“what do you think?” he pulls out a jean jacket with too many holes and distressed fabric that it’s barely a jacket. there are paint stains in blue and orange, and it reeks of stale cologne. yet ryujin grins, sees a treasure when others might see trash. “actually, i don’t care what you think. what i think is more important. try it on.” a command more than a suggestion because he doesn’t ask, he demands.
his way or the highway.
and yoojung is his muse for the day, a mannequin waiting to be dressed.
she can never pinpoint beginnings--happens to like filling the in-between with whatever works: conversations in half-drunken stupor; sporadic texts throughout a hectic day; two-minute calls made of hanging fragments and probing questions; slow silences, sudden demands.
somehow, their clashes and peculiar encounters blossom into a pseudo-friendship of sorts. ryujin’s not brotherly by any means. he’s too full of himself to coddle or spoil her rotten like roman and cheol do on occasions when she lets out her inner five-year-old and throws tantrums. too brutal in his honesty to sugarcoat words to look out for her ego. yoojung doesn’t mind, really. she rather likes his candid mannerisms--his ability to shoot straight into the heart of the matter. no pretense, no frills, no cheap thrills. so when he texts her with a command to come meet him, she doesn’t say no.
lady luck apparently isn’t on her side today, though. because she finds herself dressed head to toe casual, in ‘so natural it’s practically bare-faced’ makeup, and a nondescript cap and face mask on, holed up in gwangjang with boy wonder about to take center stage.
“so rude,” there’s no bite, barely any sarcasm. just plain fact. ryujin’s always been snappy with directives, expecting all those who wander into his orbit to get sucked in and follow every snap and twitch of his fingers. but yoojung wasn’t one of his groupies. likes to think she’s a cut above the rest as his “protegé” so she hesitates. questions him. talks back.
“it’s ugly, oppa.” fingers reach out to snag a hole in the lapel, eyes narrowing on the paint stains, and sweeping down to give herself a quick once-over. a holey, castaway denim jacket over her chiffon blouse and high-waisted shorts is a huge no-no in her book. she jerks her hand away, lifts her chin. resolve steely (re: petulant child act incoming). “hard pass. next.”
When she steps away, the act disappears in an instant. Guilt and dread engulf her next, and her shoulders dip inwards with regret. Why do I do this?
Just like that, Yoojung pulls forth the side of Mina she’s been desperately trying to kill.
underneath this tiresome ice princess persona, yoojung has always been a little rough around the edges. softer. more vulnerable. in the wake of cruelty, she finds herself a double-edged sword; one she unknowingly hands right on over to mina, who takes it and stabs her clean through the heart. it hurts--her words. all knowing and laced cryptic; knives hidden behind her pearly smile. she recognizes a predator when she sees one. recognizes that she missteps a second too late. she should’ve known underestimating someone like mina would be a mistake.
it costs her. costs her deeply.
in hindsight, she supposes she deserves it. she should’ve left it alone. should’ve laid it all to rest. because her smile hangs loose at the edges, blurs in the wake of sudden despair and a momentary lapse in breathing. an apology catches somewhere in the middle of her chest, locked tight in her lungs. she can’t say anything. because mina’s voice--sweet as it sounded--was overpowering. deadly in intent.
yoojung wishes she could take it all back. her pride, her need to remain unfazed in mina’s presence, her flimsy cruelty.
instead, she barely bypasses with a raise of a brow, her brain zeroing in on the one thing that could save her. formalities. “i’m sure we both are, mina.” she drops honorifics as a reminder to the younger girl: watch your tongue, darling, she warns with a sharpened look, lips thin, her back straightening. know your place. “they brought us into this world, raised us, and now it’s our turn to pay them back for their love and care. i’d like to think i wouldn’t be where i am without them, wouldn’t you?”
she collects herself in fragments: in the slow drawl of her voice (measured and calculating), in the tiny, barely hanging on smile that rings a little false, in the inquisitive tilt of her head (the kind of contemplation that reeks of a challenge accepted and returned).
in this flash game of pride, yoojung tells herself she can win if she can keep holding her breath. keep smiling. conceal, don’t feel. (easier said than done.) in this game, she tells herself meeting at a stalemate is as good as a victory. feels like sweet pain.
and pain, she can handle. it’s what she knows best, after all.
the question is unspoken and painfully kept. left raw in her throat or like a stinging wound gaped open on her skin. mina’s voice rings in her ears, though, and yoojung can sense dissatisfaction like a predator to the scent of blood. she’s treaded a little out of bounds. her words a marked foul that should’ve been called out. she’s not sure why she said it, really. a knee-jerk reaction to the bitterness she lets seeps above surface level. lets coat her tongue with proverbial poison. sticky sweet and acerbic all at once.
she’s learned how to recognize the signs of defense, after all. nine years spent in an industry that cuts you if you reacted to slowly and yoojung knows how to read between the lines. how to perform surgeries on words to find hidden meaning and underlying subtext. and yoojung, intuitive as she was, hears a weak rebuttal (a pithy excuse for a dismissal) in mina’s voice.
had it been anyone else, yoojung would’ve shut them down fast. would’ve shot them the coldest gaze she could muster and bid them a farewell.
but this is mina. bae mina. amor. a twisted kind of kindred--or if she were being honest, an uncanny reflection of herself. in her, yoojung recognizes all the bad, the ugly, and the innate selfishness. recognizes the shimmer of duality and the pretense that comes with projecting a perfectly curated persona to cater to a ravenous audience.
she doesn’t particularly mean what she says, really. for a moment, yoojung is sorry. but that vindictive part of her that thrived on the cheap thrill of a successful provocation rears its ugly head and her spine automatically loosens; her posture turns the slightest bit languid, shoulders dropping. relaxed. feigned composure.
she meets mina in the middle with a toothy grin that belies none of the anguish simmering beneath her skin. controls the immediate urge to clench her fists at her sides. softens her eyes and lets none of her weaknesses show.
this is how she survives.
“it’s what family does, isn’t it? support you, be proud of you when you accomplish things, scold you when you’re being wayward and rebellious.” her lips twist itself into a fond smile as she looks mina in the eyes, expression serene. “parents...they’ll always love you, don’t you think?”
the rapper crossed his arms, head rocking side by side slowly while he stood there in thought. “i should give you two signals just so the other team won’t pick up so easily.” if making a strategized plan would save their asses and pride, this was the best thing h could do. it was evident that he really didn’t want to lose, he hated it in fact but seeing a change in the other’s eyes sudden;y light the fire back inside his chest. “good, that pride should kick some ass for the rest of the game.” he stated, giving her a nod before continuing. ‘the signal could be…me brushing my index finger against my nose and flicking my hand under my chin. you just gotta pay attention and kick the ball as hard as you can my way, gives it some speed so no one can catch it.”
yoojung’s never asked life to be kind to her--but it’s kind enough to give her someone like roman. some selfish part of her had rejoiced in finding a replacement for taejoon who was off in god knows where wearing his honor like badges and battle scars. in roman, she’d recognized the soft, the patience, and the understanding that she so dearly missed. it’s no wonder she gets greedy. wanting more of this misplaced affection, borne out of a need to fill the gaping hole in her chest left by a brother who chose not to look back, in an unwitting doppelganger. at first, roman had been a surrogate. a piece of home, a sliver of family (newfound and oh so fragile), she expects to shatter when the illusion begins to fade. but one day, she’d taken one look at roman and realized he wasn’t like family, realized he is family, and she hadn’t known what to do.
she’s always been careful about letting people in. you never knew who had ulterior motives, after all. everyone wants something from you--whether you knew it or whether they admit it or not is a hard lesson learned. she expects roman to leave with a piece of her lonely heart in his hands but he comes in gentle. like a breeze. and stays. hands as kind and as empty as ever.
he calls her his sister and is so endearingly sweet and patient with her that, sometimes, it makes yoojung want to cry.
like now.
she swallows back the swell of emotions. blinks back the sudden welling of tears in her eyes. blames it inwardly on sand in her eyes. and squares her shoulders. looks at him with something akin to pride. to immense affection. “wow, thanks for the compliment.” there’s no bite. no bark either. just softness. it shows in the way she reaches out to punch him lightly in the shoulder, a laugh caught in her words.
she notes the signals, sears it into her mind and puts up a fist. fighting, indeed. her expression fierce. all traces of her initial shame and inner turmoil wiped clean from her eyes. “speed, signal, sass? check, check, and triple check.” a smirk hangs crooked on her lips and, in preparation for their time out ticking down, yoojung rolls her ankles, stretches for a quick handful of seconds. shakes the nervousness from her body and replaces it with resolve. determination. “i got your back.” look out for me too, yeah? lighter now, she lays out a hand. palm down. “should we do a fighting to fire us up?” let’s do this. let’s kill ‘em.
She smiles a bit, glancing at Yoojung before looking away, a nervous hesitance painted in her actions, a regret for attempting at a conversation when she knows better than to indulge danger. It seems that not only does she have a knack for the sport they were forced into playing, but also for risky situations jeopardizing her carefully constructed facade. Mina doesn’t want to be seen as who she truly is. She has no desire to be found, to be drawn out of the maze she’s willingly lost to. Unlike her counterpart, Mina wants to be just AMOR and no one else. “Oh no, I didn’t. My parents were very strict about me getting home on time so I didn’t do a lot but — thanks! You played really well, Yoojung-ssi.” She convinces herself that she tried her best and bites back an instinctual apology.
she wonders when it started--the frisson of hostility lingering beneath the polite veneer of smiles--how she might’ve reacted to things differently. how she could’ve found a complement in a tiny, angelic thing in bae mina (amor) had yoojung been a little more naive, more pure, more trusting. she wonders, had she been different, if this pretentious “chance” meeting and stale conversation could’ve been avoided or turned a complete one-eighty.
but yoojung doesn’t operate on anything less than the definitive. doesn’t gamble on what-if’s and what-could’ve-been’s. because a girl like her couldn’t have been able to start off on the right foot with a sweet, young thing like mina--who, on paper, was the exact opposite of her. it’s not jealousy, per se (what exactly would yoojung be jealous of, anyway?). it’s not bottled despair or cocooned frustration either. so yoojung struggles to find the disconnect. the dissonance that lingers and leaves a bitter aftertaste in her mouth every time she and mina meet once in a blue moon.
she knows a backhanded compliment when she hears one. got her fair share of it during her four-year stint in the halls of a now-defunct singularity. she’s learned to pick up on cues, microexpressions, little ticks and tells that let her know when a conversation is veering into territory it has no business touching upon.
like now.
“thank you.” she doesn’t mean it. not one bit. because if yoojung can remember the annoyed yells of her teammates when she’d fucked up ten minutes into the futsal match against the yellow team, she’s sure mina remembers too. played well? yoojung almost scoffs because in what world was that playing well? but she doesn’t say that. bites back the retort, swallows her pride, and bares her teeth in a curve of her lips that looked more like a grimace than it does a smile. imagines herself an empty body and each breath she takes is her bottling up all this negativity brewing beneath her skin.
yoojung inhales, smile hanging there by sheer willpower, and counts to three. do it for the girls. control yourself. watch yourself. “i’m sure when this broadcasts, your parents would be so proud of you--you’re a natural.”
It’d explain why she does her best to avoid Yoojung, especially after their intense first encounter. However, the weight of ISAC is unforgiving and draws them towards each other no matter how much Mina wishes to escape from Yoojungs cursed orbit. Futsal brings them together, and while she can focus her attention on the ball, on the pressure of her competitive drive drilling into her emotions, she can’t ignore the Jawbreaker member for long, and when the match ends, she knows her time away has too. Mina has to greet her seniors, therefore she has to level eyes with her unfortunate partner in destinys ill-construction, and instead of running from it, wishing the worse away, she only eases a small smile on her face as Yoojung and her get close enough for a conversation. “That was a good game,” she begins, her ellipses holding steady for a few seconds until they fall; attention scattered as it drifts from the floor to a distance further left to the design of her shirt.
@idyoojung
time has a funny way of playing with humanity. there are moments (people) yoojung wants to cherish, the ones where she meets people who are a little too loose--a little less put together to balance her out; where selfishness and the desire to rise above people don’t mar her perception of them--of their value or their place in her life. those moments always breeze by. that’s what happens when greed finds a permanent refuge in her heart, in someone’s skin. sweet as mina is, even yoojung can’t help but scoff at how pristine and clean she comes across. nothing like her own cold, distant (and forever intimidating) persona. the one that wears heavy, digs invisible impressions on the skin of her shoulders. yet, she can’t fault the younger girl for keeping her distance. can’t fault herself for feeling like something is perpetually out of place--wrong--with her. (because how dare she pass judgment on a pretty thing like mina when she was a person made of little white lies and half-truths?)
so yoojung does her best to go out of her way to avoid a collision. does her best to circumvent any possibility for their paths to cross. content to pretend they’ll never meet unless chance (circumstances) forces them to intersect.
the catalyst is the idol sports athletics championship. an event yoojung believes she has no business participating in. can’t believe she’s chosen for the one sport that involves running, sweating, and chasing after a black and white checkered ball for hours only to get less than a minute of screentime when the event airs on television. can’t fathom what higher power yoojung upset for her to be put on the same playing field (literally and figuratively) as mina once again.
it feels a little like punishment. for what, she doesn’t know. is loathed to find out.
she just wants to get this over with. playing niceties with someone who obviously doesn’t want to speak to her--let alone look at her.
it makes yoojung a little petty. (inwardly, upset. because what exactly did she do to mina to be treated with such frigidity?) more than cold. her tell-tale ice princess mask slipping solidly into place once more.
“it was.” was it? yoojung doesn’t remember a thing, to be honest. her mind miles away, barely paying attention. did they win? did they lose? will roman send her the deadliest glare when she steps off this field? she doesn’t know. doesn’t want to find out. stuck as she was in a conversation with a girl whose smile seems to shine false. “you seem to have a knack for this,” jerks her chin at the field. the goal posts. the stupid ball. “did you play when you were younger?”
“just listen okay, we have ten more minutes in this game. when you get the ball, i want you to run with so much confidence but also keep your eyes on me. i’ll give you a signal and i want you to kick the ball directly at me, do not hesitate to kick it because the other team will steal the ball. if we keep doing this routine, we might actually win this thing.” he encouraged her with all his might, he had to be supportive because, at the end of the day, they won a small little trophy and some kind of credit. “you have to trust in me and also yourself, play with some pride sis.”
it wasn’t like she was throwing the game on purpose--she had thought about it in the beginning. just to get it over with. but seeing her teammates so hyped up and in an uproar about winning, yoojung had wanted to put her best game face on and try her best to not drag her team down with her inadequacy. it certainly did not help that running and kicking and intercepting balls on two hours of sleep knocked her off her A game.
doesn’t help that all traces of feigned playfulness dies as soon as roman says her name. sounds too much like her brothers. right down to the hands on her shoulders. it’s reassurance and comfort done in two-step and it momentarily robs her of all thoughts, turns her a little breathless because in that moment, roman was the epitome of taejoon--kind, supportive, and always covering for her. but roman speaks and yoojung has to blink twice to rid herself of the stinging in her eyes. shakes her head a little rid herself of her momentary stupor. rubs a hand over her eyes to shatter the illusion.
because roman wasn’t taejoon. almost. but not quite.
she smiles, a touch watery, anyway. thanks him silently for his unending patience and guidance. yoojung knows she needs it. tells herself to heed it because while most of the idols in attendance probably didn’t care about winning, she understands the drive of competition and the feeling victory brings to someone like roman. and yoojung, who cares so much about her not-blood brother, would do anything in her power to help salvage her pride and help their team win. if only to see roman smile. to see him happy.
“what’s the signal?” carefulness shines through in the sudden sharpening of her gaze. gone is the brittle nervousness of messing up. she expects to be given orders, prepares herself to adhere to instructions. because yoojung is a good girl. never wanting to disappoint. never wanting to fail. in the wake of needing to make up for her lackluster performance, she is ready to give her all. “i’ve got pride, oppa.” lots of it, in fact. it’s why she realizes what she must do in order to turn the tables around. the other team must be planning to box her in, to target her as the weak link. fools. yoojung thrives under pressure, slips through the cracks and defies expectations (low now, though they seemed). she’ll make him proud even if it killed her.
her expression brightens at her friend’s words, soaking in the compliments as they come, smile growing wider and wider by the second. “queen of visuals! if only i could have that title.” it’s not much but she’s still pleased. “you’re right. boys don’t deserve it.”
yoojung deals with things pretty well. deals with them in ways that people can’t tell. in ways that people can’t see. it’s how she’s able to keep her vulnerability in check. it’s how she’s able to acknowledge it and shield herself at the same time.
(she thinks, in hindsight, that she might handle things a bit backward.
wonders if she could fight frustration in an entirely different way than venting when it changes nothing. wonders if it’s possible to simply suck it all up and brave the world and do as she’s told because it’s the right thing to do.
wonders if she had adamantly protested her participation, would it have changed the outcome at all?)
she listens, watches as vivi’s smile turns her into sunshine personified, gaze soft and affectionate. she doesn’t tell her she couldn’t think of anything better to do than practice her hoop routine over and over again until the curve of plastic was impressed upon her skin. until her feet ached and her body screamed at her to stop. (she never did. perhaps, in hindsight, she should’ve listened). doesn’t tell her she can’t sleep when she could be using that time to hone her skills, to ensure she’s as perfect and as precise as can be because failure isn’t an option--can’t afford to mess up in a stadium full of judging eyes and recording cameras. one fuck up and it’ll remain there forever. a constant reminder; a plague. doesn’t tell her that calling her parents is something she’s put on the backburner since her trainee years (when was the last time she called or answered text messages or listened to voicemails?). doesn’t tell her if she hears her mother’s voice, she might just shatter into pieces. might not be able to hold herself together. doesn't tell her that her pride is a hindrance. that, somewhere deep down, a tiny part of her wants to win. wants the recognition and the praise. anything to boost her up in popularity, to help her reputation.
yoojung doesn’t say anything because this is how she deals. how she copes. by wielding silence as a weapon and her smile as a shield. a tried and true method. because nobody sees beyond the surface. nobody thinks to question all the terrible things she bottles up and keeps locked in the caverns of her chest. nobody suspects yoojung is but a greedy, selfish little thing. not even her friends. (sometimes, it hurts. to be so superficial. but it’s all she’s learned. all she knows. it’s how she survives.)
“but i bet you did practice.” a lot. like me. people like us would never sit idly when we could be doing everything in our power to be the best. her lips curve upwards, a mimic of vivi’s own bright grin. only hers was marginally more empty. more shallow. the nerves of their upcoming event closing in.
this is yoojung shutting down.
“you already do, vi! in my heart, you are the queen.” the words are soft, despite the way her eyes shutter, growing a touch more calculating. sharper. “who needs boys when there are pretty girls like you around.” leaning in, yoojung whispers. all truth. a little playful. “if i were a boy, i’d date you.”
“did you wake me up?” a strange irritation gnaws at his neck as jinwoo palms his nape then realizes his shirt is askew. the collar is yanked and wrinkles drape. he casts yoojung an accusatory look which soon adapts into a glare. “you did wake me up, didn’t you.”
her playfulness dies a little when she catches sight of a fellow idol two paces over give them a questioning look. caught, she dials back the thousand-watt smile into something barely there. a simple quirk of her lips.
“i did,” she says, as she lets her eyes trace invisible wounds from his eyes to the whole of his face. she sees exhaustion pressed bone deep in the sag of his body and the heat of his glare. she’s not afraid of jinwoo. never was. never will be. she sees in him a reflection of herself. uncanny and peculiar all at once--a disturbing dichotomy that wrings from her both a sense of awe and a sense of terror.
he’s got this sleepiness about him. perpetually tired of the world and tired of the time he’s spent being tired. of fighting against demons (invisible or those who wear the skin of his parents). it’s apparent since the first time they spoke in the wake of late night blues and yoojung was rendered speechless and it’s apparent now. time goes on and drags against the body (drags his body), fast and slow and unforgiving. she sees it draped on him and the cheekiness snuffs out from her eyes.
her smile doesn’t fade, though. it wouldn’t do to be caught smiling one microsecond and being stone-faced the next after jinwoo speaks to her. he’s a sunbae, after all. and she remembers she must mind her manners. her image. for the sake of jawbreaker’s reputation and herself.
“if i didn’t, you’d have toppled over into my lap.” there’s no sarcasm. just plain fact. she’s always gentle with the things (the people) around her when she wants to be. it’s a silent warning. there are eyes watching, jinwoo. we have to be careful. discreet. she rests a chin on an upturned palm and raises a brow in retaliation of his glare, feigning ignorance. “we would’ve been front page on pann and trending on naver. i saved us both the trouble, ‘s all.” she squints at him. evaluating, probing. “are you mad? did i wake you from a good dream?”
“right? god forbid we talk to a male for longer than we’re supposed to. or if we even look at them in some way.”
difficult isn’t a strong enough word to describe how she managed to learn to bend and not break in less than a month on top of comeback preparations. remembers feeling like a rubber band stretched thin--to her limits--every time she botched a toss up and spun a little too hard (or a little too fast), the hoop smacking down hard on her wrist (or straight to the floor, missing the wrap of her fingers by half a centimeter)—bad timing. always bad timing. remembers cold cut professionalism in the way her instructor spoke to her every time yoojung made the mistake of sighing or huffing in frustration. remembers being told to get out—cool her head—once (maybe, twice) when the pressure was too much to handle, the ghost of her immature self making a startling, embarrassing, appearance after the nth time of missing cues and not bending far enough. not being graceful enough. not perfect enough. not enough.
yoojung remembers all this with a wry quirk of her lips, her gaze a touch resentful. had she not been chosen, she would never have had to contort herself every which way. would never have had to worry about bending a little too far, twirling a little too fast—vertigo and injury always waiting like foreboding shadows of consequence for her to mess up.
difficult is simply not the right word at all.
because there are no words for this: how she struggles to comprehend the significance of this event (she knows it’s for the fans. knows it’s an avenue for entertainment. knows its practically a visible cesspool for idols to mingle with one another under specified conditions. she knows.), how she can’t imagine what she would do if worse comes to worst and yoojung fucks up in front of her peers (would they laugh? would they judge her? would they talk about her behind her back?), how it seems almost impossible for her to think positively when she’s a whole bundle of nerves, how any and everything could go wrong because fate seemed to always have a sick sense of humor where she’s concerned.
but she doesn’t say that. doesn’t tell vivi that beneath the veneer of boredom she wears in the emptiness of her gaze and the barely there curve of her lips lies a girl who anxiously waits for the world to laugh at her mistake. to reduce her to nothing all over again.
instead, she confers a half-truth. not quite a lie, not quite a confession. “it wasn’t anything i couldn’t handle.” and yoojung could handle anything she set her mind to. her determination had no bounds, no limits. in order to reach and stay on top, she would do anything. even if she ends up shattering in the process.
reaching up, yoojung pokes vivi gently in the forehead, an affectionate grin stretching her lips wide. “they’re nothing to look at compared to you, vivian song--queen of visuals. you’re too pretty not to look at. boys?” she scoffs in feigned distaste, laughter in her voice. “don’t need ‘em.”
solo // isac; rhythmic gymnastics--hoops. (+5 exp / +5 skill)
(the world’s a stage--all eyes on her, whispers all around--and she’s the upcoming circus act.)
yoojung tells herself to breathe, even as the chatters start. even when she notices the side eye glances and behind-the-hand whispering of her fellow peers. she’s wary of their attention; it makes her skin crawl, gooseflesh pebbling along her arms.
tells herself: in and out. slowly, surely. and counts to ten. tells herself to smile as her mind whirs a mile a minute; a slo-mo playback reel of the routine she’d practiced over and over and over again over the course of several weeks. clenched around her shaky fingers is the hoop she’d learned to befriend. that has accompanied her in the practice room from dawn to dusk. look closer and one might notice the chipping of plastic, the lackluster glitter, tiny sections of adhesive peeling off in places, the thin lines of abuse repetition forged into its body. it looks a lot like her in this very moment--her body poised in rehearsed grace, one foot forward, toes pointed; the other half a step behind her heel, balance maintained on the balls of her foot. squint and one might notice the fading bruises on her knees and one riding high on the inside of her thigh (out of sight, out of mind); a reddened scrape across her calf; a barely healed cut on one foot, hidden by the thin, worn material of her gymnastic slippers.
her body made of grace, molded by stern scoldings and forceful hands. (listen to the music, yoojung-ssi. you’re not listening! your body needs to move with the music. pay attention! count the beats--tsk! what did i say? if you’re not keeping your eyes and ears open, connected to your hoop and to the beat of the music, no matter how many times you throw your hoop up there, you will never catch it!) lips bitten red, her fingers curl hard around her hoop. hard enough for her to feel the plastic protest under the pressure. breathe. breathe. breathe.
she can see her teammates from the corner of her eye--suran all dolled up, dressed in her own leotard, ready and watching with sharp eyes; yujin and ellie whispering to one another on either side; jiahn ethereal, not a hair out of place, one pace over; two rows back, jinwoo looking like he’s run a marathon (an hour chasing after a ball trying to score points turning him ragged) and barely awake; ryujin on the outskirts, cheek-to-palm, looking decidedly bored; and roman at the back with a towel around his neck, guzzling a bottle of water. she can make out everyone she knows--is friendly with, has tentative ties to--and almost balks; her fingers twitching in half-baked anticipation and tell-tale anxiety.
yoojung feels naked, laid bare for all the world to see. feels like an exhibit draped in black and red, legs exposed from the top of her thighs and the shoulders up. the nude tights and lining beneath her leotard do nothing to quell her worries of flashing an entire crowd of people. the longer she waits, the more restless she gets. fingers thrumming incessantly along the side of her hoop, she chances a glance at a far away clock. only a minute has passed. it’s felt like a century.
she wants to leave. she wants to leave. she wants to--
nervous, yoojung rocks back and forth, her toes curling into the mat, and props the hoop back on her shoulder proper as she waits for the cameras to finish setting up. waits for a sign. her cue. off in the distance, she makes eye contact with the pd, nods to convey readiness and steps to the center of the mat on light feet, and positions herself. the hoop between her legs, pressed along her side, the back of her shoulders, and against her wrist. chin up, she takes a deep breath and poses.
(she’ll take on the world in three, two, beep--show time.)
the opening bars start on strings--cello, foreboding; a vibrating thrum she feels in her chest. her body sways on seeming autopilot, the hoop traveling down her legs and over her bent waist in practiced fluidity.
it feels like an out-of-body experience. the world narrows itself down to her, the scratched up hoop, and her chosen fight song. she watches herself bend in half (you must bend, but not break, darling. even when you can feel the ridges in your spine protesting, you must smile through the pain.), fingertips grazing the mat in an almost loving caress; every muscle in her body focused on keeping her balance as she twists into a handstand, legs scissoring the air, her trusty hoop sliding through curves to swing around her waist. fights vertigo by keeping her head down, eyes momentarily slipping shut (remembers the taste bile pressing at the back of her throat, her teeth the first time she tried this. failed. and failed some more), swallows it back. breathes. all the while her body keeps moving, toes always pointed, arms perfectly extended in time to the rise and fall, swell and reverb of strings and piano. she twirls like a porcelain figurine, one leg extended, her eyes raised to the sky, and tosses the hoop up. it stays up through a two-handed backflip and a pirouette. two, three. her hands shoot up and the hoop smacks soundly into her palms, fingers curled.
the first trick comes thirty seconds in. she breezes through a toss up and two twirls, catches it on the beat of four, and pushes herself into a one-handed cartwheel. (her wrist protests sharply.) her steps are still steady, but yoojung can feel herself beginning to shake, the pressure to do well catching up to her in the way her smile falters a bit, curling awkwardly and decidedly nervous. obvious and plain for the cameras to see in hd. had this been another rehearsal, she’d have been told to stop and start at the top, her coach a monstrous perfectionist. but this is real, live, and waiting to be broadcast some weeks later. so she bites back the nerves, the fear, the horror of making a mistake, and strains for the thrum of the cello, waits for her cue to prance, and preen, and sinks her body onto the mat, her hoop in one hand.
she hears the scattered applause and the distant ooh’s and ah’s, but can’t bring herself to do anything more than keeping the smile quirked up on her face. can’t afford to get distracted. can’t afford to humiliate herself. she’s doing this for attention. for the views, the ratings. her members. anything to gain notoriety. anything to shine in some way or another. (even if it means she’ll get it through the dull pain lancing up and down her spine, the quiet crack of her joints, her knees, every time she steps a little wrong, a little forcefully. through a new bruise blooming purple against the jut of her hip where the hoop she bounces off the side of her waist hits a little too hard. hits the wrong place. misses soft flesh and hitting fragile bone.)
the climax creeps in between a series of light steps dashed across the mat and a moment of seeming rest at a held arabesque, fingers twirling the hoop in front of her and a quick burst of speed, a grand jete executed through the hoop held nimbly aloft in her hand. (she hears the gasps and shuts them out. she’s almost done. almost.) back ramrod straight, she slides forward on steady feet into an easy split, hands palm up, as the hoop loops around her neck. nobody will notice the ring of red pressed into her skin. nobody will notice how she ceased to breathe to keep herself so poised, so collected.
and in the midst of raucous cheers, yoojung dances, her body one with the music, fingers clenched loosely around the hoop, twirling one and a half rotations per beat. her feet ache and her back is on fire, but she bites through it all. keeps her head held high as jumps once, thrice, multiple times. she forces her body into impossible bends, arms protesting at the weight of expectation and borderline exhaustion.
while she hangs on pure adrenaline and willpower, all her peers see is a series of cheap thrills and a wannabe contortionist with a hoop as her prop. they won’t notice her bloodshot eyes or her ragged breathing, her thudding pulse; heart beating double time; the redness of her palms. they only watch the mesmerizing arch of her feet, the curve of her spine, the delicate curl of her fingers, and the kick of her legs.
the hoop shoots up--magic trick number??? she’s lost count--and yoojung prepares herself to fold her body even smaller to fit herself through as it comes falling back down, the world upended at a precarious and dizzying one-eighty one flip too many. (she’s almost there. almost. just a little bit more.)
her routine ends on a high note. body bent over backward, a split in mid-air, her hoop spinning once, twice, and caught on the tail end of an almost wobbly backhand spring, her hand flying up almost half a beat too late. she catches it, anyway. (despite the barely noticeable misstep. it’s a mistake. one of three. if she counted correctly. she almost cringes, disappointment tasting bitter.) and sinks to her knees, hand at her side, hoop held tight, chin up, her eyes ablaze.
the music stops--denouement--and the stadium erupts.
she nails it.
pride and distant satisfaction ooze into the grin stretching her face (it’s fake, fake, fake) and she pushes herself up on unsteady feet. bows in the midst of roaring cheers and the default applause of her peers. off-camera, she’s waved off the mat discreetly and yoojung looks right into the camera. and smiles.
she nails it.
(her wrist throbs, her body aches. the dizziness presses close in the blurry edges of her vision.)
but at what cost?
(moments later: far from the critical lens of the cameras and steps from the women’s restroom, fatigue, exhaustion, and consequence finds her in a kneeling heap on the floor, panting, crying. on the verge of shattering.
starter for @idellie // schedule prompt; backstage at kbs the showtime.
you’re so lucky, a trainee sighs at yoojung when she catches her in the middle of her fifth run-through of hobgoblin’s choreography at three in the morning on a saturday, days before jawbreaker’s official comeback (or redebut stage--whatever. technicalities).
she remembers pausing, eyes squinting. caught off guard. (the girl had slipped away when she didn’t respond after a minute, wistful expression distorting into something borderline offended. a little mean. her over-the-shoulder never mind, sorry to disturb you cut off by the slam of the door. yoojung hadn’t noticed. still in a daze.)
remembers that peculiar little incident while she’s in the middle of getting her game face painted on, stylists flitting to and fro and all around her, trying to make her look as polished and as fierce as possible.
remembers because she had thought what a damn joke in passing because she’s not lucky. none of her girls were. luck and coincidence had nothing to do with the way they sank to rock bottom after five tireless years of trying to make it to the top--only for some greedy asshole to ruin it all. they broke relatively easily. felt a little like humpty dumpty after a great fall, fumbling with so many cracks in their foundation and having no idea how to put themselves back together.
luck, she’d wanted to say, had nothing to do with it. just pure survival instinct--do or die. if you’re not desperate enough--if you don’t want it enough--you’ll never make it. luck is what fools believe is the magic ingredient.
and wasn’t she desperate--once upon a time? when she was fifteen, starry-eyed, and still riding on that adolescent high? wasn’t she desperate still nine years in and back at square one, side by side with her girls, ready to make their mark with the big leagues?
she’s not content with being marginalized, turned second best. not satisfied with being treated with feigned sympathy by all those around them. all those who were waiting to pounce on their every mistake, waiting to crucify them.
she remembers this as a staff member sidles a little too close for comfort, fingers cold against her cheek as he fixes the microphone with tape. scattered around her are her girls, all in varying stages of playing dress up. half asleep and running on fumes, yoojung gets up from her seat, waving away a stylist coming after her with a cushion puff in her hand (she’s white enough, thank you very much), and makes a beeline for ellie, who looks just about done and completely bored out of her mind.
“you look nervous,” sarcasm comes easy, like settling right at home. no pretenses, no masks. fingers drifting up, she strokes them down ellie’s perfectly styled hair and looks her in the eyes through the mirror. “is it bad that all i can think about is the small thing of yogurt i didn’t get to finish eating? it doesn’t feel real yet. it’s like i’m still dreaming.”
mid-afternoon: she spots him in the middle of a crowd of not-quite strangers--an elongated beanpole of white in a sea of pinks and yellows.
somewhere in the midst of a break she’d stolen after a handful of minutes making cute hand gestures at her fans all the way in the corner over there, yoojung finds herself a spot on the outskirts of a spectating audience. it’s a shitty preamble--what with so many idols lounging in perpetual restlessness as the cameramen and staff work to set up equipment for the high jump event set to beginning in t-minus one hour, trying to adhere to last minute safety protocols (because, god forbid, something terrible happens on their watch--like a serious injury, or a part collapsing).
she pays the monotony of sitting at half-rest no mind, focused as she was on jinwoo seated right in front of her; her gaze locked on the back of jinwoo’s head, lulling forward, backward, and sideways. it’s almost comical how he hasn’t yet managed to topple over the way he sways and bobs in time to the lull of sleep-haze. (getting up at the ass crack of dawn would do that to you, she reckons.)
looking around, yoojung sneaks a glance to her left. to her right. up to the stands, praying that a camera wasn’t aimed right at them when she reaches out her hand, finger pointed and jabs it none too gently into jinwoo’s side. “psst!” whisper-soft and barely even audible amidst the swell of sudden laughter around them. “wake up--” she stops short when her eyes widen at the sight of him lulling backward, his broad shoulders suddenly looming before her, crowding into her space.
for christ’s sake.
sighing, she rests her cheek on her palm and leans to the left and lifts her free hand extended in front of her, palm straight out. when the deep pull of sleep seems to have gotten his hooks in him and he sways backward once again, yoojung is ready. from the back, it looks as though she had reached out to pat jinwoo on the back. in reality, she sinks her fingers into the back of his shirt and yanks, jerking him backward.
it’s a rude wakeup call, she imagines. (yoojung is sure he’ll thank her later.) and she muffles a chuckle with a bite to the inside of her cheek, waiting for jinwoo to shake the disorientation. to refocus. wakey wakey~ “sleep well?”
“it feels kind of like high school, when we’re forced to be in teams with people we don’t know. except now everyone is looking at us. fun, right?”
she imagines being somewhere. in-between. free of the crippling pressure of needing (having) to put up a facade, of smiling until her cheeks her. she thinks of fleeting hours and not getting enough sleep and missed calls and unread messages in the sudden rush of comeback (redebut) schedules. for her, this past month has accumulated into a restless body and time slipping through her fingers. to think she could handle the pressure of having too much on her plate versus months of radio silence and twiddling her thumbs as she and her members are stuck wallowing, gathering dust, in singularity’s basement seems laughable now--what with the added bonus of having to participate in the athletic championships that would add absolutely nothing to her checklist of things to accomplish before she’s thirty.
inside, a part of her wants to leave--to be free--legs chasing miles after miles, wind whistling in her ears. no pressure, no expectations, no scrutiny. it’s a pitiful reality that awaits her as yoojung attempts to keep the corner of her lips turned up. attempts to shake herself free of a fruitless daydream.
vivi’s voice splashes cold. a somber wakeup call and yoojung almost laughs, even as she swallows back the swell of midday blues. “here,” in her hand is one of the pink handheld fans; in the other an unopened bottle of water already sweating in the heat. sitting down at her feet, yoojung props an arm across vivi’s knees, chin resting atop her forearm, gaze contemplative. “got chosen for futsal and rhythmic gymnastics. it’s a terrible idea, honestly. for me to participate, i mean. i don’t even want to think about humiliating myself in front of everyone and the fans. what events are you doing, vi? maybe, i’ll let you win if we’re opponents--just to get this over with.” the joke falls flat, however, at the reminder that they’re here for a purpose--to turn themselves into a spectacle for pure entertainment.
her nose wrinkles in slight distaste. “feels just as cliquey--see how everyone is separated? pink, yellow, white? we’re told an event of this scale is a treat for idols because it’s a cesspool designed to allow us all to interact, intermingle. the only problem is there’s an unspoken rule of how much and with whom we can mingle with. because there are always eyes watching. how exactly is that fun?”
the pout marring the curve of her lips is genuine, her spiel candid, ringing with heartfelt frustration. “i hate feeling like we’re told to have fun but not too much fun. the constant and subtle reminder to watch ourselves feels so much like being put under a magnifying glass. it’s suffocating.”
(when in rome, do as the romans do. when on the goddamn field, do as i say, yoojung. got it?)
roman’s voice had been more buzz than hum--in one ear and out the other as soon as he motioned her into a mock team huddle made of two. for all the world looking like they were discussing strategies. to yoojung, it was a stern lecture made of furrowed brows and an exasperated warning--yoojung, please for the love of god, keep your eyes on the ball. pay attention to your surroundings. and stop looking like you’d rather be anywhere else but here.
she’d nodded, half listening; mind miles away, heart somewhere even further. sure thing! won’t let you down! tells him with false chipper that she’ll try her best--that she won’t embarrass herself, her members, or her entire team. it’s a heavy promise; the weight of expectations feeling like a burden.
only the joke’s on her because she fucks up.
she can blame it on the heat. on an empty stomach gurgling for the past twenty minutes. on a split second of blurry version and the loss of a contact lens, rendering her distorted enough to make the mistake of passing the ball to a member of the pink team (or yellow team--how she managed to mistaken the obnoxious and eye-catching splash of colors for white is beyond her) and not roman himself or any of her teammates shouting at her from a distance. she can blame it on virtually anything, but she won’t blame it on herself. not really.
not when she had made it clear in the beginning that choosing her as second striker was a terrible idea and a sure-fire way for her team to lose.
so when her team calls for a timeout, yoojung is ready to defend herself as a part of her balks at getting called out for her juvenile error in front of so many people. balks at being told she did something wrong--she knows. give her a break. balks--simply because she’s tired, hungry, and just wants to go home.
with her back turned, yoojung grips an unopened water bottle in her hands, restless and waiting. she hears roman before she sees him and she tenses instinctively, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. resigned, she pivots on her heels, head down, gaze locked on her scuffed sneakers. the picture of shame. “gonna yell at me?”
what with the amount of preparation she and the girls had put in for jawbreaker’s re-debut, she would’ve thought they would be too busy to participate in an event. but lo and behold, she’d been pulled aside and informed of her participation--rhythmic gymnastics and futsal.
she had balked, of course. (in private--whined, ranted, and complained jinwoo’s ear off for twenty minutes.) tried to reason that she can’t afford to get injured. they were set to come back again, for christ’s sake! and all she got in return was a stern look and a lecture about safety and precaution. (watch yourself, yoojung. you don’t want to end up headlining another article, now do you? yoojung had swallowed her words then, kept her mouth shut in the wake of manufactured obedience. i will be careful. she’s always careful--but not careful enough.)
now, dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, yoojung can’t tell if she’s annoyed or resigned by default. finds it ridiculous that company reps were willing to shove their precious cash cows in a stadium and encourage them to participate in team sports--all for the sake of views and garnering attention left and right.
it’s ridiculous that they have to pretend to have fun (yoojung is sure she won’t), much less smile in the face of feigned camaraderie. it’s like classic high school all over again--only one wrong move and a faceplant will be immortalized for all to see.
yoojung almost sighs as she’s handed her name tag--YOOJUNG, JAWBREAKER in bold --a bottle of water and a towel. she nearly fumbles with it all, cursing herself inwardly for having small hands, and manages to cradle the two pink hand fans and everything else in the crook of her arms under ten seconds. smiling sheepishly and tipping her head forward in thanks, she makes a bee-line straight for one of the giant, obnoxiously bright umbrellas and a pretty girl already looking right at home underneath it.
“yah,” the sight of vivi brings a smile to yoojung’s face, her eyes degrees warmer than usual. under the sun, she can feel her apprehension melting. the sticky heat momentarily forgotten in the wake of finding someone to latch onto in a breeding ground full of sweaty idols, hawk-eyed fans, and scandals waiting to be hatched. be careful, darling. chin up, smile at the ready. it’s show time. “tired already?”
