulkyung is not the most senior of the dance trainers, but she does top their ranks; she is a former Hyoyeon of SNSD, and she has made Bangtan’s trainees her own project. With a smile, a flip of her hair, and a devastatingly graceful flash of footwork, she always seems to get what she wants.
Not that Seokmin would know anything about that.
Her projects are demanding and often frustrating, but they are fun in a different way from Bangtan’s beloved singles and crowd-pleasers. The members’ sets are always well worn-in.
The fans watch the trainees. It would be naïve to think that there aren’t already eyes on them. But the fans are watching for successors. They want parallels and quirks that they can match to members. They look for similarities. They know that the trainees are still auditioning with every passing day.
When the trainees are onstage performing new dances for a breathless crowd, they are seen for themselves.
The job of an idol is hard on the body. They spend long hours practicing, dancing until their muscles ache and singing until their throats burn. Maybe they shouldn’t, but they do. It is a balance, as so many pieces of the life are. Preparation versus overwork. Technical perfection versus risk of injury.
Managing the balance is a skill only learned through experience.
Seokmin is a trainee. He isn’t expected to have all the experience yet, but it is no less frustrating to be out of the lineup.
Seokmin sits in the deserted common room with an ice pack taped to his ankle and imagines the scene in the home theater. It is only a few corridors away from this exact spot, though the walk would feel much longer than usual with his current state. Every set list used for the regular home concerts is burned into his brain. He knows which one they are using tonight, and if he checked the time, he might be able to pin down where they are in the show.
It has been a while since Seokmin was sidelined. He had forgotten how terrible it felt to be stuck in recovery while everyone else performed. The other trainees got to connect with fans and prove their skills tonight. Trying to succeed makes for a long wait, but that doesn’t mean there is no advancement in the meantime.
Who is he kidding? That’s the motivation for every other night. Missing the debut of something new is what hurts.
Kyulkyung came alive as she pulled together last-minute changes to take him out of the blocking. She wasn’t happy he was hurt, of course, but the challenge…well. Seokmin gets it, to a point. He wanted something new, too.
At least somebody won today.
The original Bangtan used to write their own songs. As far as Seokmin knows, the successors never have. Seokmin doesn’t write lyrics, doesn’t choreograph for himself like J-Hope or remix songs just to hear production differences like Suga. Most days, that particular difference doesn’t bother him.
His kirara trills. He looks up to find it flashing at him. Time to remove the ice pack, then. He sings back at the kirara while he wrestles with the tape, echoing its melody.
A lot of things have to go right for an idol to make it, Bangtan or otherwise. There isn’t much point in dwelling on this small thing gone wrong. He harmonizes with the kirara’s whistling and tries to cheer himself up.
The thing about injuries is that he feels so useless. His job is to rest and heal. The slow pace stands in dramatic contrast to the normal rhythm of the trainees’ days.
Seokmin isn’t a fan. He spends enough time with his thoughts as it is, especially now that he has a dorm room to himself. He doesn’t need any more of that.
He hauls himself out of bed feeling like crap, but his ankle is no worse than yesterday. He can hobble down to the practice rooms and watch, at least, just to get out of this funk and back into the atmosphere of the complex.
Seokmin stumbles over his own feet in the common room, and Seungkwan yelps and leaps to catch him. “Hyung!”
“I’m fine,” Seokmin says, but it isn’t quite true, and Chan’s dubious face says that the kids know that. All three of them gather around him like concerned parents. Seokmin almost laughs out loud at the tableau.
“We should go to the medbay,” Chan says. Hansol nods. Seungkwan probably nods too, not that Seokmin can see it with Seungkwan still trying to hold him up.
“I don’t need to go to the medbay,” Seokmin protests. He gently shakes Seungkwan off, successfully shifting him to just a nervous hold on his arm. “I’m fine. I know exactly what’s wrong with my ankle, and bothering the trainers more isn’t going to change it, no matter how much I’d like to practice today. I swear I’m not trying to do anything but watch, okay?”
“Hyung,” Hansol says quietly.
“What?”
The three younger trainees trade significant looks. Seokmin blinks at them.
“Jimin—Junhui,” Chan says. “Junhui-hyung graduated last night.”
“He did?” Seokmin asks, because it’s the first he has heard of this. Great, he can add a new entry to the list of things he hates about being the last of trainee generation 97: he no longer has roommates to tell him this kind of thing when he is out of the lineup. “What does that have to do with—”
He stops, abruptly feeling like a fool.
“Junhui-hyung isn’t Jimin anymore,” Seungkwan says. “Your kirara is going crazy.”
Seokmin looks around. His kirara does a loop-the-loop in the air and zooms in close. Its glow pulsates, flaring bright and fading in a quick and steady rhythm. It chirps at Seokmin’s attention and spins a couple of circles around his head. Has it been doing this since last night? He can’t believe he didn’t notice.
“And hyung,” Seungkwan says. His grip tightens around Seokmin’s arm. “You’re burning up.”
“I—” Seokmin says, but he can’t think of any way to finish the sentence.
Junhui-hyung isn’t Jimin anymore.
Jimin? Dancing powerhouse, bright smile, soft sly and sexy all in one package, fan favorite Jimin?
“Come on, hyung,” Hansol says. “We need to get you to medbay. Jeonghan-hyung will know what to do.”
The thing about success is that it is a moving target.
The trainees don’t seem to have any trouble calling him Jimin. He hopes that means his own difficulty with Jungkook wasn’t as apparent as he felt like it was. He almost wants to ask. He could, now, and he wouldn’t feel weird about it. Jimin has his own room as a successor, but he bunks in the successors’ section of the dorm. Somehow, his single room isn’t as quiet as the generation 97 dorm.
Jimin’s name fits better than he thought it would. It’s a little early to say for sure, but he has a good feeling. He can’t wait to jump in and prove himself on that stage. It isn’t a question of knowing the songs or dances, of course. The whole point of training for years is to have that pinned down by the time they get called up. No, proving himself as a successor is about filling the original Jimin’s shoes and the shoes of every Jimin who has come after him…and about adding his own twist.
Lee Seokmin succeeded in getting this far. The path wasn’t easy, but it was laid out for him. From here, he gets to decide more about what the future holds—within the formula, as everything Bangtan does is, but with the flexibility that comes with being part of the story. He isn’t an understudy anymore.
Seokmin can’t make his own name, not with the life he chose. Park Jimin can.
He has had stars in his eyes for years. He glows just as brightly as anyone else on the stage under kirara light. The one thing all idols have in common is that they want. His desire has not been satisfied by making it into Bangtan. Instead, the desire has just gotten bigger, fueled by the satisfaction.
The successors aim ever higher, just like those below them. His debut is only the beginning of the next stage.