part 1. drifting.
solo, midas workshop ( schedule prompt, +5exp, +5 skill free-choice )
san really doesn’t understand. genuinely, the concept is lost on him. he’s eight years into debut, and he’s standing shoulder-to-shoulder with fresh-faced girls still trying to prove themselves to the world. trying to claw their way toward infamy. standing next to boys that are the same age and new enough to the scene that they aren’t shackled in place. that they’re still rattling off olympus’ name as an inspiration in the middle of interviews. and yet. they’re all crammed together in the building. sectioned off based on discipline. what they have in common? they’re all signed to midas, and the studio is paying an arm and a leg for this workshop deal.
san wants to drink himself into oblivion, sleep for three days, and pretend the world doesn’t exist. maybe if they need to replace his liver he’ll at least get a week-long break. it’d be a longer break than he’s ever had in the entirety of his career.
the room’s crowded with people hoping to snag their attention, borrow their talent. half of them probably came just to meet their idols with no real interest in their skillsets. they manage to sneak their way in no matter how many qualifications they throw up to gain entry. there will always be someone at this point. san’s only half paying attention to the introduction speech the owner of the studio is giving. he doesn’t really give a fuck. he knows his role. when it’s his turn for a demonstration he’ll drag himself up, loop his way through whatever choreography they ask from olympus’ long, long list. then he’ll have to give a workshop on creating choreography. he doesn’t want to. he’d been informed in the van on the way over, however, that he would. his manager is essentially god at this point, and how pathetic is that? he’s a grown man.
he feels helpless.
he’s making close to nothing being here. the kids from galaxy are probably making more than him. it does nothing but infuriate him despite the fact that he has racked up an impressive amount in his bank account due to tours. but it’s the principle of it. the fact that they’re so readily screwing him over. the fact that after he’s done coaching people through the steps of a dance he has to be rushed off to film a commercial, and then a performance at a university once dusk hits. he’s going to be exhausted. he’s already exhausted. it’s like a state of being at this point.
nirvana’s fucked up cousin.
he grinds his molars together as the little speech winds itself down. it’s not something olympus’ san should be doing. he should be smiling wide by now, readying his hands to clap. an excited hop to his walk. all action, excited to share his supposed skill with everyone around him. but he’s not. he’s just angry. it’s like everyone wants to steal away parts of him. borrow his talent, wear the skills he’s spent years upon years cultivating. until all that’s left is a bare-bones mannequin that will jerkily stumble through doing what it’s told. he’s close to being there.
he remembers to clap when everyone else starts up around him. plasters on a smile that’s one hundred percent fake. if you know him well enough, it’s easy to spot. but hardly anyone does. just waves hello to the portion of people that are clustered around him, trainers from the studio, another member of his own group. lets his body move mechanical when they give a demo of tell me’s dance. it’s like breathing, only even more innate at this point. it’s like he can turn his lungs off to keep himself going if he really needs to. remembers all the steps to living only after he’s a useless pile of limbs and sweat backstage.
but he’d swallowed down a couple bites of a pre-packaged meal on his ride over in the van, so he should be more than energized. or at least, san’s pretty sure that’s his managers natural state of belief. that san best runs on fumes, caffeine, and ill-suppressed anger. he’s certainly adapted into making it work. he keeps a smile pressed into place, laughs at a joke that winds it’s way from someone's mouth. takes pictures with people over a brief water break. same face, same pose, same small sphere of small talk. everything’s the same. always the same. stuck in place.
midas wants to make sure he won’t go anywhere. won’t travel his way up and out of their clutches.
jokes on them, he’s not hopeful enough to believe there will ever be a place for him outside of the company anyway. not anymore. he’ll while his time, he’ll probably stay, try to barter his way into more favorable conditions when it’s time to re-up. call himself pathetic. keep working towards the unattainable. retire unsatisfied. a practical five year plan. his mother wants him to act. he’d wanted to laugh in her face at the proposal. he’d rather re-sign another ten year promise to the devil before he ventured into that.
but who knows, she’s always had a knack for pushing him into things he doesn’t want to do.
teaching choreography takes up more concentration than shifting his way through dances and staring expectantly at the crowd like they should be able to flawlessly mimic every move. san expects too much. maybe because everyone always expects too much from him. he’s forced himself into picking up that repetition. memorizing movements fast, because they only have a week to learn it all along with transitions and lines. a nitpick-y thing, and he has to bite at his tongue when people ask for advice. he’s cruel in the studio, to his own members when they slip up.
they’re a reflection of each other, and san wants to be perfect.
he lectures, coaxes bodies into movement. tries to slow himself down, lets his group mate pick up the slack when san gives up on trying to explain a concept. too much effort, too much frustration. and they know what san’s like underneath the facade, enough to know that he’s pissed. a simmering anger that’s rubbing him raw from the inside out. that he’ll be in a foul mood for the rest of the day, the same way he is when they throw olympus into guerrilla concerts along with a handful of newly-debuted groups and nobody else.
by the time his block is finished, he’s drained.
his manager shoves a large americano into his hand as soon as they’re out of the building, and san chases it with a couple of caffeine pills he fishes out of his backpack. there’s no time to stop for a meal. he swallows down a protein bar and jerks an elbow into the side of one of his members when they accidentally shift too close into his personal space, a snarl of anger before his manager catches his eye and san mutes himself. turns himself off, lets his head thump against the window, rattles a headache into place for their next schedule.
he’s living the dream.
who wouldn’t be jealous?
+05 exp / +05 skill ( +03 dance, +02 vocal )