Work Text:
Mark takes a deep breath, then wills his shoulders down, as if he could force himself to relax by sheer spite. Through the mirror reflection, he sees his manager, Johnny, sitting cross-legged, scrolling down his phone. It’s the picture of composed calm, and it’s getting on Mark’s nerves.
“Hyung,” he says, exasperated. A full sentence.
Johnny meets his eyes through the mirror, the corner of his mouth shaping into a smile. “Stop worrying so much. You’ll win this.” Pause; raised eyebrows. “Easy.”
Gritting his teeth, Mark turns away from the mirror and faces his coworker. They’ve been at this for almost eight years. It’s almost enough to make a legacy. Almost. Pushing a decade, it feels so close. But Mark knows what it all hangs on. Tonight, in a way. His talent as a multilingual rapper, appeasing the Korean masses and pulling English-speakers into k-rap with the ease that only seasoned professionals can.
But also: the rivalry.
He knows part of his success is that there’s someone else the world pits him against.
“There’s no winning,” Mark corrects him, adjusting his clothes. They feel a little too tight. He doesn’t want to show what’s underneath them, feels like there isn’t enough bulk to justify the black tank top, clings to the cargo jacket like a lifeline. “This isn’t a game.”
Johnny shrugs, and goes back to his phone. “It sort of is, though. I’m sure Jaemin-ssi will have the time of his life tonight pushing both of your buttons, and seeing who breaks first.”
Na Jaemin, the infamously unpredictable MC who hosts SBS’s new variety show. Even a solid year after debut, the theme of the show is still in the air. Last week, Mark watched Jaemin giggle in absolute joy as two k-pop idols with over twenty years of career each tried to justify their twin watches as a friendship item, and not a couple one. The week before, Jaemin-ssi made two rookies from different groups cook. One of them had cried. The third week past, Jaemin-ssi and his two guests were in an onsen in Japan, reminiscing about once having been part of the same k-pop group, under different units, and now no more.
It’s vaguely related to music, but Mark thinks what Na Jaemin likes is hanging out with musicians and getting under their skin in different ways.
“I’ll break first,” Mark says, matter-of-factly.
Instead of boosting his self-esteem, Johnny nods. “Very likely.”
Indignant, Mark crosses his arms. “I thought I would win?”
“I thought it wasn’t a game?” Johnny offers, amused. Mark flops beside him on the couch, arms still crossed. Johnny gives him a goodhearted pat on the back. “Winning is selling more albums, booking more tours. Making more money. You’ll win. More people know who Mark Lee is.”
Mark thinks it’s a little annoying that Johnny won’t even say his name.
Not that Mark does.
“But more people care about him in Korea. In Japan. In all of Asia, probably. And national market is valuable market.”
Johnny shrugs. “That’s my job as your manager to stress over. Your job is to look angry and cute while you spit lines about how he’ll never book Madison Square Garden, and you’ve sold it out twice.”
Mark shifts uncomfortably. But doesn’t argue against it.
Instead, he waits, keenly aware that in another stuffy and small dressing room down the same corridor, Lee Donghyuck sits with his own manager. But probably not as nervous, because right now he’s on the clock to stop being Donghyuck, and start being Haechan.
*
Mark hears them before he sees them.
His hand is still on the doorknob when he hears Haechan’s giggle, followed by his manager’s endeared, “What are you even talking about…” Except it’s not really that, but, “무슨 일이야…” Unlike Mark and Johnny, who stick to English every time the cameras aren’t on them, Haechan and his manager seem to have found a perfect honorific-less Korean they are comfortable with.
His whole body stiffens.
But Johnny’s already pushed the door open, dragging him out in the process.
Fair enough. The PA had come a few minutes back saying they only had five minutes.
Haechan isn’t taller than him; they’ve stood side-by-side enough times that Mark knows the precious inches he’s got on his rival by heart. However, today he’s wearing combat boots, the heels excessively high. He’s also wearing black leather pants, to go with his zipped up black leather jacket, hanging off his shoulders stylishly just enough to show the bronzed collarbones, and the fact that there’s nothing underneath.
“Morkol,” Haechan says teasingly, a smile on his lips.
Behind him, his manager sighs. “Save your chemistry for the stage,” the man says.
Mark blinks a few times, taken aback. He hadn’t had the time to argue against the stupid nickname, and now there’s also the C-word. He shakes his head violently. “There’s no– there’s no chemistry. We're professionals…”
“The rivalry,” Johnny completes for him. He gives a polite nod to both men in front of him. “Doyoung-ssi, how have you been?” He asks, but it’s rhetorical. Before there’s time for an answer, he adds, “I must say I agree with the inferior team. Save the chemistry for the stage, where it translates into views.”
Kim Doyoung’s eyes grow comically large, and he looks appalled. “Inferior? Inferior! I don’t remember Mark winning any music shows in his last comeback. But we won three.” He pauses, raises his eyebrows. “Three,” he repeats. Then, with an apologetic look Mark’s way, “No offense. You did great. I have your album on Melon.”
Johnny rolls his eyes. “And yet, even with three wins, he couldn’t break into the Billboard.” And after a beat, his eyes fall on Haechan as well. “Which is a problem on your managing team, really. It may not have been on Billboard, but it was on my Spotify.”
Mark and Haechan share a look.
Mark thinks Haechan is biting back a smile, but he can’t be sure. He’s better at masking his feelings than Mark. As for himself, he’s truly mortified, and wants this moment to be over. It’s so much easier to diss Haechan behind a recording booth.
The PA, a woman in her twenties with a high messy ponytail, two walkie-talkies, and a clipboard, stops in front of them, as if emerging from any of the many dark spots of a recording studio. “Mark-nim. Haechan-nim. We need you both onstage pronto. Our MC-nim asked to kindly remind you both that only your stages were pre-recorded and the interview is live.”
It doesn’t sound very kind.
Mark and Haechan share another look.
He thinks he hears Doyoung-ssi whisper something warningly to Johnny, but he’s too busy focusing all his power into being ready. Into being Mark Lee. Into winning, whatever that means.
Haechan cocks an eyebrow at him, questioningly. His mouth doesn’t make any noise, but his lips shape into, “Okay?” Okay, not 괜찮아. It feels like a small comfort.
Mark squares his shoulders, smugly now.
“Since you’re number two in sales, I’ll let you go first, Number Two-nim,” he says.
Haechan rolls his eyes dramatically. But takes the lead towards the stage.
*
While definitely not Mark’s first time in an SBS studio, Jaemin’s Pinkeu With Na-Na definitely has its own flavor. The wall of cameras with bored-looking professionals is the same in any studio. Mark always finds them to be the most intimidating part of the industry – it doesn’t matter how well any of them do, their expressions seldom change. Mark can have just offered the best diss track of his life, and they’ll sigh disappointedly, show it to the person next to them, and tell Mark to go again, because he didn’t look at the camera in just the right angle.
Some things, however, are different in this studio than anywhere else Mark has been.
The decoration is entirely marbled and pink, and the only image that comes to Mark when he thinks of it, is a Playboy Mansion pastel room. It’s rich and elegant, but also a little… off. Jaemin-ssi’s hair is dyed blond this time, but it’d also been pink in the past. Following the theme, Na Jaemin is the only MC that, to Mark’s knowledge, has not only both Lysn and WeVerse fan clubs, but also a pink lightstick with a naughty-looking bunny trapped inside.
Na Jaemin is also the only MC Mark has heard of that is vehemently against meeting guests for the first time offscreen. Instead of meeting Mark at his dressing room the way most MCs do, to ease the nerves and create some pre-show banter, the second Mark walks onstage, Jaemin-ssi is a complete mystery wrapped in too many teeth and eyes that light up like stars.
Jaemin-ssi gets up to meet them, and everyone screams. It takes Mark a second to realize they’re not screaming because of him, or because of Haechan. They’re screaming because of Jaemin.
“Alright, Pimkkis, alright. Quiet!” he addresses the public first, giddy with their excitement. From the crowd, someone yells at Jaemin to impregnate them. Mark hopes the sound technicians can block that out, for the sake of everyone’s dignity. “Now, now.” He pauses, aegyo overflowing, somehow both funny and absolutely weird. Haechan and Mark are still at the sidelines. “I have two very interesting guests here today. You have asked me about their rivalry of epic proportions for ages. You have sent me GIFs. You have sent Twitter threads decoding disses at each other. And Pimkkis, you know I always listen to you.” Strategic pause. More cheers. The next time he speaks, he pauses after each sentence, making the public before him laugh each time. “They’re Apple versus Samsung, except they’re both Korean. They’re Coca-cola versus Pepsi, except there’s no real clear answer to who owns the market. They’re our very own Korean Drake versus Kendrick, except let’s hope without scandals, because unlike what everyone says, that’s not what I’m about.”
Everyone laughs. Nobody’s paying attention to them yet.
Beside him, very quietly, Haechan offers, “Well, you are Canadian. I guess that makes me Kendrick.”
Mark glares at him. “You wish, Donghyuck-ah.”
It’s a slip.
One that nobody sees, or hears. Jaemin-ssi can make a whole room focus on him entirely, like nobody else’s there, even if the other people there are the two main rappers of their generation.
Haechan doesn’t look back at him after that. Mark retrains his brain. Not Donghyuck. Never Donghyuck-ah. This is Haechan beside him. And this is Mark’s livelihood, in the form of an oppressively pink studio and a slightly unhinged host.
“Without further ado… Haechan and Mark Lee, welcome to Pinkeu with Na-Na!”
The wall of cameras turns entirely to the two of them. The L-shaped camera overhead records the cheers from the crowd; their lightsticks blinking in soft pastel colors. Three cameramen are onstage near them, dressed in black and carrying the heavy equipment. One stops in front of him for a torso shot, and then a close-up.
Mark locks the fuck in.
He tilts his head up, pushes his tongue against his cheek. He walks with purpose, like the seasoned dancer he is – rapper always, but on the side, there’s always the choreographies. The secret he won’t ever let the public find out: that he’d wanted to be a dancer first.
So he knows how to move. He lets his feet carry him like a winner, because that’s what he is. A fuck-knows-how-many streams, albums sold, awards won, winner. He’s rapped about it before in his latest comeback: I keep trying to keep count / but the numbers keep increasing / and if math was my game I’d be NASA / but I’m busy feastin’.
Na Jaemin’s crowd seems to be divided now. He hears the shouts for his name, but about half the place is crying out Haechan’s stage name like he’s taking off his clothes or something.
Mark risks a glance at Haechan. No nudity, thankfully. Just that cockiness as he takes his seat on the pink loveseat to Jaemin’s other side, spreading his legs wide, taking up space, raising up his eyebrows to the crowd as if he’s inviting them to come sit on his lap. It’s lewd. Unnecessarily so. But part of his brand, of course. Part of his latest comeback: Had your girl sitting on my lap like a throne / said I’m different / while you busy yeah / hatin’ from the bleachers.
The cheers die down with both of them sitting in their places. PD-nim gestures to Na Jaemin, and effortlessly ignoring the teleprompter, he looks from one of his sides to the other, as if he can’t believe his luck that he’s sandwiched between both Mark and Haechan.
“Finally,” he says, instead of hello.
Mark doesn’t know how to react to that.
Haechan does, apparently. “I have a busy schedule, Jaemin-ssi. Highlighting the Daegu Hip Hop Festival this year as well as Hiphopplaya, it was hard to fit in even the best show on television right now.”
So. Much. Going on.
Mark’s not sure whether Haechan’s actively flirting with the MC, but Jaemin seems comfortable with that possibility. He bats his eyelashes, says, “Aigo, you flatter me, Haechan-ssi. I’m just glad you found the time.” And then, turning to Mark, he waits for an answer.
This is why he’d rather be writing music or performing. He hates this game of banter.
Na Jaemin and his team had never contacted Mark or Johnny before. And very probably, the same was true for Haechan and his agency, but he’s quick to catch on. Quicker than Mark, when it comes to these things.
But he’s still a public person. He’s still been at this for a long time. He knows what to do.
“Didn’t you reach out around the time of Incheon World Music Fiesta? Couldn’t do it, man. That’s the number one biggest festival in Korea, so as much as I wanted to be here, I couldn’t pass on that opportunity.”
From the sidelines, he can practically feel Johnny beaming at him. Right answer. Humble bragging while still being respectful to the MC and the broadcast, but highlighting how both number two and three don’t equal to the greatness of number one.
Haechan chuckles meanly.
Jaemin-ssi’s eyes light up again. This time like a predator. What a fascinating individual.
Mark’s a little scared of him.
“Oh?” Jaemin eggs on.
Haechan shrugs. “Was just thinking– Ma-keu, isn’t Incheon Fiesta the only Asian festival you landed? You keep doing these Euro and American trips but in Korea…” He goes silent, but his smile says enough. Or Mark thinks it’s enough, but he goes on to add, turning to Jaemin like that’s his personal friend. “I’ve heard that he couldn’t even land a single Waterbomb after 2023. It’s kind of sad, Jaemin-ssi. You shouldn’t ask about it, probably.”
The crowd oohs and aahs.
Mark adjusts his posture. Looks directly at Haechan as if Jaemin isn’t even there between them. “I guess we’re forgetting who wrote lines for the latest Marvel movie, but go off.” Mark laughs, gesturing dismissively.
Haechan looks like he has an answer to that too, but the MC cuts them both.
“Actually.” He says, looking directly at the camera. Mark’s seen the dangerous way he uses this word like a segment introduction before. “I just wanted to play some of my favorite parts from your latest comebacks. There’s these two songs I love from each of your albums, and they converse so well.” Jaemin can barely contain his excitement. He turns to another camera; charming, exuberating. An absolute asshole.
The first note makes Mark hold his breath. It’s Haechan’s song.
Haechan’s head starts bobbing to the beat, and then his voice cuts it, full of velvety mockery:
Got fans overseas but your city ain’t with you /
I move like a king where they don’t even miss you /
Global streams, sure, but your roots ain’t deep /
I’m the one they quote in the street /
Big clicks in Prague but at home you ain’t valid /
They scream my name, yours echo, all silent /
They stream you in LA, but your hood look away /
I get love in the streets – you just fly in and pray.
The beat drops. The crowd hoars. Haechan nods, smiling.
That last verse had gone viral outside of the rapper community. A little PR nightmare. People making memes of Mark praying, making fun of his relationship with God. Mark understands, of course – where hip hop is concerned, all’s fair in the diss game.
But Johnny was shaking from madness when he saw the memes. There were several meetings, all of which Mark had skipped. He’d just gone back to the recording booth, and done a pre-release of his comeback to match.
Not that he’d ever admit publicly either, but he finds the last line funny.
He actually does pray every single time he takes off and lands anyway. It’s not what the verse intended, but it’s still hilarious to him how right it is.
But he plays his part. Stiff, rolling his eyes, the perfect balance between reacting and not.
Jaemin directs his fans to go quiet again, being obeyed like a cult leader.
“Now, let’s hear the response to that.”
Mark’s beat comes up. It’s only a half second of synthetic beat before his voice cuts it with a little demeaning laugh. Then the verse starts:
You king of the corner, I’m the face of the map /
While you chase local fame, I get paid off the app /
I don’t need home hugs, I got stamps in my book /
Your whole city’s love couldn’t buy my hook/
They laughed when I prayed, now I’m out here overseas /
While you stuck on your block I’m catching flights with ease /
You flex with your homies umm I’m crossing time zones /
I’m covered in blessings, while you stuck on your phone.
The exact same reaction. People go wild. Roars from the crowd. Some people start barking.
Jaemin is delighted.
Mark spreads his arms to receive the praise from the crowd, and takes the cross necklace from around his neck, pressing the cold metal to his mouth. Some cheer louder; some seem to have an adverse reaction to it. He doesn’t really care.
“Right, right.” Jaemin calms down the public with a slight movement of his hand. “I do love both songs. But what I find even more delicious is the never-ending feud between you two.” He takes a sip of his water. His mug reads cat dad in bold letters. “The two of you started your rap careers around the same time. I guess it’s natural to feel like the other competing artist is your enemy when that happens. And yet, when it comes to other rappers, you seem to not have anything bad to say about them. From Lee Youngji to Jessi, all I’ve seen is you being respectful towards your seniors or supportive towards your juniors.” He pauses, mug still in hand, a vague smile on his lips. “Why do you hate each other?”
“It’s not hate,” Mark says, quickly. “I just know I’m better than him, and it’s a little annoying when he doesn’t seem to get on with the program.”
Haechan kisses his teeth. “Maybe if we’re counting gospel rap, then absolutely, Molk.”
It’s a tried and tested joke. It makes people laugh. Mark rolls his eyes.
“See, your lack of creativity is why you’d never go global.” He shrugs. “Also, maybe, you could try picking up English. I promise it’s not that hard.”
“Oh, but if I actually make an effort and go after your little foreign markets, who will listen to your sad bars?”
Jaemin claps. “And now, a commercial.”
*
After the cameras stop, Jaemin is a different person. He bows deeply to both of them, says he grew up with the OGs, listening to Dynamic Duo and Epik High. Offscreen, he doesn’t mention their feud, just asks them their favorite Drunken Tiger tracks, and makes obscure Japanese rapper recommendations – apparently, he’s studying Japanese himself.
He walks both of them down from the second floor of the studio, stopping in front of his own dressing room. Jaemin jokes about how Zico hasn’t picked up his calls and if either of them meet him at a rap festival, to please remind him that Jaemin is his favorite.
He talks a lot, but in a way that makes Mark feel comfortable. On Jaemin’s other side, Haechan also seems at ease. Mark can see the adrenaline high from the stage wear off, and Haechan rolls into a corner of himself so Donghyuck can take the front seat again.
Finally, Jaemin bows respectfully a last time, saying goodbye.
Before he can go, Haechan teases, “Aren’t you afraid of leaving us alone with each other? Our managers are still upstairs. What if there’s blood in your place of work? The horror.”
His register is a bit lower. He’s clearly not the character anymore. Jaemin smiles earnestly, also stripped down from the character he wears like a skin. “I’m sure you two are civilized enough to be left alone.” He starts, then stops himself. “Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if away from all the noise, you two were friends.”
*
Haechan goes into his dressing room, and when Mark realizes there’s no way Kim Doyoung is immediately coming back, he follows along. He doesn’t even wait for the door to close completely to wrap his arms around Haechan’s middle, kicking the door closed as he buries his face in the crook of the other rapper’s neck.
“You were so tall today. And these clothes. I want to take them off,” Mark murmurs against the hot skin, embracing him harder, like the back hug could somehow merge them together.
Haechan is completely gone. It's Donghyuck instead who leans into him, voice a little deeper when he chuckles, one hand holding one of Mark’s on his front, the other taking his phone out to check something. “I’m ordering some chicken, jagi. Your place tonight?”
Mark nods. He can’t unglue himself from Donghyuck.
He’s being difficult, but Donghyuck smells so good, and he wants a kiss. At least one, before Donghyuck’s manager comes in and kicks him out like he’s a stray dog distracting his favorite client. (Which is understandable. Johnny would react the same, had that been the inclinations of his personality. Instead he just sighs dramatically, shakes his head, makes jokes about Mark sleeping with the enemy.)
“Kiss,” he voices his needs, like a good boy.
“I’m ordering, baby,” Donghyuck answers.
Mark smiles contently, adjusting himself so his chin is resting on Donghyuck’s shoulder and he can see the screen. Donghyuck calling him baby, setting his phone settings to English, taking the time they spend together studying seriously; it makes Mark feel as if he’s the one learning a new language. Their little weekly sessions of Mark helping him out with English grammar and pronunciation mean more to Mark than he’s able to express.
Maybe he could in lyrics. It’d be a weird song.
Finally, he finishes the order. Coupang Eats lights up the screen saying the order has been accepted and the restaurant has started to prepare it. Immediately, Donghyuck turns around in Mark’s arms, and presses their lips together.
It’s supposed to be a peck. But Mark can’t help himself. Not with the way Donghyuck looks, the way he feels in Mark’s arms. They’re both still wearing make-up, and it tastes weird.
Mark can’t stop smiling.
Donghyuck holds his face. One more peck.
“Did I say anything too mean?” he asks.
Mark shakes his head, truthfully. “Me?”
Donghyuck does the same.
Knowing each other that well, it always feels like they know the answer before it comes. But it’s good habit to check. To make sure they’re not crossing any boundaries. That it’s still a weird roleplay that got out of hand and catapulted them both into stardom.
But something that’s still smaller than what they are to each other.
Mark hears the sigh of resignation before he realizes someone’s opened the door.
“Mark-ssi. You couldn’t wait to be out of the studio? For the love of God.”
His ears flushing red, Mark lets go of Donghyuck, who’s still grinning. “I really couldn’t,” Mark takes a step back, so he won’t jump on Donghyuck again. “I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
No one in the room believes it.
“나가. 가. Leave immediately.” Doyoung gestures, and when Mark gives Donghyuk a pained look, Doyoung physically drags Mark out.
The last thing he sees before the door is closed on his face is Donghyuck’s bashful smile.
Mark takes a deep breath.
Johnny was right. He won.
He’s coming home to Donghyuck.
/end.