Chapter Text
“And if you’re struggling, I’ll be your umbrella. When you need a place to rest, I’ll be your shade. Even if you leave, I’ll be here waiting for your return. You’re never alone.”
Hongjoong’s eyes – bleary and dry from exhaustion – burn from the harsh light emitted by his phone. He doesn’t turn it off. On the other side of the screen, a willowy young man sits at a hotel desk in France. He’s dressed in a perfectly pressed white dress shirt, its top three buttons released when the live stream began. His long hair drapes over his eyes in an artful sweep. Occasionally, he’ll lift his elegant fingers, his nails perfectly manicured, to brush an onyx strand out of his equally dark eyes.
Park Seonghwa is an anomaly in the pop industry. Originally a young model, he was picked up as a soloist by KQ Entertainment, a then-unknown agency. Now they boast two popular bands, the beneficiaries of Seonghwa’s success. Hongjoong followed Seonghwa’s career from the start. They were the same age, and Hongjoong, a year shy of graduating high school, easily fell in love with Seonghwa’s sweet but intense demeanor. He’s a double–hitter, gorgeous and talented. His voice has a wide enough range to accommodate pop ballads and the occasional hip–hop or R&B track. More than that, he still models. That’s why he’s in Paris now, he’d explained over the last hour. He’s walking for Isabel Marant, his favorite brand.
Hongjoong watches the screen with a stupid grin, his cheeks sore from the unfamiliar position. When Seonghwa leaves the frame, Hongjoong can see himself reflected on his phone’s screen. He looks manic. His teeth straining out of his mouth, and his eyes closed to crescents. It’s the happiest he’s been all month.
“Do I remember my debut stage?” Seonghwa gasps, staring into the distance as he reminisces. “Of course I do! That’s the day I met my Martians. How could I forget?”
Hongjoong was one of the viewers. Three years later, he’s in his third year at university, and he’s still a loyal Martian. Hongjoong had been up late editing his latest film project when his phone pinged a notification from KQ’s artist app reignited what little energy Hongjoong had left. He threw his books and notes aside (with a quietly hissed apology to Mingi, his roommate who barely twitched in disturbance on his bed in the far corner of their shared room) and clicked the notification.
Seonghwa had just gotten back to his hotel room in Paris after one last fitting for his runway appearance tomorrow. As the livestream went on, Seonghwa became more and more relaxed, sliding down his chair and chatting at the camera comfortably. Now he’s reading and responding to comments.
These moments of his livestreams feel more like a video call than the rest. Hongjoong sometimes whispers his responses back to Seonghwa on the screen, though he never comments. Commenting would be too much, he reasons. Like asking for attention. And that, for Hongjoong at least, is a grave embarrassment. So he watches and he whispers about his day, his workload, his least favorite classmates. It settles the wild, panicked creature that has lived in his chest since he began college. A hunted and hungry animal, which would flail, heedless, in Hongjoong’s mind if it weren’t for the soothing balm of Seonghwa and his music.
Hongjoong pulls at his hair to keep himself awake. His dorm room is nothing like the sprawling hotel room where Seonghwa will sleep tonight. Or this morning. Hongjoong checked the time on his phone. It’s only the early evening in Paris, and it’s just past midnight in Seoul. Hongjoong should sleep if only to prepare his brain for more studying, but how can he when Seonghwa speaks so sincerely through Hongjoong’s headphones?
“Oh?” Seonghwa’s eyes flicker over the screen as he reads, “Seonghwa–ssi, I have a test tomorrow. Do you have any encouragement for college students? Encouragement, huh?” He hums thoughtfully. His lips twitch into an easy smile that makes Hongjoong’s stomach flutter. “I know it must be hard, Martians, but I believe in all of you. Study hard, trust your knowledge. If it doesn’t work, you can always try again. Lean on your friends. Lean on me, because I’m always rooting for you. I promise. Fighting!”
Hongjoong drops his chin on his desk with a sigh. Seonghwa’s words, as always, subdue Hongjoong’s rabid anxieties.
College is… not difficult. Hongjoong prides himself on his intelligence and adaptability, but adapting to the ever shifting expectations of university and the demands of his part-time convenience store gig and a revolving door of new acquaintances and his loyalty to his family and his own lofty goals— Hongjoong is tired. His only solace, and perhaps the only reason Hongjoong’s grades are still high despite the chaos of his life, is Seonghwa.
Seonghwa’s head whips to the side following a knock and the sharp click of an opening door. He nods to someone off screen, and turns back to the camera with a regretful smile. “I’m sorry, Martians. My manager says it’s time to leave for dinner. I’ll try to come back tomorrow, though. Will you wait for me?” He pauses to read through the rush of comments. Hongjoong quickly sends heart and star emoji into the fray. Seonghwa smiles. “I’m so glad. Thank you for watching. Goodnight! Oh. Oh, yes. It’s morning back home, isn’t it? Shouldn’t my Martians be asleep? Sleep while you can, and have a good day.”
The screen cuts to black.
Hongjoong will be sore in the morning, but his eyes close on their own. Soothed by Seonghwa’s deep ramble, Hongjoong falls asleep and dreams of his idol.
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Five Years Later
“Hongjoong–ssi, you’re on Camera Two today. There’s a guest host at the end of the schedule. You’ll need to keep up with him once he appears. I’ll cue you in, okay?”
“Of course, director–nim.” Hongjoong bows and waits as Baek Heecheul, IdolDex’s main director, doles out the rest of the crew’s assignments. IdolDex is a newer broadcasting channel, but it’s popular among established idols and bands for their easy–going production and casual interview styles. Once a month, idols perform their newest songs for each other in a friendly competition. Unlike other music shows, IdolDex doesn’t depend on popular votes but on voting by the artists themselves. Their show has gone viral over inter–band friendships which bloomed on set.
Hongjoong was hired as a cameraman soon after he’d graduated from university. He’d entered college with dreams of directing music videos for his favorite artists, but for now he’s content to pay his dues on the ground floor and brush shoulders with influential producers and directors.
Heecheul releases them to their stations after the debrief. With a practiced list of duties in mind, Hongjoong makes his way to Camera Two, taller and closer to the stage than Hongjoong’s usual assignment near the back of the crew’s formation. He caresses the camera stand with a private grin. He’ll use this as a chance to impress Heecheul and ignite the uprise of Hongjoong’s career. But first, he needs a stepstool to reach the camera’s controls. Sighing, Hongjoong trudges toward the exit of the stageroom, heading to their storage closet in the hallway outside.
“Too short, hyung?” Yunho snickers as he passes. He’s in the middle of adjusting his own camera. Tall yet nimble, Yunho’s posture is slouched and easy around the camera stand. He’s dressed, just as the rest of them, in all black. In the dark of the stageroom, even Yunho’s neat puff of black hair seems to fade into their surroundings. It’s as if he’s all shadow save his overly-pleased grin and the teasing glimmer in his eyes.
Hongjoong checks their surroundings for any idols or management, and finding no one, points a middle finger at him.
Yunho throws his head back with a boyish cackle. “There’s no shame in it, you know!”
“Says the giant.” Hongjoong rolls his eyes. Yunho, easily a head taller than Hongjoong, was his first friend at the station. They were both hired at the same time, young kids fresh out of college. They’re among a small cohort of employees in their twenties, so they naturally bonded. A few months into the job, Yunho shared he was from Gwangju and hadn’t made any friends in Seoul besides Hongjoong, so Hongjoong, a young fool, thought he might play the hyung role and introduce Yunho to his friends from college. Yunho’s politeness slipped away the moment he met Mingi, and now that they’re dating he’s doubled Hongjoong’s headaches. Luckily, he’s quicker to soothe over his jabs than Mingi, which makes him Hongjoong’s favorite.
“Oh, don’t be mad. I saw Heecheul–hyung gave you Camera Two. You must have impressed him somehow!”
“I guess,” Hongjoong says, an attempted demure that’s broken by his own grin. “I gotta go get a stool if I want to actually work it, though.”
“Wait, hyung! You’re going to the supply room?” Soobin, one of the production assistants and a younger member of the twenties cohort, rushes over with a drink carton of sweating iced americanos. Soobin is sweating himself. The walkie on his hip is ringing continuously. “Can you stop by artist room three and drop these off for me? PD–nim needs me for something. It’s on the way! Please?”
Soobin thrusts the carton into Hongjoong’s chest and constructs his expression into a pitiful frown. Hongjoong sighs, already beaten.
“Fine, but you’ve got to promise not to put extra veggies in my dish again.” He gripes, taking the carton and shooing Soobin away with a wave. Soobin rubs his hands together thankfully and runs off without another word. Yunho salutes Hongjoong as he passes and returns to his camera.
The hallways outside of the soundstage are distressingly bright and empty. Hongjoong pauses as his eyes adjust to the harsh blue–tinged fluorescence that bounces off the shining linoleum floors. His sneakers squeak against the floor’s wax coating as he scuttles down the hall toward the artist rooms. Soobin was shrewd to send the drinks along with Hongjoong. Artist room three is only three doors down from the storage closet.
Hongjoong interacts with celebrities for a living. They sing and dance and smile at him all day, but after the cameras turn off, some of their smiles go, too. It’s a bit like watching an old desktop shut down. Hongjoong his family’s system from the earliest days of his childhood. In his parent’s bedroom roosted a large grey desktop and an equally grey box monitor, which powered on with the roar of whining fans and shut off with a sudden, violent blink of blue. Sometimes, Hongjoong would sneak onto his father’s soft desk chair and touch his small palm to the screen, reveling in the lingering static that tickled his skin. He’s never reached out to any of their guests after they’ve shut down, but he imagines they might let off the same static, a frantic energy with no outlet.
He knocks on the door to artist room three and waits for a deep voice to invite him in. Hongjoong opens the door and enters, coffees first. He keeps his head bowed and mutters quickly, “I’m sorry to interrupt. I have some—”
“The coffee. Finally.” The voice is relieved, if a little clipped. Hongjoong lifts his eyes to a man slightly taller than himself and seemingly much younger. He’s also insanely buff. His muscles strain under the tight black shirt he wears. His lanyard announces him as Choi San, a manager for…
Hongjoong glances around the room out of instinct. No— Maybe they’re summoned to their rightful place. He looks for Park Seonghwa wherever he goes. Seonghwa’s sponsorship ads are posted throughout Seoul and his music features on most retail or cafe playlists. In Hongjoong’s four years at IdolDex, Park Seonghwa has never made an appearance. Hongjoong thought he was lucky. No one wants to be the fan at work when their idol comes in. Yet here is Park Seonghwa, lounging on an overused black leather couch.
He’s dressed in a simple white tee shirt and an equally plain pair of grey sweatpants. One of his legs is propped on the edge of the sofa, his knee pulled up to his chest as a rest for the phone he holds in his hand. Soft music — Seonghwa’s latest song — chimes from the phone as Seonghwa sweeps his gaze from the screen toward Hongjoong.
Seonghwa’s eyes are his selling point. On stage and with his fans, they’re wide and kind. On the runway, they sharpen with disinterested focus. Now, they narrow onto Hongjoong, and Seonghwa’s expression tightens into a scowl.
“What?” He snaps, his voice deep with cold anger.