#id.isacdone

[ideden-blog]

peaches.

isac. solo. 

she sinks her teeth into the fruit, ripe and ready in her palm. a soft blush of oranges and pinks and reds cradled in slender fingers. and then - bursting. sticky sweet, coating her tongue. there’s a hum in the back of her throat that rings musical and appreciative. 

gotta love a fan with a fruit farm who takes your peach aesthetic comparisons literally. 

she sweeps a napkin against her lips carefully, pats to preserve the lip stain that has been all but cemented into place. not that anyone can tell, with it’s distinctly nude shade, a ‘your lips but better’ sort of flush that softly suggests one ought to consider kissing her. peachy pink. it matches her nail polish. 

yena’s image is an imperturbable artifice, constructed with the utmost care. to the outside observer everything about her is relatable, an obtainable level of perfection, if only you tried just a little bit harder. close enough to tantalize but just out of reach. 

she is the endless, divine punishment of tartarus, the ripe and welcoming fruit for which tantalus grasped so desperately, ever appearing close but forever inching just a hair’s breadth away. 

isac is perfect for this. she suits the pink blush of the clothes, oversized on her diminutive frame, cinched perfectly at her waist. she ties off the shirt to accentuate the waist oft described as ant-like these days. never bothers to point out it’s because she is, in general, rather smaller than most people, has little to do with anything but genetics.  

she suits the ponytail, the tousle of hair that tumbles down her back, smiles sweet and soft and drifts aimless under the sun like a balloon with no string, bobbing and weaving through the clumps of idols to find friends here and there, to impart smiles and sweetness and the occasional snark, amongst those trusted few. she plays to her fans and she completes her single, foolish event with little trouble. bowling, what a game. how...delightful. she’s morally opposed to running for no reason, and isac doesn’t count as a compelling incentive. 

the sun is punishing, beats down on them like an angry overlord. it’s not a surprise to her, how ancient people one worshipped the sun. brilliant and beautiful and dangerous. ever observant. sometimes she thinks it might be nice to be swallowed up in it, in light and power. maybe she’s just a megalomaniac beneath everything. but she’d tripped fallen stumbled into the cruel world in which she lived now, twisting under the pressure, flickering like a candle. 

she wanted so much more. 

she was tired of their juvenile and pointless image. she was sick of “summer bops” and bathing suits and sunhats. she was tired of the beach - never wanted to see sand again in her life - and of roadtrip concepts and of smiling until her face hurt. she was sick of lyrics about friendship or her body or how men ought to want her. she was sick already of the subunit concept and all she’d done was read the title of the song. she wanted more than this. she deserved more. 

at twenty six years old with one of the strongest voices in the industry (if you asked her, which you certainly did not) it was about time she had a solo. if one of the little girls in honey could put one out, whynot her ? oh right, because 99 entertainment had all the promotional skills of a dying fish flopping about on the ground gasping for air. the magikarp of companies, to borrow a phrase milo had used once, as she lamented her struggles. but she's come this far, invested this much time. she's not about to give up now.

she licks the juice from her lips in a quick flick, a flicker of pink.

 she smiles. 

ready to devour.

[idmiji-blog]

balance

isac solo, rhythm gymnastics

rhythm gymnastics had been something miji had agreed to do simply because it played to her strengths, that and she’d prefer to hang around with jowi. in reality? rhythm gymnastics weighed heavily on, well, actual gymnastics. but in isac the reality of it was obfuscated by dance, because that’s what most everyone did and most companies realized it was idiotic to have any idols that, by chance, had a background in gymnastics to go around doing anything strenuous for the sake of a possible (not guaranteed) spike in popularity. injury compared to a chance usually ended up in favor of playing it safe.

idols know how to dance, so that’s essentially what it turns into. dance with a ribbon. dance with a ball. wear something sparkly, look elegant. and miji can do that well enough. she has a background in dance, after all, something that’s different from most of the other girls. something that doesn’t branch into the kind of idol-pop dance as easily as jazz or hip hop, but still helped to hammer down the fundamentals, at the very least lent well to the elegance aspect brought up now. it played heavily into the old dance style she was used to. that she’d trained in for years.

so she mapped out a dance routine that played well with her prop. tossed in a couple of moves reminiscent of traditional dance, because she figured it might stir up the appreciation of anyone older who managed to catch the broadcast, and while miji had never been cunning to the extent of trying to wring out popularity out of any situation possible, she at least played her cards smart. why not use her background to try and pull in some positivity that branched out, looked somewhat unique in comparison to more contemporary routines?

it was easy enough, a better option that running herself breathless anyway. toss a couple of well placed smiles, glances at the camera. twist herself up graceful and delicate. until the song wound it’s way to a stop and she could flop back down next to jowi, wind an arm around thin shoulders and go back to trying to hide from the sun underneath the shade of umbrellas. she doesn’t really like the sweltering heat, or the fans that are piled up around them all. miji figures that nobody really does. but it’s the nature of the industry, too. to become a spectacle. that’s how it generally feels like. but more in situations like this. where they’re all crammed into a bowl of a place. where there are eyes on all sides, and you’re half expected to pretend that nobody is there. half expected to interact with your fanbase. but still keep yourself in check. it’s a good place to pick up phone numbers, sure, but you shouldn't be caught flirting. shouldn’t be caught doing anything that is outside the realm of their deemed acceptability. and that’s the reality of the situation. the reality of her career. her life. but then, that was what she asked for, isn’t it? that fame? all those eyes?

an odd place to be pushed into. where you start to feel unsettled by ones own aspirations. or at least, unsettled by the things that come packaged with it. still, miji smiles. links her fingers together with miji’s and makes silly faces for their fans that are clustered together on the bleachers in the distance.

[archiveidjowi-blog]

isac.

the observer effect. 

                             in quantum mechanics, the observer effect is the theory that  observing a                       situation or phenomenon necessarily changes that phenomenon. isac solo. wc: 575 recap/summary of events. 

the wide bowl of the stadium is open to a bright blue sky, the punishing heat of an unforgiving sun. it beats down on them like the proverbial eye of sauron, an unending gaze that flickers and burns. she probably shouldn’t have taken milo up on the offer to do a lord of the rings book club.

 it’s gotten her even more messed up than usual. 

no, that’s incorrect. it isn’t milo’s fault her skin prickles under the punishing stare. it isn’t jrr tolkein’s fault that the weight of that grand and terrible eye seems almost impossibly heavy today. it is, entirely, her own. 

chemicals misfire in the depths of her neurological system, set on edge by the heat, by the proximity of strangers and acquaintances and even friends. is it ironic that only her enemies offer her comfort anymore? those are the most straightforward interactions she finds, the ones she can glance over with frigid politeness, hidden behind a camera ready visage, only visible beneath the scrutinizing microscope of an idol’s eyes. 

with a dancer’s background and years of gymnastic training under her belt regardless, rhythmic gymnastics is not an event that has her terribly worried. besides, miji is there alongside her. she can see the hunger in the other girls, with wide eyes and impeccable movements, with sparkling costumes and tightly wrapped buns. they burn for this like she does, but jowi? she’s confident enough in her own fire. 

one down, one to go. 

the time between rhythm gymnastics and futsal stretches interminably. 

if there’s an event the sweet spitfire cares more about, its this one. the impeccable geometry of teamwork, the rush of wind past her years, the lung splitting joy of a full sprint. the roar of satisfaction in her chest with a goal scored. the pat of a team mates hand on her back and the tousle of hands through hair as it escapes the ponytail she’s hastily retied so many times now. 

without exertion and exhaustion to busy herself with, she turns to snacks and solitude and to the brief respite of a few traded words with friends. and when the weight of the world becomes to much to bear, when the eyes trained on her, the cruelty of lenses push her down, she more easily than not escapes.

makes her way through empty halls. a rat in a maze.

finds herself a dusty corner to collapse. 

and of course he ruins that, as he ruins most things. as she ruins twice as many. they’re creatures of destruction. horse(wo)men of the apocalypse. perhaps she is pestilence, a plague sweeping cruel and punishing across a nation. perhaps he is death itself, harbinger more inescapable than can be imagined. she cycles back to him time and again, and he returns the favor. they burn, rise from ash, rinse and repeat. 

and when the whole thing is over, she's as useful as the ash she dusts from her cigarette, leaning against the frame of a friend. escaping to the company can to wipe makeup from her face, removing a mask of civility and sweetness, leaving only the exhaustion underneath. 

the short car ride back to the dorms is interminable as she lays her head on miji's lap, as she threads slender fingers into dangling lavender hair, tugging lightly like a child might. the play of streetlamps over the other's face is haunting. 

but then, jowi seems to make friends of most ghosts, being one herself.