i can feel you.
{sometime in 2018, at the end of beautiful promotions} –– detail your character training/practicing (dance)
guanlin knows, knows, that he is by far the worst dancer in titanium. it’s been a proven fact, time and time again, acknowledged by the members and their teachers alike. his body is stiff, joints too tight and limbs too awkward. he looks uncomfortable, stressed when he dances, face void of any expressions. and honestly, he knows he’s probably the bane of their dance teachers existence. for as many time as he hears the words, “again guanlin, this time try and convey the emotions of the song, of the lyrics with your body, with your face.” there’s always something off, something missing. and it’s frustrating to everyone, to him, to the management.
he knows how to convey emotion, feels the music, the notes, the meaning behind every song when he’s singing. but only during practice, during recordings, during ballads. he’s seen recording from company members, from fans, hell from the members of him during performances. and honestly he’s gotten a little bit better than he used to be. he doesn’t struggle with trying to remember the movements anymore, now it’s almost automatic. the music plays and his body remembers the hours of steps that have been drilled into him, and honestly half the time it feels like he dances in his sleep, waking up stiff and sore with muscles screaming. and for as much as he liked to give in, to just call it that he’ll never be able to give more than he’s already giving, there’s a little bit of a stubborn streak to zhu guanlin, something that won’t allow him to admit defeat just yet.
and every few stolen moments alone, he pushes forward with as much practice as he can.
even tonight, a blessed night free to rest between hectic schedules, on the tail end of promotions, he tucks himself away in one of the more less used practice rooms in the high, winding maze of midas’ office building. he’s hot, sweaty already and the room feels humid, like a sauna already. but it doesn’t bother him, having already stripped down to a light t-shirt and a pair of his favorite sweatpants, guanlin loses himself to the music, speakers booming loud enough that it feels like the floor shakes with every note. but that’s how guanlin likes it, likes the music is loud enough to disguise the fact that he’s struggling, that he occasionally misses the beat or a movement that he should remember. and rather than allowing himself to finish through the rest of the song, he stops, catches his breath and then restarts it over from the top. he figures for as many faults he has, he should try to make up for the ones he can. logically he knows he’ll never be as good as aroon or dax, will never have the flexibility or the surety in his body or movements.
but here, alone with the music, he can pretend otherwise. but the camera perched in front of him, the eye focused straight on him, recording his every movement refuses to give him that small victory. and guanlin, ever the perfectionist, the glutton for punishment. for every song he finishes, he barely breathes, barely rests before sliding over and replaying the recording over, eyes focusing on as much as he can before replaying it again, taking in his mistakes and trying to make note for the next attempt. he spends hours locked in the room, guzzling down bottle after bottle of water and ignores the playful threats of the members into telling on him to the managers as he lies again and again to the others. for as much as guanlin could use the help, he also wants to be able to succeed on his own, to show the others that he can offer more than he’s been giving them.
