summary: idol!au. zen and mc are on we got married, a reality tv show where idols must act like a married couple for the cameras. but off-camera, both of them realize that maybe not everything is for show.
notes: shoutout to the goat @jaeheeism bc i couldn't think of a better name for zen's group lol -- the vague mention of MY5TIC is inspired by her own mysme idol au, project MYSTIC!
word count: 1364
"And cut!"
The director's command is absolute. The crew starts bustling behind her, everyone cheering for a recording session well done.
MC and Zen -- a fellow idol, and who she's in tandem with during this last ditch effort at publicity via reality TV -- are in each other's arms, incidentally attempting to wash laundry together by stomping on it whilst in a large bucket, suds reaching up to their calves. A classic domestic trope enjoyed by millions, apparently.
The space itself is incredibly claustrophobic -- a small bathroom in a flat the producers rented out to recreate a real 'married couple' experience -- which allows MC's frame to be practically enveloped in Zen's.
His hands cage her in as he leans on the wall behind her, trying to balance himself. Before the cameras went off, the both of them were laughing excitably, MC's arms around Zen's neck, trying to create some form of sugar-coated, surface-level romance to make whoever was watching feel good (or not).
Now the laughter has died, but she's still in his arms, unsure of what to do next. Zen is barely a breath away from her, crimson eyes blinking at her teasingly. He smells good -- and maybe it's the detergent and clean laundry beneath their feet, or maybe it's his cologne. You couldn't even pin down the scent, not exactly. But it's not like she cares... does she?
"Hi," he says, awkwardly chuckling.
"Hi," she reciprocates, tongue in cheek.
"You have something," Zen mentions, thumb swathing over a spot under her eye. Some suds caught on her face. She thanks him under her breath, but his fingers linger.
Maybe it's because the both of them have been filming for a month now, pretending to be a couple for most hours of the day, but something's... changed between the two of them. They'd both been aware of each other years before this -- they're colleagues in the same industry, after all. And while Zen's group MY5TIC topped the charts and outsold venues, MC's group was a little less successful. Being paired up with a star like this not only boosted their records, but inevitably would put her in a tight spot with their fans, too.
So MC knew the risks before agreeing to this gig from her managers. She anticipated the vitriol, the curiosity that would lead to more numbers and engagement on their songs. That perhaps she could prove to these new onlookers that she -- and her group -- is worth staying around for.
But what she didn't anticipate was this. Of being enraptured by Zen's irresistible charm, just like his fans are. Of being endeared by his kindness and confidence, on camera and off camera. And of how much he cares about her, even if it's mostly for show.
She tells herself this is all a lie. That it's for the sake of the show. But now, when them being inches away from each other serves no purpose, yet he still lingers, a part of her thinks otherwise.
"Alright, thanks, you two," a crewmember suddenly says, bursting their bubble. "Good job! Let's take a break?"
"Oh, right," MC says, deliberately tucking herself out of Zen's arm. Zen follows suit, still trying to balance himself out of the bucket. Their clothes are all damp from the water that'd just been sloshed around, so she squeezes out her shirt a little, their feet pattering on the bathroom tile as they wash off the remaining bubbles on their legs with a handheld bidet.
As the water gushes, rinsing them off, Zen looks at her for a moment, his expression almost thoughtful. If MC could let herself daydream, perhaps it resembles tenderness.
"Are you okay?" he asks. And if there's anything she's learned about him this past month of filming, she knows he's being genuine.
"Perfectly fine," MC follows up, unable to look him in the eye. "Just tired. What a workout, huh?"
Zen hums. He's wearing a black shirt -- damp, like the rest of his clothing, the fabric around his stomach sticking to his skin -- and joggers hitched up to his knees. MC's outfit is somewhat similar -- an oversized tee she threw on and some shorts. Presentable enough for the camera, and maybe for thousands to see.
She's already thinking of the comments. Of how much she pales in comparison to this guy in front of her that's so drop-dead gorgeous she should be ashamed to even be in his presence -- no. No, let's not think about that. That's not good.
When MC renders herself clean enough to step out, Zen suddenly speaks. "Careful, babe. You'll slip."
She flinches at the nickname. "We're not filming, you know. You don't need to call me that."
He pulls away from the handheld bidet's trigger, straightening himself. "I know. I just like calling you that." A pause.
"I'm not..." MC struggles with her words for a bit, barely a foot out of the bathroom. She looks out for a moment, checking to see if any of the crew are listening in. They're huddled in the living room, talking and laughing amongst themselves.
"I'm not uncomfortable," she eventually says, voice still low, just in case. "It's..." She swallows.
"I like it, actually." MC doesn't know what the hell she's saying, but it leaves her mouth anyway. And the confession makes Zen grin wider than anything she's ever seen, as if a beast that's been provoked.
"You do?"
MC sighs. "But you shouldn't say it in front of anyone. They'll think that..."
"Think what?" He's taken a step forward now, and it's like they're back standing on that tub full of their clothes all over again. Close proximity, his breath filling her lungs. Dangerous, but unintentionally so.
"Think that I'm serious? That I like you, for real?" Zen crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame now. She only realizes she's backed away when he does so.
"Yes. I don't know if this is you method acting or whatever, but I just --" MC starts again, but is unsure of what she wants to convey next.
She eventually settles on, "I don't like when things teeter onto real life. Because it makes me think this is real."
Zen's cocky grin never leaves him, so much that it pisses MC off. How can he still look so perfect, even when he annoys her?
"D'you know..." he trails off, looking down at their feet in that casual, Zen-like way he always does. MC can catch his silver eyelashes, pale, just like the rest of his hair.
"What if I say that, maybe for me, it does feel real?" His voice is low, almost as if he, too, is trying to keep this a secret. It shocks her, nails her in her place, at least for a moment. Her heart is in her throat. What can she even say to that?
A beat passes before Zen finally looks up to meet her eye, smiling, casually. As if everything is so easy. "But I guess that's kind of an impossible thing to do anything with, huh?"
"Zen," MC breathes, "I--"
"You two!" A crewmate calls. Zen's manager. "Get over here before the sandwiches finish themselves!"
MC is still in a daze. She fights to get out another word, rearranging her current thoughts into something else, something more coherent, but Zen speaks first.
"Hell yeah. Carbs!"
He takes a step forward, walking past her. But not before he places a hand on her arm, careful, giving her a knowing look. As if to say I know, more than anyone, how you feel about this. About us. And it's okay.
MC lets him go. Her fists clench, everything inside bursting with sirens and chaos. Zen's confession feels like a fresh wound, of things uncertain and painful, yet filled with the kind of softness and care that she hasn't felt in what feels like forever.
But still impossible. Still an ache that can't subside.
She looks back at him, watching him taking a seat amongst their small team for today (you can only fit so many people in a flat) as he takes a sandwich, thanking everyone for their hard work.
No, it won't. MC sighs, finally walking into the living room. It's absolutely not going to be okay.
my friend ophelia / @crybabysunflower gave me a fic req for this one shot about zen being casted as neil in a dead poets society play. this is. incredibly niche and probably only for a very specific audience, but i love mysme, i love zensung, and dps is one of my favorite films of all time. so i'm posting it here for said specific audience. enjoy!
small note: this one shot references another fic of mine (also written from ophelia's idea, tonight i promise you -- long story short, it's a yoosung character study slash angst fic where yoosung attempts suicide. he navigates his grief and how to pick himself back up from his attempt from the support of the RFA. i have not gotten around to continuing it because me? consistency? #LOL but one day for sure)
ao3 link to this fic
ao3 link to tonight, i promise you
CW: mentions of suicide
word count: 3,800
Zen has always accepted a multitude of roles. The more seasoned he becomes in his career, the more selective he is. Rather than blind acceptance, he's started to pick roles that would go beyond what he’s typically used to playing. Roles that would challenge him. Roles that he felt he could confidently bring to life from the pages of a well-bound script.
When he heard Dead Poets Society was getting a Korean stage adaptation, he immediately rushed to audition as Todd. Todd seemed to relate to his desire of playing a variety of characters, and though Todd’s meekness contrasted his own natural elusiveness to the spotlight, he wanted to try his hand at playing someone like him. Someone that reminded him a bit of Yoosung, at least on-script.
So when Zen receives the final cast list on his phone, alerting him of having been casted with the email attachment displayed in bold, his heart fills with joy. It only immediately drops when he sees who he’s casted as.
Not Todd Anderson, the boy with a beaming heart, the boy who struggled bursting himself free from a cage that he locked himself in. Timid, awkward. A true challenge.
But Neil Perry. The golden boy. The tragedy.
Zen looks at the cast list again, reads his name next to the character’s several times. He’s unsure of what to think, or how to even feel. He knows the story, the script. And he knows a character like Neil Perry – a bold, courageous student with dreams to be an actor – seemed right up his alley. But in fact, it’s so right up his alley that the idea of playing a character nearly identical to him scares him. Especially with Neil’s fate. Especially after…
He decides to call his manager, putting a temporary pause to his thoughts. Yoosung is still at the clinic, and will probably be home in the next hour. So their apartment is eerily quiet as he hears the faint ring on his phone, waiting for his manager to pick up.
“Zen! Assume you got the cast list already? Congrats–”
“I can’t do it,” Zen cut in, voice rising. “I auditioned for Todd, not Neil.”
“But isn’t Neil a much better role for you? He’s one of the more important characters in the play. The one who haunts the narrative. Don’t you usually love roles like that?”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Yes and no. I was specifically aiming for Todd because – well – I thought he could be a challenge. But Neil is…” A heavy pause. Zen wasn’t sure how to explain this to his manager without saying more than he’s supposed to. How he’s going to word this in a way that makes sense.
“I just can’t,” Zen finally ends up saying. “It’s just a personal preference. Can’t we talk about this with the director again?”
“I don’t know why you’re so worked up over this,” his manager sighs. “This is the first time I’m seeing you worked up over getting casted as essentially the main character. And don’t tell me you don’t think you’re capable of a character like Neil.”
“But–”
“You played a genius detective with eyebags bigger than craters. You played a doctor in fishnets. And now you’re telling me you can’t play a student who wants to be an actor?” His manager, bless his heart, really tries his best. “Doesn’t that drive you all the way home? Come on, Zen. Think about how important this is.”
“I am. But I’m asking you to consider how comfortable I feel playing a character I don’t think I’m mentally prepared for.”
“Well, prepare for it. You’ve got two months in rehearsals. I think that’s more than enough time. Listen.” His manager stops for a moment, draws a breath. “I know the subject matter of the play is something difficult for you to tackle. But you’re Zen. Think of it as coming to terms with something you’ve struggled to accept – some kind of way for you to look at things differently.”
Zen stares up at his ceiling, leaning against his kitchen’s counter. He knows what his manager is trying to say – but it’s easier said than done. He’s tried before, and failed, to reconcile with his past. With what happened to Yoosung. What is playing a deeply personal role going to do but rub more salt in the wound?
But… he’s right. Feelings aside, this play would be one of his very few non-singing roles. This opportunity is a learning experience, a way to further his craft and his name in the starlight. Zen could be professional, couldn’t he? He’s an actor, for God’s sake. He’s only playing a character.
What would Yoosung think?
“I’ll call you back,” Zen finally says, searching his pockets for his cigarettes. “I need to think about it.”
“Well you better think relatively quickly. The director will be asking for us as soon as tomorrow.”
“Aight, aight, got it. Thanks.” He fists his cigarette box and takes one out, now eyeballing his lighter. Yoosung hated the smell of nicotine in the apartment, so he often went upstairs to smoke once Yoosung had moved in.
Finally, he finds his lighter and ascends to the rooftop. It’s cool out now, with the early freckles of winter already settling into Seoul. He lights the cigarette and lets his body warm itself to the smoke.
Yoosung didn’t die, he reminds himself. I didn’t die. I ran away. I took my chances. I lived. Why the hell should I play a character that didn’t get to do any of those things?
A part of him imagines Yoosung, once he gets home, and what he would say if he tells him all of this. Yoosung, ever since he graduated, is more tender and quiet. He’s more careful than he used to be when they met – though he’s always known how to comfort others, he carries himself in a way that feels lived-in now, more loved. It makes Zen pale in comparison.
He imagines Yoosung’s scarred hands, stitched up from animals he’s cared for in the past (and from himself, too). He pictures the way those hands would cup his face, running his thumbs against his skin.
“Maybe that’s why you should play him, Zenny,” he could hear Yoosung say, echoing warmly in the confines of his chest. “Because you understand him so well. Because you’ve been him. Because maybe I’ve been him, too.”
Zen, not even finished with his cigarette, tosses it on the ground. He stomps on the remaining ashes to put out the flame. He exhales, smoke gushing out from his teeth, and takes out his phone. If he misses his boyfriend so much, he might as well text him to tell him what happened.
His first rehearsal is in a black box theatre – raw, only the bare skeleton of a set, with harsh lighting. He steps in to see what would be Neil and Todd’s bedroom. There are two single beds with shelled books arranged messily on a desk.
After reading the script twice over on the way here, he could feel his lungs constrict themselves further and further. Now, in this set, he is 15 years old again. He’s sitting on the foot of his bed, head hung low, as his father tells him that pursuing music is pointless. That going into acting did the opposite of promising stability. That being in theatre is no profession for well bred men. That beauty is a vanity and ambition is a sin.
He remembers the way he clenched his jaw, tightened his fists, taking the weight of his father’s words and thrashing it on the floor. He remembers the way he would stare at the mirror in his room, deep red eyes staring back at him, making a promise to live his life no matter the cost.
Neil would never grow old enough to prove his own father wrong.
But Zen had.
Zen eventually gets to meet the other cast members – the Dead Poets, the brazen mentor that would change the course of their lives forever. Neil’s parents. He’s worked with who would be his show-father in the past, and the familiarity comforts him. Mr. Han – Eungil Han, not Jumin Han – is an older stage veteran, with silver in his hair and tenderness in his eyes, who’s played more roles than Zen count on both his fingers and toes. For someone cast as a tyrant father, Eungil always seems to have a gentleness to him, a perpetual humbleness that follows him wherever he goes.
During the first reading, Zen and Mr. Han approach the father-son scene with a tenseness that immediately shakes Zen’s nerves. He adapts himself over the table to become one with Neil – to the point where his feelings become more brutal and raw with every word that leaps off his mouth.
“We are trying very hard,” Mr. Han – as Thomas Perry – carefully says. His words seethe with carefully constrained anger, pacing around the room, script still in his hand. Zen sits with a frightening stillness as his show-mother furrows her eyebrows in concern. “I don’t understand why it is that you insist on defying us.”
Zen stares off into the distance, numbing himself. He supposes this would be how Neil feels, too.
“Whatever the reason,” he continues, more composed, “We’re not gonna let you ruin your life.”
Zen braces for the words to come next – which he knows from the script. His jaw clenches when his show-father says “Tomorrow I’ll be withdrawing you from Welton, and enrolling you right into military school” and his emotions bubble into blind rage.
“You’re going to Harvard,” he says, with the kind of finality that feels almost identical to Zen’s own father, all those years ago. “And you’re going to be a doctor.”
Zen, as Neil, flickers his eyes in disbelief, in anger, in rebellion. But he suppresses the last thing – he chooses to be more subdued, more helpless, to represent Neil’s confusion.
“But that’s ten more years!” Zen exclaims, in confusion. “Father, that’s a lifetime–”
“Oh, stop it!” Mr. Han cuts him, his words set like a blade against Zen’s skin. “Don’t be so dramatic. You make it sound like a prison term.”
Zen leaps from his seat, his heart in his throat. But it is, he wants to improv, but couldn’t. Instead he moves to the side of what would be the stage, to show the audience his anguish.
“You don’t understand, Neil!” The scene begins to rise, to take intensity. This is one of Zen’s favorite parts of rehearsal – but why does this hurt him so much?
“You have opportunities that I have never even dreamt of,” his father says, each word more painful than the last. The guilt sizzles into his bones, the anger of feeling guilty follows. “And I am not going to let you waste–”
“But I’ve gotta tell you what I feel,” Zen explodes, exasperated, heart searing in his throat. He paces back to Mr. Han, moving his hands to pound against his chest to represent what his heart wants, not his mind. To confound against logic, against stability and survival – but for passion, for love, for ambition.
His show-mother opens her mouth to speak, to get in a few words, but unlike the script, she is cut short. Zen supposes it’s the pain of being a mother – of watching everything unfold but feeling like you are unable to take a side. He wonders if his mother ever felt that way with him – but realizes she probably didn’t.
“Then tell me what you feel, Neil,” Mr. Han eventually interjects. The script is wrapped in his hand, almost a weapon.
Tell me what you feel.
Zen looks at Mr. Han. All he sees is his father. Stonewalled anger, apathy, a lack of understanding. A lack of connection. He had less wrinkles back then, and the silver did not quite reach his widow’s peak. He’d always worn suits, and Zen seldom saw him without one.
His father is a caricature in his mind, but he lingers. Tell me what you feel. The words are not comforting, they’re taunting. They’re daring him to come out with the truth if he were bold enough to say it aloud. If he dared to challenge them.
What is it?
Zen’s anger overtakes his father’s. It surges through his bones, a relentlessness that shakes his very being. The silence is deadly. Zen, even at 15, knew how to clench his fists.
I want to live. I want to be free. I know what my dream is. I was born to do it.
“Is it more of this– this acting business?” His father, Mr. Han, whoever, laughs. Mocking Neil. Mocking Zen.
“Because you’re going to forget that.”
“I’m not,” Zen says, under his breath. His eyes are wild, like an animal’s. A ghost seems to come alive inside of him as the words leave his mouth.
“What?” His show-father whispers, eyes piercing into him, beckoning him to come out and fight. Zen has to suppress the urge to speak back, to grow louder, to become a beast that ravages. Because that’s not Neil.
Neil and Zen would’ve both died to pursue their dreams. The only difference is that Neil did.
He imagines what he would do if he had not run away. How he would have reacted. His mind stills, and he watches the ghost go back and sit. He follows – he is faint, like all life drains itself from his skin.
“Nothing,” Zen – or Neil – eventually breathes. His eyes are wide, a state of shock. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing,” Mr. Han echoes, unsure of himself. Eungil encapsulates the character perfectly. He is stern, but he struggles at the edges of his being. He watches him for a few more moments as Zen assumes nothingness, like he’s floating. “Alright, then. Let’s go to bed.”
There’s a brief pause. “Then I exit the stage,” Eungil adds, out of character, looking back at the script. It partially brings Zen back to earth, back to the present. He feels less dizzy, less on the verge of tears.
He looks out to what would be the audience, his expression unreadable. His show-mother moves to lean over him, a hand outreached to try and console him. But she can’t. Zen stares upwards, as if watching life pass by him in mere seconds. The idea of even trying to capture this sort of reprieve makes him want to vomit.
“I was good,” he smiles, defeated. An ache swells in his chest as he watches his 15 year old self play guitar in public for the first time, singing for the onlookers, the cheers still ringing in his ears. “I was really good.”
A few rehearsals swim past, and eventually, it gets easier for Zen to settle into the role. He creates a personhood with Neil, a version of himself that succumbed to weakness. A raw, cracked version of himself that he swore to never reveal to anyone. Zen acts with ferocity, bringing a more tough side to the character than expected.
So when the curtains fall, and Neil meets his bitter end, his choice is emphasized. Neil did not give up. He made a statement.
This is how Neil felt. This is what he wants to express to the world, to his friends, his parents.
He’s practicing lines with Eungil, Neil’s lines almost plagiarized from Zen’s ribs. “I’m gonna act! I’m gonna be an actor, for Chrissakes – an actor.” The line still hits him like a bullet. It’s hard not to linger on a memory of when he said those exact words and meant it with his entire soul.
He remembers his parents’ reaction afterwards. The sharp slap on his face, the mark it left behind. Then the blur of what happened afterwards – how he found himself with a duffel bag on the streets with nothing but determination and fear and the resolve that he had to do this.
Zen doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Eungil places a hand on his shoulder. He offers a light pink thermos that’s always placed near him – “Camomile tea,” Eungil says, popping it open. “It’s good for your throat.” Zen silently accepts it and takes a sip, letting the warmth soothe his chest.
Eungil watches him for a moment, wordlessly. Zen wonders if Eungil ever felt like this when playing a role in the past. He must have, or else he wouldn’t have been an actor.
“Sorry,” Zen eventually chuckles, dryly. “Neil’s kind of hard for me to crack into. He’s… uh, well, personal. You can understand, right?”
Eungil’s smile brightens with the folds in his wrinkles. He leans back on his chair, nodding. “Of course. Of course I do. I’m sure almost everyone here can relate to Neil, in some way.”
“His story–” He’s unsure as to why he’s even saying this aloud, to a colleague, to someone who has no business knowing “ – it’s just. It’s just really personal. And it’s shitty that I can’t put my feelings aside while playing him, y’know?”
Eungil pauses, rubbing his chin. Zen takes another sip of the tea, blowing on it before it burns his tongue. They only had a handful of rehearsals left before opening night – he needed to find a way to make this work. But he just didn’t know how.
“Don’t break for him,” Eungil eventually says, gesturing at the script. “Break through him. If he represents you, or what it means to be an actor, show the world your ambition through Neil. Use him as a tool to bring your desire to life, not as a catalyst to show what you couldn’t have done.”
During one of the first dress rehearsals, Yoosung found the time to start following along whenever he was allowed to. Zen often protests against it – he’s so busy already, having his own clinic and managing it – but Yoosung always insists.
“I love watching you,” Yoosung would say, tucking his arm underneath Zen’s. “I get boyfriend privileges of seeing you rehearse before opening night, don’t I?”
He does.
Yoosung stays for rehearsals two to three times a week. He buys lunch for the cast, makes a special bento for Zen, and often slips in between appointments at the clinic just to catch a quick glimpse of him.
He always watches him wordlessly, in awe. But he never says anything afterwards – no compliments, no notes on his performance, like he usually does. Instead, Yoosung holds Zen’s hand a little tighter after every rehearsal, squeezing his fingers. As if he knows that there are parts of Zen being torn apart and stitched anew with every time he practices his lines, with every time he gives Neil his bittersweet end.
Even at home, Zen practices his monologues to himself. He catches Yoosung watching him still, silently, assuredly. Their eyes meet for a moment – Zen smiles, half-assed, awkwardly. He’s gotten used to being this way around Yoosung.
Yoosung leans over and kisses Zen’s forehead – gentle, butterfly-soft.
“I’m so proud of you,” Yoosung breathes, leaning his chin against Zen’s temples. “You really were born to be an actor.”
“I am?” Zen smirks, pulling Yoosung closer by his waist. He’s wearing one of Zen’s old hoodies, fresh out of the shower. He smells like baby powder and shampoo. “What else?”
Yoosung pulls away, squinting at him. “Are you fishing for compliments right now?”
“Of course.”
“Hmph.” Yoosung moves back in, hugging him so that Zen’s senses are filled with his boyfriend’s scent. It’s an odd comfort, but one that is and always will be undoubtedly his.
“I’m glad you became one,” Yoosung adds, quietly. “An actor. I couldn’t have pictured you doing anything otherwise.”
A beat passes between the two of them. Zen’s heart aches, yet it doesn’t sting. He holds Yoosung closer, feeling his heartbeat thump against his ears.
“Me too.”
Opening night is powdered in snowfall.
December frost spins and trickles all over the city, snowflakes and ice clinging to sidewalks and window panes. It creates a pale coat that feels almost characteristic to the play – yet the theatre is warm, casting a golden glow over the stage. The RFA members sit near the front row, courtesy of Zen. Jaehee is beaming, a birthday treat well spent. Jumin is straight-faced next to her, fingers rubbing his bottom lip in intrigue. Saeyoung is wearing a stupid t-shirt with Zen’s face on it, the words “CARPE DIEM” lazily plastered in pink glittery font, reacting to everything so visibly that Zen couldn’t help but laugh internally.
And Yoosung. Yoosung sits next to Saeyoung, a look of recognition in his eyes – yet still, he watches like it’s the first time.
The beginning act has Zen’s pulse beating in the back of his eyes, like every opening night he’s ever had. But the play settles into his lungs, and he gets into the groove of things – of being Neil. Of being bold and loud and courageous, of singing carpe diem until his body gives out. And meaning it, with every fibre of his being.
One of his final scenes approaches, and perhaps one of the most important in the play. Backstage, Zen quickly changes into his intricate crown of flowers and branches, the bracelets rustling as he moves.
Neil appears on the stage. The spotlight is blinding, but the light casts a glow that becomes a silent blessing. He says his monologue, each word heavier than the last.
“If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended…”
Once again, Zen is a teenager. He’s auditioning in every play he can imagine, acting in community shows for free. He’s doing everything he can to make ends meet. He makes deals he can’t look back on, he does things he will always regret.
But all of those choices led to this. To be standing on a stage, almost a decade into his career as an actor. He’s been in dramas, musicals, plays. He has a fan base, people who believe in him. He has friends, people that love and support him, and his colleagues, who understand him in a level he never thought possible.
He has Yoosung, who he catches a glance of, meeting his gaze intently.
When Zen looks at him like this, so far away from him in the audience, he remembers the hospital room, all those years ago. The wires. The way Zen found him in his star-wallpaper plastered room. How he carried him in his arms, and ran like Zen had never ran before. How Zen did not believe in any God, but still prayed sleeplessly. How they both picked themselves up from the ground, and together, chose something even harder than dying.
