plain, burned things

[idjaeyul]

tokyo song.

[1024km]

idjaeyul·:

jae recalls the drink he’s left absent, so he proceeds to tilt his head back and let it run down his throat. two large swallows later, he’s perched his fist half-open against the countertop, cup left empty. “i don’t think one drink will suffice.” with them, it never can. 

As a child, she’d always wondered about those things that lurk in the dark. The shadows of her shadows — the ones that don’t disappear when she turns on her bedside light. The ones in her memories, in the corners of her heart that bleed out, turn hollow, in the centre of her eyes when she looks at herself in the mirror and sees a stranger staring back.

She looks at Jaeyul, and realizes: he’s one of them.

She wonders if the feeling in her chest is fear. Maybe, but the label feels ill-fitting. Fear is what she felt the night before her debut, in the cold sweat down her back and the tears on her cheeks; like standing on the precipice of a cliff, just shy of the fall. But to call it love is similarly undeserving — he’s not capable of love as she knows or wants it. It’d be losing, to call herself in love with him; and she will give Jaeyul many things, but the satisfaction of hearing those words, seeing her surrender, is something she’d rather take to the grave.

Part of it is because it’s not love (it’s not — it can’t be). And part of it is because this game — this whatever between them — isn’t something that she wants to end. At least, until she gets to stand on even footing; look him in the eye and have him, understand that she’s grown up, grown outward from him.

She’s still young; still hopeful. Wishful.

When he leans closer, voice low and heavy with intimacy, she can’t help the breath that catches in her throat. Barely aware of his words, she nevertheless comprehends the meaning behind them: I’ve got you, he says without speaking, in the palm of my hand.

She meets his eyes. Almost falls in.

(She doesn’t — to her, that’s enough.)

It takes all her willpower to not sigh in audible relief when he finally inches away. He could tease all he wants about the betraying flush of her cheeks, her neck, but nothing can be said now about her resolve. If only for this moment in their time. Together, they drain their glasses, the burning her awakening: she’s toying with the devil, and she needs to stay firm.

“For you, maybe,” the edge is there; blunted, dulled, but she’s spit fire at him yet. The alcohol, perhaps, or the clarity it’s given her. “One’s fine for me. I don’t think I’ll have much more to say — not like you’re compelling enough company for me to stay.” The audacity of her statement isn’t lost on either of them. A leg crosses over another, the sudden comfort she feels after her little tease evident. She even goes so far as to send a look his way, lips pointed upwards in a not-quite-smile. “But at least you’re handsome, and will pay for the drink, right?”

Chile ‘19 — @idjaeyul

[1024km]

GORGEOUS

[1024km]

idsooyeon·:

“but i do want to see the dumb mistakes those kids are gonna find themselves in – annnd also hang out with the prettiest girl in the room.” she grinned, nudging the other girl lightly with her elbow. “i’m so conflicted.” 

dramatic, as always.

It’s a little funny, hearing Sooyeon rattle off about the adventures of red lipstick as if Mona was a girl privy to her friend’s beauty, or poise, or allure — any of which would get her VIP status, Dior lip or not. Even here, in the comfort of a hotel room, dressed down and hair askew, there is an aura to Sooyeon that Mona has never seen in herself. Confidence, perhaps — a deep understanding of the way she works. A foreign concept for a girl that’s been pressed and pinched into an indeterminate ideal. Je ne sais quoi, she thinks is the term: the intangible something that’s gotten Sooyeon this far.

“Coming to me for fashion advice now, Sooyeon? I know you’re not the expert at this, but you know I’m not one either,” the grin she gives her friend is teasing; she’s amused at the idea of Sooyeon in her classic lack of fashion sense deciding the pyjama look is in — and who knows? She’d probably make it happen. “Start a new trend, girl. Fuck it. It’ll take off, and all those rookies that adore you will probably be wearing their pyjamas for the airport photos back home.”

Now that would be a joke. Pann would have a field day.

“Sooyeon, there’s no way you don’t have anything that’s halfway decent. I know your stylist — she would never allow it.” With purpose, she heads over to her friend’s suitcase, impropriety cast to the way side — it’s not like she’s gone through the girl’s closet at home before, out of curiosity  and necessity alike, searching desperately for a nice outfit before one of their spontaneous nights out. Surprisingly normal — if having a Joseon princess for a friend could even be considered that.

“How ‘bout this?” She asks as she lifts up the top, some tiny off-shoulder that’d fit her like a glove. “It’s cute, it’ll show off your chest, it’s great! Or this — uh — tassel   dress.” Purely because it was sparkly, if she’s being frank. “Plus, my styling services are a million won by the hour, you know. Decide now!”

“Look,” Mona says, furrowed brow and lips in a line, almost all seriousness (only the slightest bit of tease), “I heard that a ton of people were already drunk out of their minds. I don’t know, maybe because they think Dispatch won’t find them?” Silly, in her opinion — there are always eyes in the walls. Ears, too. “Just a minute, Sooyeon,” she starts then, tone encouraging, contagious, “just a glass of wine and sitting in a corner and watching everyone make fools of themselves. Isn’t that what we do best?”

Chile ‘19 — @idsooyeon

[1024km]

LOOSE ENDS

Dusk eases into the studio slowly, quietly. She barely notices the shadows on the walls until she realizes that she’s become one of them, silhouette stark against the blank walls. There’s time to linger on that — time to linger on many things as of late. Promotions are over, and with them the necessary group schedules: the late hours in the practice room, or a film set, or a music show stage, playing up the quirkiness that natural follows being a member of Cherry Bomb! and the sexy-cute image that’s been pinned on her for as long as she’s been in the business.

That’s all fun and games, but this — the studio, the recording, the hours spent in pursuit of perfection — this is what she’s always loved the most about every time they come back. Nothing quite as comforting or easy as working with good people on a good song.

It’s just a few of them in the studio now, her and Sophia, the producer and his assistant, the latter two heading for the door on the pretence of a smoke break. Mona feels Jowi’s absence acutely; her schedule necessitated her lines a priority, and she was gone soon after in her usual flurry, leaving her left behind as she’s always been as of late. She tries not to feel bitter about it, but the taste of greed never really goes away when fame is concerned. At least she has the liberty of spending the next few hours in the company of found family.

Company that seems unable to take in a word of what anyone’s been saying . Even if she was unaware of the full extent the hurricane that is Jiyong has managed to sweep up in his hellbent desire for destruction, Sophia’s sombreness takes up so much of the room that it’s obvious (to her, at least) that something was wrong. But she knows Jiyong well, and knows Sophia too. And in the crossfire between a boy and a girl who never know when to back down, somebody was bound to get hurt.

In the end, it’s someone who didn’t deserve it — because that’s how it always is, isn’t it?

“Your singing is pretty today,” a poor attempt at making light-hearted conversation, but it isn’t as if it’s untrue. But Mona’s never been one to ease into anything, so she bites the bullet and hopes that the blowback doesn’t tear her apart. “You know you can talk to me about it, right? I mean, not that I don’t know what happened between you and Jiyong — and it wasn’t fair for him to do that to you.” She sighs, the internal reminder to kick Jiyong in the ass more pressing than ever.

May ‘19 — @idsophia

[1024km]

BAD RELIGION

[1024km]

idtaeho·:

“i know,” he replies and there’s a shadow of a smile that threatens to break free on his lips. he lets it. he did know, and that’s the way they work. mona’s body is against his now, both hands on each side of her hips, bringing her closer and closer. taeho looks down, meets her eyes. he reaches out,a hand on her cheek and he strokes her cheek. “i missed you too,” he whispers and it’s half the truth this time. it’s not truly something he thought of. taeho is too busy with himself to think of others. most of the time this is the way it goes for him - people come and go without him caring much for it. but he missed her now, that he did. that’s why he called. when taeho wants something, he goes after it. it’s that simple, the way he works. 

so he leans in and kisses her. 

It always hurts the most after the fall.

She’ll always remember him in these moments: his hands on her waist, breaths mingling in the little space between them, the look in his eyes that makes her believe anything he says. Nothing close to magic — to the thing that eludes them both, by need and want alike — but it’s black all the same. He speaks of miracles, and she drinks them clean.

This is when he leads her, blind hands outstretched towards belief, to the descent. And at the bottom of a cliff of her own wanting, she’ll tend to her wounds alone. Because in the aftermath, she’s always alone.

He kisses her, consumes her, and she forgets for a moment how much it aches. His words, his actions, his everything: he is the softest of sins. The warmest; the gentlest; the most awful. An awful she’s allowed in, time and again.

It’s fervent, the way she touches him. As if there’s a finality to it; as if there’s an ending waiting for the two of them somewhere in the threads of this hotel bed, lingering in the doorway for her to take with her when she leaves. The idea is laughable: she will always falter in the face of him. Bending even as she breaks. She’d never thought of herself as weak before, but that is what she is for him. A willful ignorance that she nurtures, clings to like a prayer. A prayer for who? For what? Questions that hit a wall, miss the target. No time to stop and think about how wrong it all is; not when he’s so close and she’s so empty. So she kisses him and pulls him in, holds him tight until she feels sure she’ll leave behind marks. It’s the selfish in her, the want. Then she closes her eyes and lets herself go to the pleasure.

She’ll regret it when the time comes. For now, she’ll enjoy him.

In time, she comprehends the situation: her, on the bed now, still flush against him, a hand curled around his neck. This is the way she likes him most — almost on equal footing, the two of them. The familiarity of everything makes her bold; she tightens her grip, part playful, part not. The smile on her face is almost heartfelt.

Promise me this is the last time you’ll tempt me, is what she wants to say. “Promise me this is the last time you’ll fuck me, Taeho,” is what comes out instead.

She doesn’t wait for his answer. Drowns him out with her mouth on his.

Chile ‘19 — @idtaeho

[codelady]

[1024km]

SKYLINE

She leaves without a goodbye.

More of a ‘see you later’ than the ending page of their story, but it still feels good to end it on her own terms: spine straight, a hard glint to her eyes, and a firm refusal to the temptation of staying just a little while longer in his arms. Nothing like finality exists between her and Taeho, but this parting, at least, seems to promise something different. Something like an ending.

(Then she thinks: who is she kidding? It’s a pretty sentiment, but there’s no heart in it. She’d left that with him a long time ago.)

Nearing twenty hours and she doesn’t feel the need to sleep yet — the last dredges of a two six coursing through her blood, keeping her alert against natural rhythms and her manager’s orders to get a good night’s rest for once. Nevermind the fact that she’s far too awake right now; mind reeling, heart pounding. So many things to think about; mistakes that claw at the ends of her wits, taunting her to never abandon them else she wants their teeth in her neck. She’s never been someone to leave her guilt at the door, or between the sheets of a boy’s bed. It follows her, relentless in pursuit, as constant as the need to breathe.

Some say that guilt keeps you human — keeps you good — but she’s never seen the truth to that.

That the hotel’s rooftop terrace is closed is only a technicality, apparently; she finds the door to it unlocked and slips in quietly, heels barely making a sound on the pavement. In the dead of night, five-star amenities fall short of the brilliance of the sky and Santiago’s skyline — an almost comforting site, familiar in the way that all skylines are to her. Not like Seoul’s in the slightest, but beautiful all the same.

So absorbed she is that she barely sees the figure just feet away from her until his face catches the light. Recognition washes over: of all people, Jaehwan is not someone to waste away the hours waxing poetic over tall buildings and bright streetlights. Odd, but not entirely unwelcome; there are lesser people to share this view with than an old friend.

“You’re up late, Jae,” it’s said in lieu of a greeting, “can I sit?” And then does so anyway, without waiting for a response.

“Hope you had a better night than I did,” the grin she gives him is devoid of amusement, cheerful in the defeated sort of way. “At least now I get to spend it with good company.”

Though in hindsight, she supposes ‘good’ is a relative term.

Chile ‘19 — @idjaehwan

[idjaeyul]

tokyo song.

[1024km]

idjaeyul·:

he bets this will last more than thirty minutes, but the way she reacts tells him that she assumes it to end sooner. 

it must be an addiction: this. 

april, with mona. ( @idmona )

If he is anything to her at all, it’s this:

A hope she never dares speak aloud. A mistake she’ll never forget; an act she’ll never forgive. The sum of parts of her that make her something other than whole. ‘Other’ — how strange the word feels at the back of her throat, attached to him: accurate but not at the same time. It’s funny how familiar it feels to be different — to be the best and worst of herself — whenever she’s with him. There was a time when Jaeyul made her feel like she was touching the sun, fingers blistering in the fury of him, holding the cosmos in whatever was left of her palms. Then he’d clipped her wings and watch her fall, only to start the cycle again.

And she would let him. Because she hopes, wishes, for a time when he won’t let her down.

( In truth, there is a part of it that knows that nothing is more addicting — no one is more addicting — but she’d never tell him that. It’d feel too much like succumbing. An acknowledgement of the monster in the room. The one with her face, her eyes, her selfish. )

Eyes meet as soon as she walks into the hotel bar. Providence or tribulation, who’s to say the cause? Her heart skips unwillingly the moment it happens, distraction giving way to unabashed surprise before her head catches up with her and she remembers how she’s supposed to detest him. Trying to will the feeling of antipathy into being, but her power always falters in the face of him. It’s why she find herself on the empty seat next to him, spine stiff with restraint and fingers tight around the glass slid her way. There must be a special place in hell for the kind of stupidity she bears.

“Oh, you’re funny now, are you?”

There’s humour in the situation. That much is clear: nothing more amusing than a girl who made a mistake with a boy that would never let her forget that she’d made it with him. “Was I really so memorable that you have to think about it every time you see me? I’m flattered.” It’s a shot that’s sure to go nowhere, but it’s better not to shoot straight with Jaeyul. It had never been close to an even playing ground when they were involved.

“One drink.” The finality in her voice surprises even her. “One drink, and I’m going back to my room and forgetting that this happened.”

If only she believed that herself.

Chile ‘19 — @idjaeyul

[1024km]

BAD RELIGION

[1024km]

idtaeho·:

so he reaches out, takes her hand on his own. “no,” he says, and his voice feels rough in the dark, “stay.” there’sa gentle pull here as he pulls her closer towards him. 

“i need you.”

She looks at him and wonders: how did he become so hollow?

Once, there was a time when she thought that she could fix him. Remembers it well; turns it over in her head, between her teeth, tasting the acridity of lessons learned with a familiarness that is wholly unwelcome but comes unbidden anyway. Call it naivety, call it romantic sentiment. She calls it stupidity. He was never hers for the taking — never her duty to cover up his wounds, change his ways, make him whole. She’d given herself over to a boy who had a hole in his heart that she could never fill, and both of them had ended up emptier than before.

She wants to blame him — she does blame him. There is that empty in her, white-hot and aching, that blames him. But both of them know the truth regardless: it would always be her fault. It would always be her heart that had fallen first. It’s foolish to think otherwise; something they both should’ve known. He’s Taeho, she’s Mona.

It was never meant to be.

(But sometimes, she thinks: maybe it’ll be different next time.)

I need you. How poetic. She laughs without feeling even as she softens for him, lets him pull her close. His hand is warm, as always. She wishes it were cold. Wishes he was less inviting, less enticing. Less him. “You don’t have to lie to me to get me to stay, Taeho. I’m already here, aren’t I?” Between the lines, a poignant reminder: she’ll always be there. Tied to him by need, by want, by the fact that she used to call him her friend. Whatever the word means to him is irrelevant — it means something to her.

He’s close enough to her she can feel his warmth. They stand there, the two of them, at the precipice of intimacy; of making the same mistake they’ve been making for too long now. Possessed by a boldness only a bottle of wine can give, she reaches her free hand upwards towards his hair, catching strands of it within her fingers. “Blue,” she remarks, “it suits you.”

Her palm falls to rest in the crook of his neck, her eyes find his. Out of all the things that make a boy captivating, it’s always the look in his eyes that she falls for the hardest. Taeho’s eyes — they cast a spell on her, one that she’s never broken free from.

“It’d be a bad idea to tell you that I’ve missed you, so I won’t say it.” But the meaning is there: she does. And in the back of her mind, she gets the feeling that he does too.

Chile ‘19 — @idtaeho

[1024km]

GORGEOUS

[1024km]

idsooyeon·:

“is everyone making a mess of everything downstairs? after that party that nearly fucked everyone over with the reporter, you’d think people would be more careful.”

“Nice pyjamas.” It’s sincere, until it isn’t. “I think my halmeoni has the same pair!” The teasing in her tone is without menace; a light-heartedness that’s been nurtured by their familiarity. This is the way they come together, her and Sooyeon. Friends despite formality, circumstance — friends despite themselves: pretty city girl and a sweet country tomboy.

“Calm down, granny,” she says, stepping into Sooyeon’s space as if she’s always belonged there, “it’s just some lipstick. It’s nice that Dior thought to give it to me, but the red is more your color, so I thought you’d like to try it out tonight, when we go out!” Lips spread into a grin that’s less sweet and more simpering; she’s never been the best listener — much too selfish for that — but whatever Sooyeon’s said about not agreeing to her plans, Mona’s deliberately blocked out. No way she’s letting a friend she hasn’t seen in what feels like forever waste away up in a hotel room when, for once, the nooses around their necks have softened their grip.

Sooyeon falls in a flurry of curls and silk into her bed, and Mona follows suit with not half so much grace, but thrice the energy. “Sooyeon, everyone’s exhausted.” Not everyone has twenty-hour long days on a film set, but she digresses. “But that’s not stopping them! We’re in a nice country, everyone’s here, and everybody’s managers are probably dead asleep already from the jetlag. We’re stronger than them. C’mon,” Mona says, hand outstretched, Dior 999 gleaming in its packaging.  She softens then, excitement shed in favor of sincerity. She’s missed Sooyeon; nothing much more to it. “At least just have a drink with a friend.”

She hears Sooyeon’s murmurs about the last time and snorts in laughter. If there’s anything to take from this world, it’s this: that people never learn. Mona certainly doesn’t — the proof is now, with her willingly risking her neck for this one night of normalcy. To pretend like this is just another party, that she’s just another girl; faceless in a crowd, without any name or notoriety attached to her. To be normal for the rest of her life is unpalatable; but to be normal if only for a moment, is a welcome reprieve. “Not sure if anyone’s gone and kissed someone they shouldn’t yet, but I for one wouldn’t wanna miss that. I think everyone’s more careful now, though. Private rooms and stuff.”

Or, more likely: the same mistakes made, the same outcome.

Chile '19 — @idsooyeon

[1024km]

모스타그램 04.19

[1024km]

SINKING

It’s the tipping point of the night. A suspension in time that feels sharper, more pointed, than a knife’s edge: to give up to the oncoming sobriety or press onward to no return. Safe or sorry. Doesn’t feel like she gives herself much of a choice, really, what with the drink still in her hand, a cheap-hotel-wine taste lingering in the back of her throat. Nobody’s judging — they’re all nursing bottles of their own.

There’s an uneasiness in the air that follows her movements. It’s hard to say why, exactly: here she is, at a party surrounded by friends, catching up and winding down from the schedules that keep them absorbed nearly all the time. At a comfortable, hazy kind of drunk that suits the mood — save for the fact that the ‘mood’ hasn’t really been there at all, vanishing in the foreboding that drags her shoulders downwards.

Because there is a boy, and he is all kinds of trouble. And she’s always been aware of it, up to the neck in it, a steady light in his turbulence. Even in the bustle of the party, she’s keenly aware of his brewing storm. Jiyong’s unique like that — someone that carries a hurricane in his heart, and she can only sit and get caught in it, in him. It’s less of a surprise than it is just another part of the cycle for her to receive a message from him. Short, decidedly not sweet, but wholeheartedly Jiyong in its contents, its meaning: self-destruction. She reads it and thinks: thank god for the hotel mini-bar. He’ll need it.

She finds him in the coat room, head in his hands and a hole in his heart. It never gets easier seeing him like this — always twists her chest and hollows out her stomach, makes her want to hide them both away from a world that spins too fast for the both of them. So many things she bites down on with her teeth, words she wishes she could say: that it would be easier, maybe, if it was just us two.

But they hadn’t wanted easier — she hadn’t wanted easier.

So here they are.

An offering: a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio and the company of an old friend. She sits besides him, stretches her legs out and leans against him, feels his warmth. “So,” she says, unreasonably bright in the face of his pity-party, “you fucked up. Shit happens. What else did you think was going to come out of what you’ve been doing for the past month?” Mona softens then, pressing her cheek into his shoulder, a poor form of consolation, but the only thing to do. “You’ve got to stop shooting yourself in the foot like this. Don’t you think you deserve to be happy? For once?”

Chile ‘19 — @idjiyong

[idsoeun-deactivated20190514]

˟ skittish

[1024km]

idsoeun·:

“ mona-sunbaenim, ” soeun says, maybe a bit dumbly considering of course she know who she is. although her face doesn’t shift from the blank expression she’d worn the entire time she’d walked down the hallway. she pauses a moment before bowing, “ hello, i’m … so sorry for … nearly walking into you. ” she stammers out, her voice light as she stands back up straight. this soeun isn’t much like the one anyone has seen on stage, a bit more clumsy with her words than first assumed, and awkward. suddenly, she’s forgotten all about the fact that she’s an idol now too, a rookie one but an idol nonetheless, and she’s just that little fangirl for a split second, staring at mona, before snapping herself out of it and introducing herself. “ i’m jang soeun, i just debuted with neon … it’s nice to meet you– you’re … ah, you’re amazing. ” she sighs, letting a small smile grace her lips– she bows again. “ i’m so sorry again, sunbaenim. ”

In between the rise and fall of performing, there are only a few moments she can find where she can take the time to herself. To unravel from the flurry of it all — of the whirlwind of preparation, the pinching and pressing and folding into the public idea of her. The eons she spends rooted in the makeup chair don’t often feel like that at all, what with all the distractions around her: worrying about the upcoming performance, running through the choreography, the lines, the expressions she needs to make for the camera to capture how perfect she’s meant to be. That’s the game, isn’t it? The reality of her profession: to rise above She’s often glad to be first in line for the process of putting on her stage mask, if only for the time borrowed afterwards. When it’s Jowi in the chair or Sophia being outfitted, she’s left to whittle the time away on her own.

Today she finds herself outside — after all, she’s only in Chile for these precious few hours, may as well try to see as much of it as she can, even if the backstage of a music venue is disappointingly similar in any part of the world. At least there is variety in the people: new faces interspersed between the old friends. It’s nice, to see everyone in person; different, to see everyone in their element. She’d already told Jiyong that she hadn’t seen him look this good in what feels like years — he’d responded with the same, so of course she’d had to punch him before he’d left to prepare.

It’s fun — this, the whole of it, beginning to middle to end, is fun. She forgets that sometimes.

Minutes pass as she watches the first group perform to the emphatic cheers of a foreign crowd. Impressive that there are already people singing along, but Mona supposes that’s just a byproduct of the Midas touch. Neon, she reminds herself — Soojung’s mentioned them often enough, always one to look out for her juniors, telling Mona to look out for them should the tail end of her promotions overlap with their debut. Soojung’s here now, fully able to look out for them herself, but she’s a good friend and a good senior, so here she is.

Neon returns from the stage, filtering through the flurry of workers and other acts, and she can vaguely pin names to faces. Her, the main vocal, and her, the lead dance, and the one walking towards her is —

“Soeun, yes, I know your name! Soojung told me to watch out for you guys. You did really well up there! Back when I debuted I barely knew where to look and how to act, but you looked super cool.Very fierce,” she grins easy, friendly; her natural countenance and an invitation for the younger to let her guard down in equal halves. She’s never been much for the formalities of industry, of Seoul as a whole. Probably the small-town girl in her. “Thank you for the compliment,” it’s heartfelt. She’s touched — it’s not every day that someone so talented regards you so highly. “I’m sure there are people out there that think the same about you.”

“How’d it feel, being on stage? Not like a regular music show at all, right?” She has to ask, curiosity piqued — she hadn’t been exposed to nearly as much upon her own debut, not nearly as lucky or under as much pressure. Maybe it’s a Midas thing; maybe they’re the next big hit. “People were already singing along to your song.”

Chile ‘19 — @idsoeun

[1024km]

GORGEOUS

Flying halfway across the world for barely twenty-four hours has its perks. Some pale imitation of a regular vacation, sans the length and the restfulness. Special stages are very much work, but there’s something about the change of scenery that keeps it fresh, makes her excited at the prospect of performing. Coming close to seven years of idol-hood and a decade of training almost necessitates ennui, but this is different, if only for the reason that it feels like an escape. A welcome reprieve, of sorts.

Everyone seems to be taking it the same way — backstage, before the show, the buzz was palpable, the energy contagious. It’s a weird reunion only seen at events like year-end shows, where everyone gets together regardless of their schedules; she’d bumped into friends old and now, faces she hadn’t seen in awhile for reasons abound. Even her manager seems to feel the same, turning a blind eye to the liquid courage she’d drunk clean before her stage — oh, the beauty of being far away from the watchdogs that lurk around the regular industry haunts back at Seoul. Upon reaching the hotel, her and their manager had separated quickly, with only half-hearted warnings to take with her the rest of the night.

A pisco sour later, she can’t remember what those warnings were.

The only person who hadn’t gotten the excitement memo was Sooyeon. Unusual, since she was usually up for anything when Mona was around. What with her unbending schedule and her natural drive, these days it meant Mona had to physically drag her away from her work to unwind. Tonight, it seems, would be no different.

(Funny, she never thought she’d be a bad influence, but here she is.)

So here she is, standing outside Sooyeon’s hotel room, knocks incessant, content with being as annoying as humanly possible until her friend responds. “You grandma, open the door already and let me in! I’ve even got a present for you. It starts with ‘Di’ and ends with ‘or’.”

It’s a low blow, but if there’s anything that gets a girl’s attention, it’s got to be that.

Chile ‘19 — @idsooyeon

[1024km]

BAD RELIGION

It always comes back to this.

This is the story of her slippage: he pulls her close, she gets attached, he says she never should’ve let herself get this far, so she leaves. Credits roll over, the tape repeats again, and she gets up in the morning feeling like she’s left half of herself behind, another novelty on his bedside table. There’s only so much she can say: it was never supposed to be this way; or, it shouldn’t have come to this. She runs through the excuses like clockwork, like denial. The fact of the matter is that she’s foolish. Nothing good comes from playing with fire, and if Oh Taeho is anything at all, he’s the matchstick that sets her aflame.

Witching hour and she’s past the point of no return. A mixture of tequila, smoke, and bad decisions: at some point, they all taste the same on her tongue. It’s why she’s standing here, hand poised to knock at the door of his hotel room, the resolution of a beck and call that she never should’ve heeded. There’s a part of this that feels right, oddly enough; a commitment to the steep fall of her night, from the top of the world to feeling like she’s hit rock bottom. May as well give up the ghost to a familiar sin.

God, does she (not) want to see his face.

A breath in, a breath out. When dealing with her devil, it’s always a good idea to be prepared. Presentability is an afterthought — unnecessary effort, in her opinion. She’s got nothing to prove when she’s around him; not anymore, anyway. That, in the haze that makes up them, is the only thing coming through crystal clear.

But when she sees him on the other side of that door, she forgets the world, if only for a moment. Guess there’ll never be any pretending that there’s a part of her that cares, that wants, for him. “Hi,” is what she says, for lack of anything else to say, walking into the room, arms crossed, so self-aware of her own vulnerability it’s infuriating. “Had a good night?”

“This isn’t anything.” It’s punctuated, but her words are empty. As if they’re out there to convince someone that isn’t her. No such thing as nothing when it comes to this, to her, to the games they play. “I — maybe I should go.”

Chile ‘19 — @idtaeho

[twenty46]

Teenage Fantasy

[1024km]

idnsj·:

“I don’t know,” she sighs loudly in exasperation and exhaustion, “we could always just you know find a couple of forward-thinking rich guys to fund us and then start our own company. Dream big and all that.”

The thing that hurts the most about selfishness is how consuming it is. Maybe it’s her particular strain — her one-of-a-kind type of greed that’s parasitic in nature, taking pieces of her just as she takes from the world. It’s like watching a hurricane of her own making; like sitting in the eye of the storm, hands outstretched to everything she’s ever held dear being lost in the surround, unable to touch. Is that normal? She has to wonder: is it strange to love someone so much that she just has to hurt them?

It’d be different if she wasn’t this way. Her father would be happier; her heart would be more open; her mornings wouldn’t be punctuated with the feeling of not wanting to wake up at all. But she wouldn’t be happy — or, more accurately, she wouldn’t be content. There’d always be that hunger. The gnawing. The empty.

(Her mother had left something behind, after all.)

So Mona laughs. Ridiculous as the idea is, it’s not uncommon to the industry they operate in, and not without the scope of her possibility. You only live once, right? Might as well try it all. What little dignity she’s ever had has been poured out over the years, left in puddles on the floor, the stage. And really, anyone who would judge her for it would be a hypocrite — nobody’s in this game to stand on the sidelines. Everybody wants a crown.

“Sounds like a plan to me, unnie,” her grin spreads across her face, half-mad, half-childish amusement. Half girl, half greed. “You already know about all the guys that’ve offered to sponsor me over the years. One of them is married and another’s in that gambling scandal right now, but that’s not really a factor, right?”

Another soju bottle opened, another serving of food on the table. It’s a setting that makes it easy to forget the limits that come with their jobs: light rain, the soft city bustle, a sizzling pan. Almost as if they’re two corporate workers relaxing after a particularly hard day. Normal, ordinary.

Dull.

“Well, you know how it is with my group,” she starts, soju glass at the tip of her teeth. “They don’t see me as a soloist. Why do I need to be in the studio if that’s not what they want for me?” Pretty, if nothing else, they’d said to her. How demeaning. But it’s gotten her far. “Jiyong’s been nice enough to teach me a couple things, though. Maybe one day when I make my own song you can direct the music video. Directed by Nam Soojung — that sounds cool, right?”

“How ‘bout you, unnie?” It’s said after a while. “Your fancam’s still getting views. Trying to steal all my cfs now? I never thought you’d do that to me,” all in good fun, she hopes Soojung knows. She couldn’t be happier.

March '19 — @idnsj

[1024km]

INTERLUDE

In moments like these it feels like a spell’s been cast on her, and the whole world fades away.

It’s not a romantic sentiment, not by any means. First of all, he’s Jiyong, and there’s no Jiyong without a Soojung attached at the hip. There are lines in the ground that she could never cross, bravery or selfishness aside. Second of all, he’s Jiyong — not a brother in the strictest sense of the word, but like one in so many ways. He’s been a constant since the beginning: from the rookie cradle to this twisted adolescent period of fame they’re experiencing now, he’s been through it all with her. Probably together until the grave, too, whenever the metaphorical death of their careers will be. There are intangibles that tie the two of them — something born out of shared struggle, out of the growing pains of their livelihoods that keep them close. Also, frankly, they just get along. Formalities had breezed by them, and despite the near-constant worry that everyone she’d ever met through fame was never genuine, or that all her relationships reached the depth of a shallow pool, Mona had never felt like that with him.

In any case, it’s hard to imagine he’s ever been insincere with her with the way Jiyong’s acting now, head shifting wildly back and forth in time to the 90′s pop blasting from her car speakers (it’s Uhm Junghwa, so she gets his excitement, but still). The absurdity of the scene has her reeling in laughter — it’s a far cry from the charming, teasing personality he evokes in front of the camera. This is the boy that she knows well: the one that asks her for a ride late in the night, promises her food in return for her kindness, and shafts her by getting his shoe prints on her dashboard and denying her control of her own radio. At the very least, he’s funny.

“I’m sure all your fans would love to see this,” Mona teases, fingers discreetly pressing her phone’s record button, content to let him be if only for her amusement. The recording’s just for the memories, obviously (read: extortion — all in good fun). “Imperial’s cool guy Son Jiyong wailing to some pop classics. When you said we’d be getting a good meal I didn’t think you’d meant 7/11 ramen, Jiyong. The fuck are you on? Is this how you treat a lady?” 

March ‘19 — @idjiyong​

[1024km]

YOUNG / PERFECT

Fame and wasted time go hand-in-hand. It doesn’t feel ironic so much as it seems a little funny, if not pathetic: spending so much of her day sitting in the make-up chair; travelling from one schedule to the next; waiting around for their call to stage, all for those few precious minutes in front of a camera where she’s supposed to feel like a god. A younger her, with MSG’s carefully crafted concept tacked onto her like a scarlet letter, had felt out of her own body underneath the spotlight, ill-fitted to the role she’d been given. Now, comfortable in her own skin, she finds she enjoys the process the whole way through, from exposition to denouement. She’s spent far too long waiting for singular, big moments  — it’s time she invested in all the little ones that come with it.

Nevertheless, the lull between recording periods remain long and often aimless. As a rookie, she’d planted herself in the cramped waiting room, rooted in rehearsing her moves; her smile; her lines, until it was time to perform. On occasion, there’d be the coming out of her cocoon only to bow deeply to her seniors, offer their album; the regular networking bullshit. It’s odd, now, this role reversal: to walk the halls as a sophomore artist and spot young groups flitting around; their expressions nervous but eager, their hands trembling as they shove their EP in front of her. She smiles at them all, speaks easy, gives whatever advice they ask for and tells them that she’s really not that scary, she promises. It’s easy to understand their growing pains when she’s gone through them herself.

It’s when she finishes saying goodbye to one last group that she spots the girl she’s been looking for: Chae Hani, in all her blonde-haired glory. Despite the trajectory of her friend’s group (a topic run to the ground by Hani herself over hundreds of meals), she’s glad that Hani’s sub-unit’s promotions came to overlap with hers — it was a way for them to pass the time, to catch up.

Cursory ‘hello’s and small talk is exchanged with Hani’s group members — familiar, friendly conversation — before she turns her attention to Hani herself. “Hani-ya,” Mona’s tone is lilting, teasing and light as she sidles up to her friend, arms linking out of habit, “you’re looking pretty today, as usual. Did your recording go well?”

March ‘19  — @idhani