Chapter Text
In a simple grey hoodie, washed denim jeans and chunky white sneakers, a man stands tall against the beige backdrop. Warm lights shine down on him while a stylist fixes his wavy blond locks that accentuate his cherubic features. He pays no mind to the commotion around, opting to focus on the script, reading and repeating the dialogues to himself.
Kim Namjoon, the Lead Director, commands everyone’s attention. “Quiet on set!”
Silence descends the testing room.
Satisfied, Kim Namjoon takes his place behind the camera, his attention landing on the star of the show. “Jeon Jeongguk.”
Jeon Jeongguk flicks his gaze, sharp and yet just as bedazzling, to him.
Namjoon holds the tick of his jaw. “We’re about to start your Screen Test.”
A crew member approaches Jeongguk and greets him with a bow. He returns the gesture with a charming smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. After exchanging a few words, he passes over the script, the crew member leaving his presence completely starstruck. Then, his gaze lands straight into the camera, the video version of him on Director Kim’s end mimicking his every move.
Namjoon clears his throat, his broad frame on the tiny director’s chair squaring up.
Jeongguk stares blankly at him.
Perhaps, he would be less on edge, if this was the first time he ever met Jeongguk.
See, during casting, listing actors who would be a great fit for the titular role, Jeon Jeongguk wasn’t included in Namjoon’s catalogue of potentials. Jeongguk was not even on the waiting list, nor was he scouted through mailed-in audition tapes or one-on-one interviews. He simply walked in without prior appointment, without notifying his agency and manager.
Nostalgia is one hell of a drug.
Namjoon pushes aside these thoughts, sifting personal grievances and business matters. “Are you ready, Jeongguk-ssi?”
One beat.
Two.
The side of Jeongguk’s mouth curl upward. He says, the roll of his voice deep and melodic, “You call the shots here, Director Kim.”
Ignoring the underlying taunt, Namjoon takes a breath of calm. His shoulders relax.
The camera starts to roll.
JEON JEONGGUK
Screen Test, Lead Role
[ANGLE SHAKES A LITTLE AS IT FOCUSES]
KNJ: [off-camera] This is the basic process for an audition, whether or not you got personally scouted by the casting team for the role.
JJK: [nods]
KNJ: Good, you came here knowing what you’re getting into. What we expect is your interpretation of the character. We want to see how you’ll make Song Jiwoo alive.
[BEAT]
JJK: [tilts his head in thought] ...Which scene would you like to see?
KNJ: [paper rustles] ...Scene 46, Hongdae Shopping Street, where Song Jiwoo confronts Choi Sungjae about his real identity. I’ll be reading Choi Sungjae’s lines to exchange dialogues with you.
JJK: Alright.
KNJ: Take your time getting into character.
JJK: [deep breath]
On the screen, video-Jeongguk closes his eyes for a few seconds. The set jitters in anticipation, each crew member waiting with bated breaths for the first line to fall. And when Jeongguk opens his eyes, a vivid shift in character flows in abundance. His expression, from indifference, morphs to that of desperation. Chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath, he hunches forward, one hand on his knee and the other over his chest. Each intake of air is drawled to showcase how long he’d been supposedly running, to make it believable that he was chasing someone and is finally able to catch up.
And then, he looks up slowly, directly into the camera. The eye contact is smoldering, as if it’s another character he’s staring at. Immense relief, yearning, and anguish are conveyed by the language of his eyes. Eventually, his breathing evens out, the conflict morphing to a tender smile.
Everything onwards is an unwrinkled execution. Song Jiwoo comes to life.
JJK: Choi Sungjae!
[exhales]
JJK: I’ve been looking all over for you.
And this simple performance, for the crew members lucky to witness it, is more than enough to floor them. The earnest plea laced in Jeongguk’s line delivery, the twinkle of hope in his eyes as though they’re lit by a thousand fireflies, is impeccable.
JJK: Don’t run away from me again.
The person in front is no longer Jeon Jeongguk. It’s Song Jiwoo, in the flesh.
Namjoon sits back, wholly impressed.
This is an undeniable fact: Jeon Jeongguk’s camera chemistry is astronomical.
While Yeongwon Entertainment is abuzz with excitement, the hype isn’t appreciated by all. Frantic, heavy footsteps reverberate within the agency’s hallways and, not a moment later, the door to a conference room bangs open.
Dressed in silver, silk long sleeves lazily tucked in black slacks, Kim Seokjin storms inside, his aggravation that of someone who took off in the middle of a retouch. And as soon as he locks eyes with a startled Namjoon, his face sets into a scowl. With a tight grip on a plastic envelope, he marches towards the long table, his displeasure deepening once Namjoon is within his reach. He slams the envelope on the tabletop with such force that the front page spills out, the loud impact echoing akin to an ominous gavel.
Seokjin doesn’t waste time for pleasantries. “What were you thinking, Namjoon-ah?”
“I thought you were in a photoshoot?” Namjoon greets him, dumbfounded.
“I was.”
“You look like someone chased you to me,” Namjoon observes, leaning back on the swivel chair, placing down his pen. “As much as I love seeing you, what exactly is this visit for?”
Hand on his hip, Seokjin gestures the envelope containing the main point of his paranoid concern. “That.”
Prompted, Namjoon’s gaze lands on the item. It’s quick, the dawning of wary and alarmed understanding, before these emotions vanish in the blink of an eye. Pause. He says calmly, “It’s a finalized script for the table reading.”
“I know,” Seokjin grits, frustrated with going around in circles. “Care to tell me why?”
“Why?” Namjoon picks up the front page, staring at the print. Flicking his gaze back to him. “There should be no why with this. It is as it is. Work.”
At the blasé response, he runs a hand over his face and takes a moment to calm down. Then: “You know exactly why, Namjoon-ah.”
Of course they know the reason, but neither voices that they do. Neither does anything to alleviate the silence stretching to an uncomfortable length. It spreads thickly in the air and claws at Seokjin, intent to devour his peace. Lowering his head, he breathes deeply to pacify the distress, bracing the table’s edges out of apparent vexation.
“...it’s been years,” Namjoon says while placing the paper down, leaning forward, elbows atop the table. He laces his fingers and rests his chin on them, tone taking a sagely turn, “You’re no longer in the same place, so you shouldn’t be acting this way.”
Seokjin’s jaw tenses, stomach plunging down his feet from an observation he can’t refute. For a few moments, he stares blankly on the squiggly design of the table, grip on the edge tightening. He doesn’t want to see what kind of expression Namjoon has. He’s afraid of the point made.
Everything in the past shouldn’t be treated like a life and death situation, he knows, but damages could never be undone. Namjoon was there and witnessed how long it took for him to recover, how abysmal he plummeted. The wounds may have healed, but remnants of the pain remained.
He hadn’t let the fangs of limelight bleed him dry. Countless times where fellow actors fed on rumors and gossips centered around him to ‘knock him down a peg’, it never deterred his perseverance.
The path to the stars wasn’t easy and the gods continued to talk.
Though his relationship with the public is sturdy, forging sincere connections when living under constant scrutiny is difficult. The love from his fans and the general public’s worship wasn’t enough, because it’s all surface level of adoration. But he endured, because his job is for people to love him, for him to be conclusively genuine to the mass.
He spent extensive efforts in keeping his image clean. But the cast list could potentially turn into turbulence.
Seokjin gives Namjoon a withered look who, in return, releases a soft exhale.
“You’re hurting me a little,” Namjoon tilts his head in thought. Crossing his arms, he reclines against the seat. “Like I said, it’s just work. There’s nothing wrong with work.”
Long pause settles.
Seokjin straightens his spine and breathes deeply. “I’m sorry. You’re right,” his voice falters, similar to a broken glass, “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
Namjoon doesn’t say anything.
There’s a stab of remorse when he’s unable to explain why he’s worked up.
Namjoon pushes the swivel chair backward. He stands up, footsteps echoing on the floor. He walks up to Seokjin and once he’s in front, he holds his hand tenderly.
On a normal day, this would have made Seokjin’s heartbeat rise but, this time, it didn’t. He thinks, perhaps, the casting discovery might have caused his emotive process to lag. Even after he felt Namjoon lay a kiss on the back of his hand, there’s nothing.
It’s unfair, answering the silent question in Namjoon’s eyes with a half-hearted nod. It’s even more unfair, when Namjoon earnestly takes that gesture as a cue to nuzzle against his hand. He tongues the inside of his cheek, attempting to regain a feeling he’s not even sure he has. He wishes it’s easy to blame something for this internal conflict.
And then, Namjoon leans back, looking at him in apology. “I’m not dismissing your worries, alright?”
“...I know.”
“The production is a collective process, baby. We can’t do it alone.”
Seokjin drops his gaze, guilty for his outburst. He knows that, too. He kind of feels like an idiot for this concern.
Namjoon doesn’t let him go. Rather, he kisses the back of his hand again. And again. Until the brief kisses become lingering pecks.
He smiles from the gesture, smiles from Namjoon intertwining their hands. He lets himself get pulled into an embrace. Like clockwork, he wraps his arms around Namjoon as well and burrows his head against the column of Namjoon’s neck, inhaling the comfort of his presence.
“If you’re worried about interacting on set,” Namjoon says gently, caressing Seokjin’s back, “You only need to work with him for a few months,” he pulls away, holding him at an arm’s length. “It’s limited and breaks are adhered. I’m here to prevent boundaries getting crossed. Will that put you at ease?”
An average day for a celebrity isn’t made of glitz and glamour. People, regardless of social status and influence, are still the same. The real struggle happens behind the scenes and it consists of strenuous diets and extreme workout plans. The road to maintaining youth is disgusting, and methods in keeping one’s name relevant in the industry is a battlefield. Personal sacrifices had to be made to remain at the top.
Seokjin is not naive to cause compromising situations, not conceited to put himself before his job. And his job as an actor is to make it work, even with the most difficult figures in the industry.
He holds Namjoon by the waist. After placing a tiny kiss on the tip of Namjoon’s nose, he leans back just enough to cast his gaze around Namjoon’s handsome features. Namjoon smiles lovingly and it reminded him of the time they spent together, when Namjoon was just like any other city boy with big city dreams. Namjoon’s development as an individual, as someone on whom Seokjin and many others can rely, is truly admirable.
“It will. Thank you,” he says earnestly.
His success is not solely due to his tenacity. Namjoon had been there for him when he felt like giving up instead of moving forward. In a way, he’s indebted.
“Feeling better?” Namjoon hums, laying his palm along the curve of Seokjin’s cheek.
He nuzzles against Namjoon’s hand, releasing a small sigh, feeling a tad lighter.
“It won’t be that long,” he hears Namjoon reassure, “Everything will end successfully. We’ll have a premiere and hit the big screens. Maybe, even achieve blockbuster and receive an award?”
He smiles a little.
“But most importantly,” Namjoon says. “I’ll be with you in every step of the way. I promise.”
Seokjin is assured Namjoon will come through because his sincerity has been proven.
He closes the distance between them with a kiss. Upon pulling back, he watches in contentment, the bright smile that bloomed across Namjoon’s features. He kisses him again, longer, sweeter than the first one. Kissing Namjoon is a treat, no matter how long or how often they do it.
If Seokjin could be honest, his and Namjoon’s story wasn’t a beautiful beginning. They were rough during the early stages and obstacles they had to face in order to grow together had surfaced. Situations that led to almost break-ups, explosive arguments, incapability of seeing each other’s perspectives, had happened. Yet, they pushed through. They learned to love each other more, love each other better.
Six years of dating taught them that love isn’t purely adoration. It is multifaceted. Maintaining a public relationship with one of the most successful Directors in the industry had Seokjin stress over prying eyes, speculating they’ll grow apart and split along the way.
That hadn’t been the case. Namjoon held tight. Seokjin did the same.
As an Actor often first sought out, often first scouted by reputable production houses, always the first to get considered for titular roles, Seokjin had no time to forge real relationships. It was either him or his work, the shelves of awards he accumulated throughout his career. So, he nurtured what he already had. He knew how painful it is to lose someone, to not be chosen, and he’s terrified of experiencing the same heartbreak all over again.
He held onto Namjoon like a lifeline. And although relationships weren’t wise for a public figure like him, he hadn’t cared. He wasn’t swayed by silver-tounged promises, the superficial connections that would help one survive in this harsh industry. He didn’t bother himself with the struggle over youth, beauty, and eternal glory.
After all, eternity is congruent with the silver screen. Men would perish, but films will live forever.
Namjoon smiles through the kiss. “I love you.”
And the answer Seokjin gives as he, once again, presses his lips against Namjoon’s, is of rehearsed certainty:
“I love you, too.”
On the pre-recording footage preview is Kim Seokjin’s over-zoomed face. In the film, his chuckle is distant but caught, as well as him playfully pointing out the mistake while teasing the crew. Serving as background noises are the staff’s laughter whilst they listen to Seokjin raise a friendly banter with the AD and the cameraman.
Behind the camera is Kim Namjoon, smiling adoringly at Seokjin, leaning on the side of his chair with elbow atop the armrest and knuckle resting on the side of his face. The printed script side of Monolith Blaze chosen for the day’s Screen Test is seated on his lap. Back to the footage, video-Seokjin is looking off-camera, cheeks bunching together as he breaks into fits of giggles when the frame, once again, shakily over-zooms into his face.
KSJ: [titters] Is that supposed to happen?
KNJ: [background chuckle] We’re fixing it, love. Hang in there for a second.
KSJ: That doesn’t make any sense, Mr. Director. You say a second, but I know from experience that it’ll take more than a second.
Seokjin addresses the off-cam crew who’s laughing with him, jibe delivered good-naturedly, his query meant to chaff Namjoon.
KSJ: Everyone. What should we do with empty promises?
[background merry chatters]
KNJ: [huffs in mock annoyance] Please don’t charm my staff.
KSJ: [affronted gasp] Nonsense. In what way am I wooing anyone?
KNJ: [distantly off-footage] See? This is why I briefed all of you to brace yourselves against him.
[camera catches background laughter]
The video then reveals Seokjin in a half-body shot, sitting neatly on a high stool with legs crossed. He’s holding his script, looking outside the frame. To Namjoon. They exchange encouraging nods and, as Namjoon gestures for the camera to start recording, Seokjin closes his eyes. The cool key lighting accentuate his stunning profile. And on the footage preview, he is seen pepping himself.
“Quiet on set,” Namjoon announces. “Roll sound.”
Seokjin takes deep breaths. When his eyes open, gone are the jocular aspects of himself and, what replaces it, is strict professionalism. The facet of a movie star who had memorized the script, studied the character given to him, by heart.
He looks directly at the camera.
“Ready?” Namjoon asks, checking Seokjin’s shot through the preview screen.
Video-Seokjin nods. Namjoon signals the lights, the cameras, and then calls for Action.
KIM SEOKJIN
Screen Test, Lead Role
KNJ: Today, we’re going to do a screen compatibility test. We need to see your chemistry with the character and your personal interpretation and understanding to the role.
KSJ: Yes. I’ve come prepared, Mr. Director.
KNJ: That’s great. It’s going to make things easy for us. We’re not going to go down the technicalities today, since this is still a Screen Test. I just need you to do a line reading with me.
KSJ: [nods] Yes, understood.
KNJ: I’ll read Song Jiwoo’s dialogues. We’ll exchange lines from a script side back and forth.
KSJ: [nods again]
KNJ: Let’s start with Scene 12, where Choi Sungjae re-encounters the subway incident’s Song Jiwoo, at a company briefing. He finds out that the soul flame that night was the newly hired prosecutor.
[PAUSE]
KNJ: We’re ready whenever you are.
KSJ: Scene 12. Okay, got it.
The set quiets, all attention pooling onto Kim Seokjin, a man who’s quintessentially sublime to everyone in the testing room. Witnessing Seokjin work his magic, the exact moment where he conjures Choi Sungjae in the flesh, is a rare opportunity for most. His facial expression undergoes several smooth changes as the film records the various stages of his in-character psyching. From the quiver of his lips, to how it falls open just the slightest, to his dull eyes lighting up in recognition. His long, dusky lashes fluttering in every blink, his gorgeous eyes widening in consternation, all of it were perfectly captured on film.
KSJ: [subtle, yet intense shock] Song Jiwoo…?
Seokjin took the scene up a notch. Putting his personal touch to what’s asked in the script made it more alive, authentic. He speaks, and the tone of his voice isn’t the one Kim Seokjin uses. It’s on a different timbre, as though he crafted it specifically for the character he was tasked to portray. Jaw tensed, brows bunched together in bewilderment as the first line from Scene 12 was delivered, he did flawlessly superb and with relative ease. His aggression, caused by the shock of the discovery, is vivid.
[BEAT]
KSJ: [harsh whisper] I reaped your soul flame that night...you should be dead.
Off-camera, Kim Namjoon sits back with a contented smile. The expression he carries, though not on record, is one of adoration and pride for his lover.
Running thuds reverberate inside a well-lit, private fitness facility dripping with testosterone. Amidst sweaty bodies lifting weights, cycling, or using rowing and leg press machines, a man strolls in leisurely, unconcerned about how he stands out among the gym goers. Dressed in an eye-catching red long sleeves, the man ignores lingering gazes at him, whistling a melody as he fans around a clear file folder.
He stops at the first treadmill among a row of five. He then leans against the pillar right next to the occupied treadmill, crossing his arms. Staring at the man running on the machine. “I’m starting to think you live in the gym, Jeongguk-ah.”
Briefly, Jeongguk looks to the pillar. Then he reaches for the treadmill buttons and presses reduce speed. The machine’s belt slows, and his running steps reduce to quick strides, until he’s just walking. He comes to a complete stop, throwing his head back to flip wet fringes away from his forehead, breathing heavily. He pulls one air pod from his ear, fully facing his chirpy visitor, gripping the handle bar to steady himself as he stabilizes his breathing.
“Taehyung,” he nodded once. “Do you need something?”
Smirking a little, Taehyung lifts the folder on his hand. “You rascal! Guess what?”
Panting, Jeongguk grabs the water bottle from the treadmill’s cup holder. Twisting the cap open, he steps off the machine, eyeing the item on Taehyung’s hand. “What’s that?”
“Are you aware you just secured something big?” Taehyung says, a bit confused.
Rolling the knots off his back muscles, Jeongguk takes large gulps of water. Emptying the bottle, he looks again at Taehyung. Waiting.
“Jeongguk-ah, this is the notice for the lead role of Monolith Blaze,” Taehyung waves the folder around, incredulous at the dull reaction.
He arches his brow. “Hyung. You handed me fifty scripts the other day,” he says. “I honestly forgot which offers I accepted and which ones I discarded.”
Silence, filled with nostalgia and a deeper meaning, cascades between them.
Here, Taehyung looks at him, the glint of his eyes filled with meaning. “We’ve come a long way.”
Jeongguk wipes the sweat on his jaw using the hem of his collar. He doesn’t say anything, but the corners of his mouth pulls up.
Withstanding the tides of Show Business where reputation is a weapon and youth outweighed years of experience wasn’t an easy feat. It’s inevitable for one’s shine to dim, every season introducing younger actors with fresh visuals. Indie Darlings, Breakout and Rising Stars, the like. Media play is needed to keep interest going, wheedling the public to stay engaged because, in the Entertainment Industry, curiosity is an oasis and indifference is hell. Each week, staged gimmicks are pulled to reel the public in, set-up by agencies to continuously rake in engagement for their talents.
Jeongguk met Kim Taehyung through then-rookie producer Min Yoongi, whom he was working with during the lowest point of his life. Since meeting and signing a deal with Taehyung to become his agent, he imposed limitations on himself. He stuffed his past into a box and tossed it into the Marianas Trench so it would never bob to the surface.
Residual emotions comes from a place of torment.
While making his way to the lockers, he tells Taehyung: “I stayed up late to finish skimming and segregating the first twenty five batches.”
“...So? Found anything you like?”
“There’s this romance primetime drama...”
“Anything else?”
“I’ve read a script for a thriller film.”
“Thriller?”
Jeongguk pinches the collar of his shirt and uses it to fan himself. “Uh-huh. It’s about an exorcist-in-training seduced by an altar apprentice who’s the vampire responsible for a string of murders?”
“Ah. That one where the murders are called the Vladimir Marks?” Taehyung says, shuddering. “Victims are drained of blood and impaled upside down, like flags? I wonder how they’re going to pass the media regulations board for that.”
“Yeah. It’s been a while since I starred in a thriller film, since that role I had of a Crown Prince during a zombie outbreak.”
“And right now, you’re on-demand. We need to keep this momentum going,” Taehyung says, pausing, “You know actors like you, Jeongguk. You’re the type producers ignore because of the tabloids.”
What Taehyung said was true.
In this line of work, celebrities preferred one tabloid than no tabloid at all.
The media is never merciful and Jeongguk is their favourite sacrifice. One absurd column the media wrote about him was animal cruelty, all because he picked up a cat from a pet shop. It didn’t matter if the news is inane, or if the cover story didn’t make any sense. As long as his name is mentioned, the public eats it up like starving hyenas. He could smile at nothing in particular and, all of a sudden, he’s on the front page.
Jeongguk glances at Taehyung as they weave through a group of women in yoga clothes. They greet him and he recognizes a few from CFs he saw on daytime television. He smiles politely, exchanging niceties, but Taehyung takes his time greeting them one by one.
Once they round the corner leading to the locker area, Taehyung starts hesitantly, “How are you feeling though?”
Jeongguk keeps his quiet. Upon spotting a trash bin, tosses his empty water bottle inside it. He continues to walk to the gym’s locker room. Once outside the door, he pushes it open and enters.
Taehyung follows after him.
Truthfully, he hadn’t forgotten what happened. There’s no way he would, not when that excruciating hour he spent for a Screen Test had been single-handedly one of the worst days of his life. Getting haunted by forgone apparitions was distasteful, let alone enduring half of the day in a small set with someone he didn’t like. Hate, to describe in apt accuracy, the depth of emotions he harbored. Simply being there forcibly had him lick old wounds and drown in the weight of resentment that used to give him endless nightmares.
Stopping in front of his locker, he turns to face Taehyung. Then he runs a hand over his hair, fingers digging to his scalp in an attempt to fix his messy locks.
Taehyung is genuinely curious and worried.
“I’m fine,” Jeongguk insists, looking him in the eye. “I didn’t stay that long.”
“Okay, let’s say that you are. Still…” Taehyung sighs. “Imagine my surprise when Director Kim’s assistant called me.”
“Seriously, drop it. It’s nothing special.”
“I’m concerned about you,” Taehyung claims, incredulous. “If you wanted the project, you could have told me. I’m your manager, Jeongguk-ah. I can pull strings for you.”
“It was just an audition,” he says indifferently.
“And yet, you went to a bar and got drunk in public,” Taehyung scoffs, hitting the nail on the head. “I had to take care of the articles regarding the public disturbance you caused.”
He tenses, refusing to meet the piercing stare on him. Refusing to admit that he still blames the damage drugs and alcohol had dealt in his life, that meeting someone from the past reopened wounds he thought had healed over time.
But Taehyung is as season-hardened as everybody else. His approach is callous and full of undertones that struck a chord. “Because if this behavior is nothing? Then I don’t want to know what you’ll mean when nothing finally becomes something to you.”
“I told you it’s nothing. Why won’t you drop it?” Jeongguk snaps, voice rising a notch. He hates it, the implications those words carry. Like a dagger against his throat. “The last time I checked, you’re just my manager—”
“—don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Taehyung chastises, offense flashing across his eyes.
Immediate regret steals the air in his lungs. He screws his eyes shut, breathing deeply. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.
Brittle quiet settles.
Feeling awkward, Jeongguk pulls the locker door open and grabs his gym bag. He walks to a nearby bench, setting the bag on the surface, rifling for a towel.
Taehyung tries again. “Even if this is a long-anticipated production, you should be vigilant to losses.”
Draping the towel on his shoulder, he faces him with crafted indifference. “I can’t be choosy with regarding who I end up working with.”
Taehyung crosses his arms, the folder still in his hand. “I appreciate your professionalism, but you have a week to think this over—”
“I can handle myself,” he interjects, enunciating in a way that delivers there’s no room for argument. “Besides, getting the lead role with an ensemble cast isn’t an opportunity that comes everyday.”
Taehyung presses his lips to a thin line. “You do realize you’ll be working with him? With them.”
His jaw clenches, grip on the towel tightening.
“Jeongguk,” Taehyung starts, sighing. He kneads the bridge of his nose, choosing his words carefully. “Being in love for half of your life doesn’t end with zero residual feelings. Not with what you went through.”
That, also, was true. He can’t refute that and it angers him.
For there used to be a time in his life when he was in love. When he, like the rest of the world, wondered what falling in love was like and was fortunate enough to experience it. When he wore his heart on his sleeves. When he thought he meant something to someone. A time in his life when an orgasm would come from love making, not having sex with someone fleeting.
He used to love genuinely, gave his all, trusted too much.
“...where did that love take me?” Jeongguk grits, vehemently shutting down Taehyung’s attempt of reason. “Nowhere, correct?”
Taehyung reels back from the hostility.
“I won’t make the same mistake. Give it a rest.”
Taehyung gnaws his hesitance on his lower lip. He looks like he still wants to say something, but Jeongguk doesn’t grant him the liberty.
“Exes are exes because something wrong happened in the relationship,” he says, almost defensively.
It’s the resentment talking.
Taehyung doesn’t say anything. Few beats of tense silence encompasses between them. They stare each other down, ignoring those who entered the locker room shooting them odd looks.
Eventually, Taehyung clicks his tongue. “Your funeral.”
Jeongguk gets handed the folder that contains the script and contract for Monolith Blaze. Attached with it is the Table Reading schedule. He looks at Taehyung first, then to the post-it containing the time and place for the meeting, which happens in a week. His chest churns and hot blood rushes to his ears, muting background noises. Torrential pour of reminiscence assaults him, his grip on the folder vice-like, shaky. He looks at the dark print of the front page, visible through the translucent folder, concentrating on one name in particular.
Kim Seokjin.
Jeongguk stares at the hangul with insouciance.
The table reading begins with a slight delay.
“Is everyone here?” Namjoon’s question rings inside, addressing the entire conference room.
“Not everyone yet, Director Kim,” one of the casting crew says, “We’re still missing one person.”
Seokjin lifts his gaze, from reading the finalized script for Monolith Blaze, to Namjoon. He doesn’t say anything, quietly reclining on the swivel chair and crossing his legs. There’s only one person who hasn’t arrived yet and Seokjin dreads the upcoming arrival. That morning, he’s all over the place, ruining his skincare routine and even mixing up the products he uses.
He hadn’t told Namjoon about it, worried he’d put him to another round of doubt in their relationship. Seokjin knows it’s his fault, that he should not be acting this way. It’s been years and there’s nothing left to fuss. He wasn’t the one who made a mistake, was the one who got left behind. But he can’t rest easy, mulling that he’s signing for a several months of torture, walking head-on to the devil’s den.
The conference room’s temperature bore semblance to winter winds. Seokjin thinks he’s in a dreadful nurtritionist’s appointment, rather than a table reading.
He watches Namjoon sweep his gaze around, brows knitted. “How long?”
The same crew member answers: “A minute past the schedule.”
“I see. Well, while waiting, let’s make sure everything will run smoothly so we won’t waste more time fine tuning,” Namjoon instructs.
Leaning to the side of the chair, Seokjin crosses his legs, resting his elbow atop the armrest and pinching his chin between his thumb and index finger. He looks around, observing his surroundings. The script is on his lap, opened to the Cast page. In spite of the delay, no one is in an actual hurry. The atmosphere is relaxed and conversations are had, back and forth. His gaze falls back on the script and, despite reading the printed names for the nth time, his breath still catches in his throat.
There it is. Under his name. Someone he never wanted to encounter again.
Jeon Jeongguk.
The name itself catapults him back to instances wherein they could have crossed paths. But the timing had never been right for the both of them. Award Shows and galas often brought them within each other’s radar, however, not once did they meet. For years, he hasn’t given the odds a single ounce of care. He thought naively, the industry is big. There are a multitude of projects and it’s near impossible for them to work together in one.
He should have known better than to be relaxed. He should have known, when Namjoon decided he’d dabble in supernatural romance, a day like this would come. Award shows crowned Jeongguk for this category. There’s no actor better than him, no matter how small in number the existing projects are. Jeongguk’s forte lie in films that stay in the trending list for months, too influential and impactful to leave. This is Jeongguk’s turf. It only made sense to cast him.
As if reading his mood, Namjoon leans to him. “Are you alright?”
He nods.
Warmth envelopes his hand, accompanied by a squeeze of solace. While staring at their laced fingers, he thinks of how Namjoon became the voice of reason between them. “You’ve got me. There’s no need to be worried.”
“Love, I’m not,” Seokjin assures, eyes flickering upward. “Why would I? It’s been years. If nothing,” he squeezes back, “I just want this project to be successful for you.”
“Thanks for saying that, baby,” Namjoon beams at him. “But having you is more than enough.”
Seokjin half-snorts, half-laughs.
Namjoon reclines, slightly shaking his head in amusement. “It looks like I still need to work on my skills in sweet talking.”
“Says the one who has international recognition under his belt.”
Namjoon’s smile mellows.
A fact in the film industry exists about Kim Namjoon: he’s celebrated as one of the Media Geniuses. Gifted in multiple aspects of Filming. From screenwriting, directing, casting, cinematography and editing, he has a profound ability in bringing entertainment elements to the next level. He’s adept in utilizing all sensory functions to provide the best experience. His outstanding prominence in different fields relating to Film Production, was proven when he was recognized as the youngest Director to receive the Blue Dragon Film Awards.
On instances where Namjoon was too hard on himself, repeatedly saying that: “Nobody likes a genius. Those who can do better are always hated,” admittedly, Seokjin wouldn’t know what to say, since his approach to these kinds of things felt differential from Namjoon’s. It’s how they were wired, how they worked perfectly together in so long. Divergent yet convergent of one another. Ways he knew how, accustomed himself to, in order to comfort Namjoon is to always show him he’s more than just the gilded prestige and name he has and constant assurances of a life beyond fame.
But Namjoon always looked as if those weren’t enough. Like it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
Seokjin takes the familiar way out. “Hey,” he cradles Namjoon’s hand between his palms, giving him his utmost sincere look. “I said this before, but nothing’s wrong with fame. Never dip your head underwater and forget why you began doing what you love in the first place.”
Namjoon stares at their joined hands. Back to Seokjin: “The art of dealing with the cards we’re dealt with. Mm-hmm. How could I forget?”
“You’re great just the way you are, Namjoon-ah,” Seokjin assures.
“Thank you,” Namjoon says softly. “Your words always brings me comfort.”
Seokjin chuckles a little. “I’d be offended if it won’t.”
The conference room door slides open.
It happens too loud, too brazen, disturbing peace and very attention-grabbing. At the noise, Seokjin flutters his eyes to where the source is and he, albeit temporarily, forgets how to breathe.
All eyes lands on the newcomer, like bees on nectar, similar to a curse disguised as an enchanting spell.
Years change people. Years, he reminds himself, as he stares at the newcomer. He’s drawn, unable to keep his eyes off as, for the first time in forever, Jeongguk is within his reach once again. Not in magazines, commercials, nor thirty-second movie trailers.
In the flesh.
And Jeongguk has changed.
The last time Seokjin saw a glimpse of him was during an award show he could barely remember. Jeongguk was with a date, some artist Seokjin had never heard of. Back then, Jeongguk’s hair was still dark, neatly styled, neither wavy nor long. Seokjin was seated far, but he could tell it’s the same striking movie actor visuals of his distant memories. The same youthful face he’s familiar with all of his life, impossible not to love.
But this Jeongguk is far from the juvenile, boyishly charming Jeongguk of his past. This person who entered is magnetic, a man who can sweep anyone off of their feet with a mere gaze.
Jeongguk’s hair is now a wavy blond, black mask covering half of his features. His gait exudes charisma, steeping out of his black coat and turtleneck. His long legs are snug in black jeans, confident strides accentuated by high-cut boots. He steps inside the conference room, aware that he’s immaculate. His manager, Kim Taehyung, draped in exuberant colors, is sincerely apologizing for arriving late due to an unforeseen bump in the road.
Seokjin tries to calm down, forcing himself not to look, not to care. He forgot about Namjoon’s hand in his as he clenches his grip. This causes Namjoon to pull away with a wince. But Seokjin is busy chasing away his internal demons to pay his lover any attention. So, Namjoon stands up with one last look at him, before walking towards the apparition Seokjin didn’t want to entertain.
He takes a chance to recuperate, disregarding the chatter of the production team eagerly welcoming Jeongguk. He chooses to read the finalized cast lineup, printed in monospace letters:
Screenplay under full copyright.
All rights reserved.
MONOLITH BLAZE
Written by
Kim Namjoon, Kang Minseok
Leads: Kim Seokjin, Jeon Jeongguk
Supporting: Shin Siwon, Go Hareum
He makes a terrible mistake.
By accident, he looks up and finds himself in the face of adversary. He makes the ultimate error of staring in the eyes of his nightmare manifest, discovering it is doing the same. His lungs billow, aiding him in breathing by working twice as hard as they normally would, at the same time he arrives to a rancorous understanding that his past comeuppances has come back to haunt him.
Yet, Seokjin is unable to look away.
Jeongguk takes the seat in front of him. Pulling down his mask, his piercings glinting under the ceiling lights. And then, Jeongguk greets him with a smile, his voice dripping honey, smooth and low. “Kim Seokjin. Looking forward to working with you.”
It’s comedic, Seokjin thought to himself, that Jeongguk’s mere presence is able to tear open old wounds. How by simply watching Jeongguk breathe, he’s able to conclude that although this person is Jeongguk, it is not his Jeongguk. He sits straighter, his nod a bit too curt, wishing he can blame the thickness of his throat to something other than embittered nostalgia.
Jeongguk charms his way into the production team’s hearts, boosting synergy by making those in the room feel at ease. Wrapping everyone around his finger using gentle words of encouragement.
The table reading officially begins.
And in the coming months, Seokjin will be reminded of why working with an ex-boyfriend is never a good idea.
SAGITTA SOLARIS
HEADLINE | Kim Namjoon, 2017 Blue Dragon Film Awards Recipient for Best Director, dabbles into Romance, Action, Drama, and Supernatural.
Monolith Blaze is the revealed Title for the unveiled Film currently in its development stage, spearheaded by Kim Namjoon, South Korea’s youngest Award-winning Director. That’s not all, the titular roles had been finalized!
Jeon Jeongguk was scouted to play Monolith Blaze’s Lead. Rumors began after he was spotted exiting Yeongwon Entertainment with his Manager. Meanwhile, it shouldn’t be strange for Kim Seokjin to be seen inside his agency’s grounds, if not because of an insider tip regarding a table reading on the same day Jeon Jeongguk was in the company building.
Other big names, such as 2007’s Action Blockbuster Baskervilles Shin Siwon and 2010’s Horror Thriller Shikigami Go Hareum, are rumored to have been cast as well, after a leaked photo of the stars inside Yeongwon Entertainment circulated the media.
This will be the first time we’ll see Jeon Jeongguk and Kim Seokjin together on the silver screen. Thoughts?
Nightclubs bear witness to the most intriguing stories.
To the beat of the pounding music, incandescent neon lights swing inside Club Selenic, an upscale super club in Itaewon where executives, celebrities, and idols hang out on a regular basis for a taste of the Art of Getting Fucked Up. Security is tight, and access is not granted to just anyone.
Selenic holds a notoriety for upscale parties that have every floor decked out. And most importantly, party drugs are available. Sold under the table, exchanged in whispers within soundproof walls, consumed as a stress reliever from public scrutiny.
And tonight happens to be special.
Club Selenic holds notoriety for various reasons. But they are most well known for their gimmick called the Midnight Confetti Drop. The music stops ten seconds before midnight, and a beat drops as confetti starts to fall from the ceiling.
10.
The countdown begins. The crowd moves to the dance floor.
9.
Inside a VIP room, the situation is quite different. It’s a sequence of events only the dark witnesses, inebriation barely influencing decisions consciously made by two people who have everything to lose. A situation simmering incriminatingly slow behind the scenes, finally catching fire.
8.
Seokjin should have seen this coming. Perhaps, he may have. But he may have also chosen to ignore all of the warning signs in order to experience the sensation of getting consumed whole.
And this desire, the kind that ignites burning wanton capable of rekindling a flame long gone, is nearly not enough.
His heart is in his throat.
7.
Pressed up and against the wall next to the door, Seokjin trails his fingers along the length of Jeongguk's neck, grasping tufts of hair on his nape. He gazes into Jeongguk's eyes, wanting to drown in those hidden galaxies. Drown in these eyes he feared for their sharp intensity, but admired for their sincerity.
He wants Jeongguk to look at him.
Only him.
6.
With half-lidded, glassy eyes, Seokjin parts his mouth a little, slowly running his tongue across his lips. In this situation, it's easy to be overcome with the wrong kind of love, an erroneous kind of desire to own. The palpable bass of the music on the floor gives the atmosphere a sense of immediacy. Jeongguk is infused with the avidity of a starving man.
And Seokjin wants more of that hunger. He begs more of that greed.
5.
The strobe lights shut off. The music stops.
4.
They kiss, still kissing. Not a breath is wasted. Kissing until their lips swell and shine cherry red. Kissing with the same urgency as the countdown, hands mapping out one another in a desperate display of affection.
Seokjin’s mind has gone haywire from the heat.
3.
He reaches between Jeongguk’s legs, who whimpers in response. He moans with abandon upon feeling the hard line of Jeongguk’s erection, rubbing his palm over the bulge, all the while remembering what it was like to have Jeongguk’s cock inside of him. His thoughts are muddled by lust, remembering how it felt the first time he and Jeongguk made love.
2.
His thunderous heartbeat and Jeongguk’s heavy breathing is all he can hear.
1.
The beat drops hard.
The entire building shakes.
Confetti finally falls from the sky-high ceiling. Neon lights enter through the VIP room’s one-way glass window. Blinking, flashing, and darting all over. Smoke blankets the club in a thick layer of mist.
When Jeongguk cups him through his pants, the roaring cheers muffle his eager moans. He cranes his neck to the side, grinding against Jeongguk’s palm. His mind is up in the clouds, intoxicated by his need to be ruined.
“You talk big,” Jeongguk whispers, deliciously low and husky. Licking up and along the elegant curve of Seokjin's neck, suckling on Seokjin's pulse point, the ooze of his real intentions eliciting goosebumps. “Sure you can still take me?”
He has one hand on Jeongguk’s shoulder, the other curled around strands of his hair to keep him close. He pulls back, and their eyes lock. Jeongguk’s eyes got so dark they were practically black, the high flush on his cheeks glamourized by the strobe, lips parted and kiss-swollen. And Seokjin is content he isn’t the only one ruined by this inevitability, this need shouting erroneous in many ways, a mistake he willingly and consciously makes.
Ever since Jeongguk walked in on that table reading months ago, there was no turning back. After the truth about his relationship with Namjoon came out, he was already fucked. Letting Jeongguk back into his life was never an option. It’s a compulsive choice stemming from the need to sweep problems under the rug.
Seokjin wants to believe that as the case. He truly does.
He darts his tongue out, sensually licking his lips as though he’s about to have the best meal of his life, an invitation to how much he can really take.
Jeongguk’s pupils dilate with pure, unadulterated desire, overflowing with nostalgic fantasies. And the extent of the emotions Seokjin sees drives him to dwell on how things may have turned out if the mistakes of the past had been avoided. Hands curling on Jeongguk’s collar, he pulls him close, uncaring of the consequences that may happen once they fully cross the line. He presses the fullness of his lips on the corner of Jeongguk’s mouth, the lingering peck hinting the possibility of where this night will end.
“If you’re lucky,” Seokjin whispers.
“Baby, I haven’t tested my luck yet,” Jeongguk chuckles, melodious and amused.
He smiles sweetly. “What are you waiting for?”
Jeongguk scoffs, shakes his head.
“You should learn how to take responsibility.”
“Funny you should say that,” Jeongguk quips, the vulnerability in his eyes disappearing as quickly as it came. His expression melts into indifference. “When we both know what you did.”
He pushes Jeongguk away with a smile, pushing himself off the wall. “The pot’s calling the kettle black.”
Jeongguk’s short laughter echoes. It’s followed by a debilitated murmur only he can hear. “I really hate you.”
Seokjin heads to the door, not daring to look back. He can't see Jeongguk's expression, but he's confident that Jeongguk will follow. After all, what just happened demonstrates that, despite the number of years, nothing has changed between them.
Club Selenic is in full swing.
The morning seems far away.
Although this night would soon become a memory neither of them plan to acknowledge, this One Night they shared would rekindle the need to be in each other’s arms. Even if they try, they wouldn't escape an unforgiving tabloid. No matter how much they pretend that no lines were crossed, news that raged like a storm will force them to face what they’ve done.
KIM SEOKJIN'S SEX TAPE LEAKAGE.