#r:para

[docedingrvai-blog]

So tell me, how exactly do you get that smouldering look down so well?

@jeonephram

Junseo cocks an eyebrow.  “And what smoulder is it that you’re talking about exactly?  I know I’ve never used it on you before, Eph, so did I gain a reputation somewhere in the five days I’ve been around?  As for how I’ve done it, well that’s a trade secret that I definitely won’t be spreading around,” he chuckles, looking smug at the end of his speech.

[docedingrvai-blog]

Knock Knock

@aegyon

     It had been a great night for Junseo, now that he had been getting to know some people from the clubs he tended to hang around, others who danced, other guys like him.  A few had decided to show him the town, and he’d traipsed after them, accepting the many shots poured down his throat, maybe a pill, too, he couldn’t really remember, but things weren’t more fantastical than usual, so maybe not.  One of the guys, Hyo-something, had declared they should all go back to his place and wind down with some soju before they all crashed there.

     He’d given them all his address in case the group got separated, which they had, lingering to watch girls or guys pass, distracted by something in a closed store window.  But Junseo had managed to hang on to at least two group members and they had tumbled out of the last subway to the neighborhood around two in the morning, laughing and shushing each other as they stumbled into the building once their host buzzed them in.

     For some ridiculous reason they were taking the stairs rather than an elevator and Junseo had to pause for breath, staring up at the ceiling so the room would stop spinning a bit.  Clearly the blurred hours of so many drinks had not yet worn off.  When he looked down again, the other two were gone, laughing as they climbed higher.  Junseo laughed as well and called to them to wait.  They just laughed harder and told him to hurry up.  Junseo tried to take the stairs two at a time, laughing and breathless, or laughing because he was breathless.  He heard a door to a hallway slam, and when he reached the landing it seemed to come from he yanked the door open, breath finally coming back to him.

     Not to worry, he’s sure he remembered the apartment number.  4, 4, was there something in front of it?  Definitely a zero, but, oh there it was!  Junseo grinned to himself, tripping on his feet a bit and landing against the door with a laugh, not noticing that it and the whole floor were rather quiet.  He knocked loudly and paused, then did it again, trying to quell his laughter.

[rkrxcky]

`desperate times

@doyeonrk

This had to be a joke. This had to be a cruel joke someone somewhere was pulling on him just for the comical expression on his face. 

“I missed all of these vocabulary words?”

The list stared back at him unblinking, a glaring reminder of just how much school he’d missed in favor of the MGAs, which was even in addition to the days he missed weekly for training. Even with the paid tutoring the company provided, the free tutoring Doyeon was offering, and the bits and pieces he’d picked up from Sohee and Joey along the way, he was convinced he’d never, ever, in a million years, learn the one hundred and twenty-four vocabulary words and three grammar points he’d missed, let alone the entire English language.

“This is impossible,” he finally decided in a slight whine, after several moments of trying to decipher the intermediate-level sentence structure diagrams before him. He slumped in his chair, hopelessly mussing the hair at the back of his neck, ignoring the inevitable wrinkling of his neglected school uniform, and mumbling something about how he should’ve taken Mandarin instead. 

“I’m going to fail again, I know it.”

[rkrxcky]

`against the world

it’s only when they’re picking micro-trash up off of the venue floor, folding up the tablecloth, gathering pens and photobooks, consolidating fan gifts and handing them over to the members, that it hits him. it’s all over now. two weeks of preparation, one night of performing, one promotional single, a torturous taste of the idol life that he still hasn’t been able to grab a hold of. everything he’s ever wanted was his for two weeks. two whole weeks. and now it’s back to windowless practice rooms and pining after the future he’s not even sure will be his.

the room was emptied of fans long ago and already it feels way bigger than it had before. it’s bigger and he feels smaller and he’s back to being just ricky. not ricky of team nova, not ricky of the mga’s, just ricky. he wonders how long it’ll take for obscurity to swallow him whole again, how long it’ll be before he’ll spend extended periods of time questioning how he was able to forgive seokjin so easily, as if they’re actually friends, how long it’ll be him against the world again without a team to be a part of, to support, to lead.

he doesn’t cry, because that would be dumb. he’s perfectly happy, because they’ve just wrapped up a fansigning, they’ve just performed a single last on inkigayo, they’ve just won the mga’s and landed briefly in a nationwide spotlight big enough for the four of them. he’s living his dream, even if that dream is ending now, ending in a four-walled airport conference room with hideous carpeting and black-clad staff milling about clearing it until it’s spotless.

someone ushers him out of the room behind wendy and mijoo with a hand on his back, his arms stuffed with the handful of gift bags he’d acquired throughout the day. he goes quietly, but he doesn’t want to, and as much as he enjoys slipping into one of those big vans with tinted windows meant only for idols, his heart still sinks, because he knows that this is the last time for a while, maybe forever if he’s incredibly unlucky (or incredibly inadequate), that he’ll experience life like this, just like he’s always wanted.

[rkrxcky]

`lights, camera

he feels surprisingly at ease considering the setting. one might expect someone like him, someone who second guesses everything he does because of the impossible expectations he puts on himself, someone who can’t even look in the mirror too long because he still hasn’t quite come to terms with what he sees looking back at him, to be impossible insecure, overwhelmingly anxious at the very thought of a photo shoot. but it’s like dancing, or performing for rolling video cameras. he’s been doing this since he was little. he knew how to pose and smile and quirk his eyebrow just the right way for just the right shot before he knew his times tables. he learned how to take instructions from a director or a choreographer or a photographer better than he ever learned how to interpret any math formulas thrown onto a whiteboard by a teacher. 

this is where he thrives. this is where it’s so incredibly easy to tune out everything around him, the bustling stylists, the chatter at the heavily catered table set up at the side of the room, the producers, their temporary manager, the mnet people, the nova people, his teammates, dozens of prying eyes, music blasting from some unseen speaker. it’s him and the photographer and soft light reflectors and bright flashes and the occasional dabbing of powder across his jawline or his nose. he briefly puts his other worries aside, forgets about the fact that he hates the way this blazer hangs off his frame, forgets that he’s terrified of how the public will feel about the single or his choreography or the fact that he can’t even properly unite a team to sign contracts with the company he’s so unquestionably loyal to.

now that he’s here, in the zone, in the realm that he thrives in as easily as he blinks, it’s easy to pretend he’s six again, and not weighed down by the pressure of success and the fear of failure, even if that, and everything in between, was exactly what he’d signed up for when he signed his name after that tiny black X.

[rkrxcky]

M G A s —— season 3 episode 9 : THE FINALE        ✯NOVA’s #teamricky

He’d never felt nervous in front of cameras. He wasn’t nervous because of the cameras. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous. It was just like reading a script, filming a scene. Only, instead of playing a part, he wasn’t playing anything, he was just being himself, on stage, in front of millions of people. That didn’t make him nervous either. Was nervous even the right word for the way his heart pounding in his chest seemed to drown out all sounds around him? Maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t nerves at all. Maybe it was the unavoidable thought that in a few minutes, he’d be saying goodbye to his team as he’d ever known it forever. It’d only be a few weeks, but it felt like they’d been together for a lifetime. Or the fact that in those same few minutes, they’d found out whether or not they’d won the biggest prize in their lifetime.

Whatever it was, nerves, sadness, fear, excitement, anticipation, he was glad to have his teammates there with him. It was a strange feeling, as if they were standing up on a music show waiting to hear who had the chart-topping single this week, even though such scenes were still far out of reach for him and his peers.

It was also some sort of relief to go first, to get it over with, to not have to worry about comparing their heartfelt letter to whoever’s came before theirs.

They handed him a handheld mic, told him it was his turn, told him he didn’t have to worry about finding any taped X on stage as long as he stayed center and slightly downstage relative to his team. The pressure of being first, of being in first, was impossible to ignore, and it made the feeling of thousands upon millions of eyes on him, even if some of those eyes were staring at him through a camera lens, that much stronger.

They announced him, his team, and he stepped forward slightly, as he’d been instructed, making sure to clear his throat while the mic was away from his face. He heard his teammates timidly recite the chant Wendy had invented behind him, and it was only when he smiled shyly himself in response that he realized he could already feel a lump forming in the back of his throat.

“Ah,” he started, unfolding the typed-out network-approved version of their letter, printed on cardstock and stamped with the MNET and MGAs logos on the side of it the audience could see, “One hundred fifty words isn’t a lot. But...we did our best. Please take care of us.”

He took another inaudible deep breath to properly steady his voice, perfectly aware of all the eyes on him and, surprisingly, how much he didn’t mind the feeling.

“We want to thank everyone who has helped us get this far and discover our true potential as a team…”

By now he’d practically had the letter memorized, but not verbatim, to avoid it sounding too rehearsed lest it should come out sounding ingenuine. But it was enough that he had a chance every now and then to look up at the camera pointed at him, the one they’d been directed to read to.

“...Thank you to Nova and Hyun Bin sajangnim for giving us a space to practice and with it, a chance at showing our best selves on stage...”

For him these words resonated more than just a few weeks of rehearsing with a team and a camera hanging around every hour they did. It was, between the lines, a thank you to his CEO for renewing his contract, for giving him that space to practice nearly 24 hours a day, for giving him a chance to become, eventually, what he’d always wanted to be.

“...Thank you to the CEOs and MNET for giving us this opportunity to achieve our dreams...”

Because this was not the first time he’d poured his heart out on this stage for these people, and because, hopefully, it would not be their last.

“...Thank you to our friends and families--”

His voice caught somewhere in his throat, on some foreign body of emotion he hadn’t even realized was forming until it was too late. He hadn’t seen or even really spoken to his family since February, since his week of paid vacation, a gift for renewing his contract. And before that, how long had it been since he’d seen them? Months? A year? It’d felt like an eternity, just like it did now, even though he knew, as it had been announced to him on his birthday, that his mother was cancer free and recovering and healthy. He could only hope they were watching the MGAs, to catch the rare glimpse of him on smaller television screens, that he was making them proud even though he rarely had the time to call, even though he spent so much time away from home and away from them to achieve his own dreams. He could only hope that they knew half the reason he did this was so that he could pay them back for getting him this far.

He tried to blink back, then will back, the water forming in his eyes, embarrassed that he would do something so silly as cry on national television over something as simple as a letter. He felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder, knew immediately that it was Seokjin’s, and was reminded that he wasn’t alone in this, in missing the loved ones he never saw anymore, in questioning whether or not this pursuit of his dreams was condemningly selfish. It made resuming the speech that much easier.

“Thank you to our friends and families for always supporting us, no matter how crazy those dreams are…”

A bashful chuckle from himself, prompted by the knowing one that came from behind him.

“...Thank you to our former teammates and to each other for never giving up on ourselves, and to our coach--”

Another pause, because as much as he’d insisted that it was too self-serving for him to read a thank you to himself on stage in front of everyone, it seemed Wendy and the rest of the team had managed to slip it in anyway. It was another reminder that soon they’d likely split up, would never again work together in a similar context. And another reminder of how many times they’d insisted he was a good coach in spite of his own sure doubts, how many times they’d thanked him for getting them this far every week in spite of the fact that he was sure it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with their own talents.

“...And to our coach, for never giving up on us…”

His hands were full and he didn’t want to accidentally smudge meticulously painted-on makeup, which meant he couldn’t do anything about the single tear that escaped, in spite of his best efforts, his right eye on his next blink. He sniffed quietly, slowly, gradually regaining his composure as he continued.

“... And no matter what the results are tonight,” whether they would work together over more grueling, exciting, terrifying weeks, or whether they’d be compelled to say goodbye to each other, to the team, forever, whether his teammates would receive contracts to their dream companies or whether they would go home empty-handed, as if their hard work had been for nothing, “thank you to the fans and the viewers and anyone else who rooted for us along the way…”

He looked up to the camera permanently, clutching the cardstock closed in his hand, because, if anything, he had these last few lines memorized by heart.

“...Thank you to everyone who helped us stand on stage as Team Nova. Thank you MGAs.”

[rkrxcky]

M G A s —— season 3 episode 8 : THE DEBUT SINGLE         ✯NOVA’s #teamricky | song [ 2:08 - 3:36  ]

The instructions they’d been given had been very clear, very simple, to pick three contestants from other teams that they’d want on their own. By then it was also very clear what the producers had in store for them for the next episode. Yet, in the midst of seeing his team’s name in first place again and being so incredibly grateful that they wouldn’t be losing another member this time around, he’d very nearly forgotten he’d picked anyone’s names out at all. It’s when Seokjin’s name rings out between others’ that he does remember, and he feels his heart stop briefly, because even though he had no control over it, still doesn’t, he somehow feels at fault for losing Soyou, another valuable member of the team, one whose maternal presence has kept them glued together through the rougher periods of the competition, to a competitor whose presence in the competition he’d been determinedly attempting to ignore.

Nobody would be surprised that he was the type to hold a grudge; at least, no one close enough to see the side of him that was crippled by the overlapping fears of failure and inadequacy, and abandonment. The fear of failure and inadequacy Seokjin had reminded him of often, just by existing, back when they used to train side by side. Because he’d gotten in on sheer luck and likeability and handsomeness, as if it was nothing, and Ricky’s own insecurities were a constant reminder that he had to work until he literally dropped to see any kind of recognition, and not necessarily of the positive variety. And just as they’d begun to grow close, as Ricky’s contract was renewed along with his confidence in his place at Nova Entertainment, Seokjin confirmed his second worst fear: abandonment. He up and left without a warning or a goodbye, just like Baekho, just like Sunny, just like Jeongguk and Jaebum and everyone else who’d forgotten him in their own quests to live different lives.

And now he was back, bringing to the forefront of Ricky’s mind the fact that all of these people had come and gone, had left him behind, a fact that Seokjin had now become the physical manifestation of. Sure, he’d been the one to come back, but that only seemed to make the fact that he’d left in the first place that more real.

And now he was on Ricky’s team and Ricky had no one to blame but himself. He should’ve known they wouldn’t have a say past their three picks, that they wouldn’t get more than one. Whatever assumptions he’d made to make himself feel better about scribbling down Seokjin’s name on that card in the neatest handwriting he could muster (though if one looked closely, Seokjin’s name was probably the messiest of the three, hastily written down as if he might’ve change his mind should he have hesitated any longer), none of them mattered now. He thought back to the advice of the supervising trainer he’d gone to for help, the one who’d reminded him dancing was easier to teach than any natural vocal talent, and that, in an idol group, there would always be someone who had to stand in the back. Do you want that to be you? It was advice that’d kept Ricky awake and unfocused on any dance routines for hours, because it was a truth he hadn’t necessarily been entirely prepared for, in spite of the fact that it was one he’d been dreading since he set foot on his own MGAs stage two years ago.

He knew Seokjin was talented, in spite of the finesse he lacked in his dance movements. He knew he was charismatic, had the looks of an idol without even having to try. And he knew, based on whatever Seokjin himself had scribbled onto his own official application, that he wanted to be in Nova. That had ultimately been the deciding factor for many of Ricky’s decisions regarding the competition: how much the people he picked wanted to be here. Not here, in the MNET studio singing for their lives, but here, on team Nova, and, perhaps, under the watchful eye and guiding hand of Hyun Bin himself. It was a sense of loyalty he subconsciously searched for in the contestants, perhaps because his fear of abandonment still thrived. But it could only be described as some kind of strange irony that he’d picked Seokjin as one of his three for this very reason. How loyal could he be if he’d already revealed himself a quitter in the first place?

It didn’t matter now that they were face to face in the designated practice room of the Nova building meant for his team. Because the damage had been done, and they had a debut song to pick. Things were a little more difficult now, and not just because of the tangible tension filling the air of the small practice room. Logistically, things had been admittedly easier when the team had only consisted of female contestants. And even before that, his carefully selected team of multi-talented dancers had never posed a problem when it came to picking dance-heavy songs. But he knew Seokjin’s skill levels, even if he had improved, and he was certainly no MYNAME or LC9.

They pored over YouTube videos and internet lists for hours trying to agree on a song. Ricky had been on edge since they’d announced the new teams and Wendy, after settling into the fact that Soyou was gone to make room for Seokjin, was no kinder to the new member than Ricky had ever been. Their words around the room were shorter, their collective patience was noticeably thinner, and Ricky was beginning to feel his lack of sleep (and his lack of a decent meal since yesterday) heavier than he had in a while. He had to excuse himself, because the anger he still felt with Seokjin combined with Wendy’s own misplaced hostility was nearly suffocating.

Seokjin found him at the end of the hallway, where the nearest vending machine hummed away in bright fluorescent colors, and it took a quiet, fairly unnoteworthy confrontation in the hallway Seokjin wasn’t technically even supposed to be wandering for the pair of them to come to terms that were less crippling for the team. It was an apology, and a genuine one, but it would take Ricky more than a few minutes listening to Seokjin grovel to get over the initial feelings of abandonment that had settled into his very core. But by the end of their silent walk back to the practice room together, he wordlessly offered the elder male the energy drink he’d pulled from the machine, a sign that perhaps things would, eventually, not be all bad between the two of them.

By then the team had settled on a song, one that was heavy in vocals and boasted very little choreography, leaving plenty of time to show off the team’s natural talents in singing and in charismatic communication with the audience and the camera. Over the next few days, Ricky helped them perfect the formation changes, divided lines as strategically as he knew how without being very confident in his own vocal abilities or knowledge of vocal abilities period, and reminded them to channel the realest emotions they could muster into the highly staged performance. However, he still radiated a subdued aura compared to the one he’d started out the competition with, and it wasn’t until later, when everyone had gone home for the night and he’d stayed behind to catch up on vocal practice of his own, flipped through backed up Snapchats from Sohee, that his spirits started to lift again.

It didn’t mean that he was any less nervous on the day of the performance, however. Aesthetically, the team looked amazing, as if they were ready to debut as a group tomorrow. But he still found himself second guessing every choice he’d made about the stage, crushed under pressure from all directions, including the kind that came from ranking first yet again after the upset that was the double elimination. Should he have pushed for a different song? Something more upbeat and cute to avoid the redundancy of doing another ballad-like song? Something more suited for the girls’ voices? Were the formations dynamic enough? Would they be distracting? What if someone messed them up? Or tripped? What if someone forgot a line or flubbed a note? What if he didn’t give everyone the right parts? Should he have let Wendy arrange a guitar-only version of the song like she’d suggested? Why was MNET still letting him do this??

His thoughts were noise in the caverns of his mind as he took his own spot in the wings, blending with the noise of an excited audience and busy staff. Someone strolled by and dabbed powder on his brow where he’d begun to sweat it off under lights and nerves, but he hardly noticed. Then the lights dimmed as someone else shoved a camera in his face, blue gels illuminating the stage alongside the three soft white spotlights that passed upstage and eventually settled on Mijoo, Seokjin, and Wendy.

All he could now was watch, wait, and hope that, once again, all their hard work had paid off for the better.

[rkrxcky]

` 15

M G A s — season 3 : COACH AUDITIONS                              song [ 1:20 - 2:15 ]

He’s seen thirteen people go before him. Most of them are names and faces he recognizes from his seasoned few years in the industry; some of them are friends, perhaps even akin to family in a few cases. But none of that makes the situation any less intimidating. Because being in the same room as Min and Hyuna and Taemin doesn’t do anything for his nerves when they’re all staring down the five most powerful people in the music industry.

It doesn’t help that he knows how talented everyone in the room is, that he knows from countless hours of monitoring and social media stalking and overlapping performance schedules. He knows because he competed against some of these trainees on the MGAs, which makes it some strange twist of fate that they’re all back here again, competing for something they aren’t even sure of. But it doesn’t matter that he has no idea what comes next if he does make it through, he still wants it so badly, still craves the spotlight that’s evaded him for so long.

His intimidation is only justified with every face that stands on a tape X and sings or raps or dances their heart out. He probably can’t hold a candle to Taemin or Bobby or Jieun, who could probably debut tomorrow and sweep the charts all on their own, and as the list dwindles down to his turn, he starts to think they all could, everyone he’s auditioning alongside. He’d like to think he’s at the same level, otherwise he wouldn’t be here, but looking back on his own rehearsals for today while flattening sweaty palms again the sides of his jeans has him doubting everything. He can’t explain why he’s so nervous, when his place at Nova is secured for two more years, when he has virtually nothing to lose. But he knows it’s terrifying to think he’s going to get up there and sing in front of fourteen other trainees who are so incredibly talented, who could be his competition on the charts one day, in addition to the Big Five CEOs, when just a few weeks ago he wasn’t so sure he was good enough to get up and sing in front of anyone ever.

Even as he moves to his spot on the piano bench and adjusts his button-up shirt so it doesn’t tug so eagerly at his windpipe, he’s not sure he’s good enough to get up and sing in front of anyone, but he’s here now, and he has to. Hyun Bin’s sitting right there watching his every move and he has to do his part to make him proud, to somehow prove to him that he made the right choice by picking Ricky and not one of the other extremely talented trainees in the room.

He takes a deep breath, and then another, waiting for what feels like an eternity but what is really only a few short moments for his hands to stop shaking. And then he starts his song, playing as softly as he can so as not to drown out his own voice, which is supposed to be the main focus of his short performance. And just as quickly as they began, his short 45 seconds are over, and as the last piano note fades into silence and he returns to his spot among the other auditioning trainees, his hands began to shake a little again. He feels himself turning a little red, subtly clenches his hands at his sides, and pointedly avoids eye contact with his CEO altogether.

But by the time they’re dismissed, sweaty palms have actually stopped shaking. Much to his surprise.