#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ byeonghwi. ]

[fcble]

COLONIALISM, COLLABORATION, AND K-POP: THE CASE OF FABLE'S BYEONGHWI

In the almost seven years of their career so far, South Korean boy group Fable have made a name for themselves with their unflinching and unapologetically traditional Korean concept. In an industry whose fans debate the Westernization of the genre daily, Fable provides a breath of fresh air.

That isn’t to say they’re without their fair share of controversies. They remain notorious for a 2020 scandal where netizens revealed that one member, Mingeun, lied about his nationality, presenting himself as South Korean when in reality, he’s Canadian. They were also the subject of a call-out post by a YouTuber who later debuted as the center of co-ed group Lightspeed. The video was addressed by Fable members Mingeun and Jaeseop, which perhaps led further to its infamy.

Having called into question who can be in Fable (does a passport make an identity?) and what exactly the group stands for (a still-hotly debated topic), the latest Fable controversy centers the group’s youngest member, Byeonghwi—or more accurately, the group’s youngest member Byeonghwi’s great-grandfather.

On January 22, 2025, Fable members Byeonghwi, Haksu, and Andrew—the last of whom is sometimes known better by his stage name, Yejun—participated in an ad campaign for Ssijok+ (씨족+, from the Korean word for “clan”), an online platform similar to Ancestry.com that provides insights into a person’s ancestral past. The ads, which aired both on television and across social media, showcased Byeonghwi’s discovery of the tax records collected by his great-grandfather, Haksu’s confirmation of his noble roots, and Andrew’s findings of the ship manifests on which his great-great-grandparents immigrated to the United States via Hawaii. The ads were meant to be followed by longer videos on Fable’s YouTube channel, where each of the three members shared their discoveries in more detail. Byeonghwi’s individual video was released first. It remains the only one of the three videos publicly uploaded. Although no longer available, it has been archived by netizens and sliced into pieces for the most online to decipher.

NOW PLAYING: SSIJOK+ with BYEONGHWI, originally uploaded by Fable on YouTube, January 24, 2025 “Once upon a time! Hello everyone, I’m Fable’s Byeonghwi.” He sits behind a desk in the center of the frame, hands clasped together on the table in front of him. “Today, I’m going to share a story of my past with everyone. I’m the first member to do this, so please look after me well.” He bows his head. From somewhere outside of the frame, he retrieves a stack of papers. “Ssijok+ helped me find this information.” He shows the top paper to the camera: a glossy black and white photo of a middle-aged man with a stern expression in a formal Western-style suit. “My great-grandfather was the first of my family to live in Jecheon. He was born in the South Hamgyong province in the north and fled south during the war when the Soviets occupied his hometown. I knew a little about him because he picked our surname, Lim. Since he was born during Japanese occupation, he only had a Japanese name for the beginning of his life.” He picked up the next paper, a shadowy scan of a clearly crumpled piece of paper littered with characters. “This is my family’s register. The character for Lim is the one for responsibility.” He points out one section of the register, where the Hanja characters begin to blur together. “His first name was Shidae, from one of the characters of his given Japanese name, and Daehanminguk.” 

As it turns out, this is far from the entire story. While everything Byeonghwi mentioned is accurate, there is, of course, much more he didn't mention. The first person to discover this was the anonymous author of a Pannchoa post who asked in the title, “Did anyone do their research? Fable’s Byeonghwi has chinilpa relatives.” The author used the same service as Fable, except they started with the name of Byeonghwi’s great-grandfather. From there, as the poster described, his name was discovered as part of a list of Korean collaborators with imperial Japan. As if to damn Byeonghwi even further, Ssijok+ also surfaced ancestral records of his great-great-grandfather, whose name was found on the same list. The anonymous poster did not have to explain much more, as netizens quickly drew their own conclusions, which many of them left in the comments of the post.

At the time of this writing, the most popular comment, with nearly three thousand votes, reads, “Ah, it’s shameful, isn’t it? To be a normal citizen with chinilpa heritage is one thing. To be a Fable member with chinilpa heritage is fucking embarrassing.” 

To grasp the gravity of the situation—and to understand the conclusions netizens found themselves at—we have to take a few steps back. The term “chinilpa,” which appeared no less than ten times in the original post, and in nearly every comment, is a derogatory term used for Korean citizens who worked for or with the Japanese empire. The most prominent examples are the five imperial ministers who signed the Japan–Korea Treaty of 1905 that turned the Korean Empire into a Japanese protectorate. Lesser examples would include, according to Institute for Research in Collaborationists Activities’s list that Byeonghwi’s ancestors found themselves on, military officers, intellectuals, and officials who assisted the Japanese government.

Fable, on the other hand, have always presented themselves as pro-Korea, and lean into nationalist sentiment from time to time. From supporting South Korea’s claim to the Liancourt Rocks to Intak’s Yi Sang-inspired solo debut album, they present a fervent front of Korean culture.

In an effort to protect Byeonghwi’s image, Fabulists—the collective name for Fable’s fans—would end up digging a deeper grave. The Institute for Research in Collaborationists Activities created their list based on rank and title, rather than deeds. The days following the spread of the Pannchoa post nearly turned into a witch hunt as fans did their best to exonerate Byeonghwi and prove his ancestors were part of the list because it covered their jobs. Instead, they discovered, with all too much ease, that Shidae—Byeonghwi’s great-grandfather—inherited much of his standing from his father, Kitadai Hitoshi (来代 将). It is presumed that he had a Korean name, but much of the information related to him was found in relation to his Japanese name. Educated in Japan, he was appointed as a low-ranking government official shortly after returning to Korea. The official annexation of Korea saw his promotion to a moderately high-ranking finance minister. Perhaps the most incriminating piece of evidence of his wrongdoings was his signature of approval on the budget of the Manchukuo National Railway through modern day North Korea and China’s Jilin province.

While there is no way we in the twenty-first century can definitively understand Hitoshi or Shidae’s motivations, the remnants of their actions are enough proof for many to denounce them and now their descendant. It is possible that Hitoshi saw Japanese annexation as a path to Korea’s modernization—it wasn’t too long ago that Korea was the backwater of East Asia, rather than the country producing world-renowned idol groups and hit Netflix shows and Nobel Prize laureates—or he simply wanted a way to survive what looked like an inevitable force of empire at the time. It is also possible that he supported the ideology of imperial Japan.

In the modern day, having firmly painted Byeonghwi in a rather negative light, Fabulists turned to the next best thing: Fable’s agency, Zenith Entertainment. Their approach, however, was far from unified. They expressed a myriad of sentiments, both online and in person. Byeonghwi should leave the group. Byeonghwi should take a hiatus and reflect. Byeonghwi shouldn’t have to repent for the actions of his deceased ancestors. Byeonghwi shouldn’t apologize for something that happened a hundred years ago.

Clearly aware of the online firestorm, Zenith Entertainment began to quietly make their move. The timeline was chronicled by one of Fable’s most prominent Western fanbases, prodbyfable on Twitter. Byeonghwi’s video was first made private on YouTube, before being removed completely less than a day later. The ads, which had at first featured prominently across various social media platforms, grew less and less frequent. Ssijok+ even removed Fable’s promotional videos from their website. The original Pannchoa post also vanished around this time. 

Throughout this entire ordeal, the members of Fable were uncharacteristically quiet. Given that they had defended their honor when attacked via YouTube video essay, it came as a slight surprise that no one said a word in defense of Byeonghwi. The single exception came from an audio recording posted by a fan who attended a variety show shoot.

NOW PLAYING: An audio recording released by a Fabulist, originally uploaded by @a2uz7ha3k1 on TikTok, February 4, 2025 HOST: We’ve seen a lot of buzz online about you lately, Byeonghwi-ssi. Can you give us your side of the story? BYEONGHWI: [laughs] I’m preparing for our new album, of course. We’re looking forward to— HOST: [interrupting] I think I speak for quite a few people, Byeonghwi-ssi, when I say that what I really mean is were your ancestors collaborators? [silence] KIYOUNG: You shouldn’t ask him questions like that. HOST: Don’t you think your fans deserve to know the truth about who they’re supporting? MINGEUN: [softly] Ow. ANDREW: Byeonghwi is the same person our fans have always known. He isn’t responsible for what his great-grandfather did. 

The audio clip went viral immediately. It spread past the confines of online k-pop spaces, becoming more of a general online controversy rather than one centering k-pop idols. A version of the clip with English subtitles appeared on my For You page, which is how I first learned about it. As its popularity grew, k-pop fans were quick to explain what exactly was so bad about Byeonghwi’s situation. At the peak of the online discourse, one viral Twitter thread compared Byeonghwi’s relatives to Jews who worked with or for Nazi Germany.

As the dust settled, Fabulists finally found the time to ask the next pressing question: what about Fable’s newest album, set to release in less than two weeks? (And then the less pressing and mostly unasked question: if Byeonghwi’s ancestors collaborated, who else might have chinilpa relations?)

Zenith Entertainment released their only official statement on the situation on February 9. The English version of the letter reads as follows:

Hello, this is Zenith Entertainment. Over the past two weeks, we have been saddened to see the reactions of Fabulists to Byeonghwi’s personal history. We will take proper legal action against those who seek to defame our artists. Fable has always strived to fully represent the past and provide an accurate depiction of history. There are parts of history that many would find embarrassing, shameful, or otherwise repugnant. It is our duty to recognize and acknowledge these events in order to ensure that they will not happen again. Although we recognize that many Fabulists will disagree with our perspective, we do not wish to erase or ignore the actions and repercussions of Byeonghwi’s ancestors. Byeonghwi will remain a member of Fable, although he will not be participating in the group’s fifth album. In order for the other members to properly prepare, 자수성가 (自手成家) will be released on February 20, 2025. We ask that you continue to show Fable the same love and support.

Like the original video, this statement was also quickly picked apart. Fabulists were quick to point out that it took them two weeks to prepare this, and they went as far as to acknowledge that fact within the statement. “Proper legal action” was also met with cynicism, given that it came from a company who waited until a physical assault took place to try to press charges against a stalker. With its defense of Byeonghwi and no apology, as is usual in any sort of k-pop controversy, Fabulists began to run the same cycle of debates over whether or not he has anything to apologize for.

Within the scope of South Korea’s modern landscape, Byeonghwi’s case is far from unique. In fact, it bears a startling resemblance to the twenty-year-old situation of politician Shin Ki-nam. A member of the liberal Uri Party, he supported President Roh Moo-hyun’s investigations of Japanese collaborators. The same investigation discovered that Shin’s father was a member of the colonial police force, and therefore ripe for chinilpa accusations, in the same way Fable’s initial innocent ad campaign resulted in much more than Byeonghwi bargained for.

Fable’s next album is still slated to release on February 20.

[fcble]

SEA CHANGE — noun. a profound or notable transformation.

Nothing of him that doth fade, / But doth suffer a sea-change / Into something rich and strange. — The Tempest, William Shakespeare

In which Byeonghwi loses a friend. FEATURING: Lim Byeonghwi, Kim Gicheol, Lee Jaeseop, Andrew Han WORD COUNT: 3.8k WARNINGS / NOTES: Smoking. Drinking. A direct sequel to First Love, would definitely recommend reading that first 👍.

FROM: UNKNOWN, 11:18 PM why are you an idol? byeonghwi???

Byeonghwi stares at the texts on his phone, chopsticks stilling over the takeout container he’s sharing with Mingeun. That’s his name. He’s an idol—he debuted last week. His hand hovers over the block button. It seems much too early for him to have stalkers or fans or stalker fans. While he stares, two more texts arrive. One of them is a series of question marks. The second one reads, it’s gicheol. should have said that first.

Byeonghwi doesn’t want to believe it. It’s been about a year and a half—a year, four months, and six days to be precise—since the last time they talked.

tell me something only we would know, he sends back.

we used to hang out in the rail tunnel. you told me there was supposed to be another development there until the project was abandoned.

His phone clatters to the table. Mingeun glares at him. Normally, he intimidates and maybe even scares Byeonghwi. Right now, nothing he could say or do would sour Byeonghwi’s mood.

He takes one more bite, then pushes the container closer to Mingeun.

“You can have the rest,” he says with his mouth full. Byeonghwi doesn’t wait for a response—or even a glance—before he scoops up his phone and tosses his disposable chopsticks.

In the privacy of his own bedroom, he looks at the messages again. What do you say to someone you haven’t talked to for some time, but thought of every day? Can they pick up where they left off? Byeonghwi has thought about this day for months. All the questions and witty opening lines seem to have left his brain.

i missed you, he types. Then he deletes it. why did you stop talking to me? He deletes that one too. are you mad at me for achieving your dream? i thought about you every day. i miss you. Delete, delete, delete.

While he’s worrying about what to say, Gicheol sends another message. i have to go. i’ll explain everything when i can. tell me what you’ve been up to. what’s being an idol like?

Byeonghwi thinks he doesn’t have much to share. Then he starts typing. He tells Gicheol about moving to Seoul, his days spent awkwardly in Andrew’s tiny apartment, hiding himself and his stuff from the landlord’s occasional visits, before they moved in with the rest of the group.

a debut is an accomplishment, he writes, but a lot of things stay the same after that. It’s only been a few weeks. He doesn’t know what authority he has to say that. He doesn’t tell Gicheol about how high the tensions run between them sometimes: Mingeun and Haksu have to stay on opposite sides of the dressing room or they’ll come to blows, Haksu spent a week sleeping on the couch of the other dorm for reasons still unbeknownst to Byeonghwi, Andrew managed to make Jaeseop snap with his holier-than-thou attitude.

In turn, Gicheol gives his full story in bits and pieces. His texts come at all sorts of time of day, with no reasoning or schedule. Byenghwi responds whenever he can, which isn’t any better than Gicheol’s timing. Sometimes days or weeks pass before either of them respond. Gicheol explains that he’s using a burner phone, one that he shares with a few other trainees. They rotate who’s responsible for hiding it every week. He tells Byeonghwi not to write anything too personal, on the off chance someone else reads the messages, or his agency confiscates it.

i memorized your number now, Gicheol says at one point. we don’t save contacts in here. i thought i knew it. i didn’t learn what it really was until i went home and asked ㅊㅇ. i’ve sent so many messages to wrong numbers.

He abbreviates Chaewook’s name to his initials, but Byeonghwi understands what he means. Byeonghwi wonders why Chaewook never mentioned it.

you went home? he sends back. If only he had stayed. Byeonghwi’s gone home for Chuseok and Seollal, and he’s never seen Gicheol.

halmeoni died a few months ago. i was there for the funeral. The words are short and succinct.

i’m sorry, Byeonghwi types back.

It takes Gicheol so long to write back that Byeonghwi thinks he’s left. It happens sometimes: he’ll disappear in the middle of a conversation and come back to continue it days later.

you don’t have to be. 

The words are colder than Byeonghwi expected. He thinks back: did Gicheol ever have a good relationship with his grandmother? He can’t recall him doing anything other than stealing her cigarettes.

let’s not talk about that, Gicheol sends.

Byeonghwi listens to him. He always does.

Gicheol’s company keeps him under lock and key. It isn’t until he debuts—slightly over a year after Byeonghwi—that he gets a small amount of freedom. Byeonghwi lives with too many people, and, for some unknown reason, is apprehensive about introducing his friend to his group members. He invites Gicheol to the Zenith Entertainment building under the cover of night instead.

Byeonghwi watches the road from the dance practice room. Mingeun and Eunsu are usually the last to leave, but today, Byeonghwi had assured them he could clean and close up the room. They probably expected him back hours ago. He’ll deal with their questions and scrutiny when he gets back. For now, he’s much too excited by the prospect of seeing and talking to Gicheol in person again.

A celebrity van slows to a stop below him. Byeonghwi doesn’t wait to ensure it’s Gicheol. He flies down the stairs, taking them two or three steps at a time, until he bursts out into the cool night air.

Gicheol stands on the sidewalk, leaning against the car, speaking to whoever is driving. He steps away as Byeonghwi approaches, face partially illuminated by the dim light of the copywriting sign.

Unable to stop himself, Byeonghwi throws his arms around his friend’s neck, panting slightly from his run. Gicheol hugs him back, and Byeonghwi feels his heart swell as if it’s about to burst. To his surprise, he can feel Gicheol’s shoulder blades through the fabric of his jacket.

They stay like that for a moment, until Gicheol manages to muffle. “Hwi, I can’t breathe.”

Byeonghwi lets him go. He studies him, piecing together the Gicheol from his memory, the Gicheol from the music video he spent hours poring over, and the Gicheol that stands in front of him now. He looks older and tired and worn-out. Byeonghwi chalks the first one up to the years that passed since the last time they saw each other, the second one to his debut promotions, and the third… He’s not sure where the third one comes from. He thinks back to how he felt after his own debut promotions. Byeonghwi was tired, definitely, but he was carried through it with the contagious energy and excitement of his group members. Maybe Field Day doesn’t have that luxury.

The van beeps politely. Gicheol waves as it begins to pull away from the curb.

“Let’s go up to the rooftop,” Byeonghwi says, tugging Gicheol inside.

He uses his phone flashlight to illuminate the path to the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor.

“The elevator doesn’t go all the way up,” Byeonghwi says. “We have to take the stairs outside.”

He leads Gicheol through the deserted fifth floor to the stairwell. “The copywriting agency has the first two floors,” he explains. “Zenith is on the third and fourth. Taein-nim is trying to buy out this one too. I don’t know where he gets the money from, or why we’d need all the space.”

It’s then that Byeonghwi realizes how much he’s been talking. It was never like this before. He remembers listening to Gicheol talk much more. Even in their text conversations, Byeonghwi is more of a listener. He pushes away the discomfort. He misses talking to Gicheol, and now he has more words than he knows what to do with. That’s all it is.

He puts his shoulder into opening the rooftop door. It creaks open, hinges protesting the entire time.

“Barely anyone comes up here,” Byeonghwi says apologetically. He has to do the same thing to get the door to close. “It’s mostly the copywriters on their breaks.”

Gicheol turns in a small circle. Byeonghwi doesn’t know what there is to see. It’s dark—the only sources of light are the moon and the streetlights down below. The rooftop area is fenced in and completely devoid of any furnishing, other than two uncomfortable stone benches.

“It’s nice,” Gicheol says eventually.

“You don’t have to lie,” Byeonghwi says, perching on the edge and leaning back against the rail.

Gicheol sits next to him. “It is,” he insists. “DCAF doesn’t have anything like this.”

“Your company fucking sucks.”

Gicheol looks surprised. Byeonghwi rarely swears. He feels strongly about this, though. Gicheol’s company limited his contact with everyone else, didn’t debut him for over two years, replaced Byeonghwi’s friend with this hollow version of him, and—

“Have you been eating?” Byeonghwi asks. Remembering how he could feel Gicheol’s shoulder blades when they hugged, he takes in the way Gicheol’s clothes seem to barely hang onto his frame and how his cheekbones are so pronounced it makes his whole face look sunken.

“Enough,” he says. He reaches into his jacket pocket. Byeonghwi knows exactly what he’s reaching for.

Gicheol retrieves his cigarettes. The packaging is still new and shiny, like he just opened it. The branding is different, Byeonghwi notices. These are Camels. It was always Marlboro when he used to steal them from his grandmother.

He fumbles the box open, and offers it to Byeonghwi first. Byeonghwi doesn’t have the heart to tell him he only used to smoke because Gicheol did it, because he wanted to say yes to everything Gicheol asked for. That, and no one in Fable is forthcoming with their cigarettes like Gicheol is.

So he takes one.

Gicheol holds one in his mouth while he finds his lighter in his other pocket. “Like old times,” he says through closed lips.

Byeonghwi nods. He watches Gicheol cup his hand around the end of his cigarette and light it, the small ember burning like a beacon in the dark. Gicheol passes him the lighter and he does the same.

He’s almost forgotten what it’s like. He holds back a cough—he’s better than that—as he’s warmed from the inside out. It’s a feeling that often goes hand in hand with the time he spends with Gicheol.

“Congratulations on your debut,” Byeonghwi says.

Gicheol takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t feel very different.”

He doesn’t need to be told that. He also doesn’t think he should say he knew that first. Byeonghwi still feels like the same person who left Jecheon a little over two years ago, that same naive, idealistic kid chasing after his friend. Back then, he didn’t know if he wanted to be Gicheol, or be with him. Back then, he didn’t have the vocabulary or experience to fully explain how he felt.

He’s working up the courage to admit all of this, when Gicheol suddenly says, “Why did you become an idol?”

Byeonghwi can’t give him the same cute answers he gives in every show where he’s asked the same question: he started learning how to dance with a friend, and discovered he liked it and was good at it. He thinks about what he told Taein—he could want to be an idol, eventually. He doesn’t know when that will be true.

“It was because of you,” he says before he loses his nerve. “I did it because I like you.”

Gicheol’s expression is inscrutable. Byeonghwi’s heart is thumping so loudly in his chest he’s surprised Gicheol can’t hear it. He wipes his free palm on his pants. The paper of his cigarette is damp where he’s holding it.

“If I could go back in time, I would tell you not to do it,” Gicheol says.

It’s too late for that. It’s too late for his feelings to change. Byeonghwi is here, he’s been an idol for a year. He’s not going to quit because he’s asked to.

“If I went back,” Byeonghwi says, “I’d do the same thing every time.”

Gicheol clearly missed the part where he confessed. Byeonghwi doesn’t remember who he was before he met Gicheol. He doesn’t know who he’d be now without him either.

“How long have you thought that?” Gicheol asks. “Don’t you think it’s a bit weird?”

His words pierce Byeonghwi through the heart. He doesn’t think it’s weird at all. It takes him a moment to piece together an answer that won’t completely alienate his friend. In the beginning, he was content to be friends with Gicheol. It was somewhere else along the way that his feelings shifted to that all-consuming fire within him, all for Gicheol’s attention and company and heart. And all of that happened before Byeonghwi was aware of it, before he realized his friendship with Gicheol had a different tone from his friendship with anyone else. He can’t say any of that.

“A while,” Byeonghwi says vaguely, regretting bringing it up in the first place. He changes the subject. “I know it’s hard—training and being an idol—but I like that it brought us back together again.”

“How can you say it’s hard?” Gicheol asks. “It was so easy for you. You passed your first audition. You debuted before me. You never worried about your agency going bankrupt or that one small mistake could mean you’ll never debut when you spent so many years trying. You don’t have a fucking nicotine addiction encouraged by your fucking company because it helps you lose weight.”

His words pour out in a torrent. Byeonghwi is at a loss. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

Gicheol steps closer, waving his cigarette through the air, forcing Byeonghwi back against the railing. He feels the cold metal press into his back.

“Then what? In what way did you mean it? Nothing could have been harder for you than it was for me.”

He stares unflinchingly at Byeonghwi, as if daring him to respond. Then Gicheol backs down. He drops his cigarette butt to the ground and crushes it under his heel. “That’s what I thought. My manager will be back soon.”

Byeonghwi watches the ember disappear into the darkness. He wants to say something. His mind races, trying to think of anything he could say to rescue the situation. He wishes he could turn back time.

“I don’t think we need to see each other again,” Gicheol says, like they’re going through a break-up. In a way, it is. Byeonghwi's never lost a friend like this before.

He swallows the lump in his throat. He’s never argued with Gicheol and he’s never been able to tell him no. He’s not going to start now. “If that’s what you want.”

He leads Gicheol back down the stairs and the elevator in darkness and silence. Gicheol’s manager is already idling by the curb. Byeonghwi watches him climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t even say goodbye.

As the van pulls away, Byeonghwi stands under the copywriting sign, staring at the remnants of the cigarette he forgot he was holding. It’s his last remaining connection to Gicheol. It’s a piece of trash. He can’t bring himself to throw it away.

By the time he reaches his front door, Byeonghwi’s entire body feels leaden. It takes all his effort to put the key in the lock and turn it. The lights are still on inside. It isn’t surprising. Byeonghwi figures at least one person has to still be awake.

He plans on slipping by as quietly and gracefully as possible. So it’s almost shocking for him to see Jaeseop and Andrew at the kitchen table, surrounded by a veritable pile of beer bottles.

Byeonghwi drops the keys to the building on the table. Mingeun will probably want them back in the morning.

“Hey, hyungs,” he says. It’s supposed to come out bright and cheerful. His voice sounds flat, even to him.

Jaeseop regards him curiously. “Long night practicing?”

“No.”

“Then what?” Andrew asks, and that’s when Byeonghwi realizes he’s walked straight into their trap.

Andrew motions for him to sit, and Byeonghwi complies. Then Andrew takes an unopened bottle, braces the cap against the table’s edge, and slams his palm down once on it. The bottle cap pops off and disappears somewhere onto the ground. He slides the bottle across the table.

Byeonghwi stares at him.

“I used to drink a lot,” Andrew says.

“You still drink a lot,” Jaeseop says.

Byeonghwi takes a sip. It’s lukewarm and bitter. He doesn’t understand how Andrew can stand this. Grimacing, he pushes the bottle away.

Andrew points his bottle at Byeonghwi. "Talk." 

There's nothing he hates more than talking about things that require depth and thought, things that aren't lighthearted and simple and clear cut. He's always been afraid of judgment and cruelty and his own looming feelings of guilt. He's still not sure where that last one came from.

But he should be able to talk to Andrew and Jaeseop. They've fed him and housed him and made sure he graduated high school and acted almost as his parents for the last two years. At the same time, the weight of Gicheol's rejection weighs him down, leaving him feeling trapped and suffocated.

"I met a friend," Byeonghwi says, slowly and deliberately. He isn't sure how much he wants to tell them just yet.

"A good friend?" Jaeseop asks.

"Yes." He answers that immediately. Another moment passes before he adds, "We used to be. It's been some time since we saw each other."

"With good feelings?" is Andrew's question. Byeonghwi never expected to hear those words out of his mouth. Then he takes in the two empty bottles next to Andrew, the third one he's still working on, and the slightest red tinge in his cheeks.

“You’re acting differently recently,” he continues, tongue clearly loosened by the alcohol. Andrew can be forward, but he never leads like that. There’s always a build-up of a conversation longer than a few sentences. "It's obvious. Something's going on."

Byeonghwi feels exposed, laid bare for his two group members to see. He thought he was better at hiding his feelings. Gicheol's obliviousness is nothing short of a miracle.

"So?" Jaeseop this time. He doesn't seem nearly as far gone as Andrew.

Byeonghwi shifts in his seat. The wound feels too fresh for him to talk about it. He can't relive Gicheol's words again, can't say them out loud. That would make them too real.

"I wanted—" he starts and then stops. What did he want? Was he stupid enough to think Gicheol would return his feelings? Idealistic enough to think he wouldn't completely destroy their relationship?

He tries again. "I thought—" The rest of his sentence is lodged in his throat. I thought we could be friends. I thought we could pick up where we left off. I thought it would be like nothing happened. I thought I could pretend I didn't change. I thought I could pretend he didn't change.

"Rejection, then," Jaeseop says with a sympathetic nod.

Andrew reaches across the table and pats Byeonghwi on the arm. "It happens to all of us. You'll get the next girl."

Byeonghwi thought he was content to let them say whatever they wanted to say, whatever they thought would console him after whatever they thought happened to him. Now he thinks he needs to clear some things up. He watches a single drop of condensation slide down the side of the bottle in front of him. 

"My friend isn't a girl." He has to force the words into being, deliberately shaping each syllable with his teeth and his tongue and his lips. He watches the reactions of Jaeseop and Andrew closely, trying to gauge if they'll act like Gicheol, and maybe he's burned another bridge and maybe he should run.

"The next boy," Andrew says, correcting himself automatically.

"You're gay?" Jaeseop says. It comes out like a question.

Byeonghwi rotates the word in his mind. He knows what it means, he just never thought it would apply to him. He nods hesitantly. If the shoe fits, he supposes he should wear it.

He finds his voice. "You don't think it's weird?"

That statement gives them pause. He watches Jaeseop exchange a glance with Andrew—or try to, at least, because Andrew is otherwise preoccupied with opening another bottle.

"Why would I think that?" Jaeseop asks, and Byeonghwi feels himself sag with relief.

Andrew's latest bottle cap clinks to the ground. "Yeah," he says, almost belatedly. “Why?”

Byeonghwi can’t put it into words. Maybe he’s ashamed of himself, or ashamed of the way other people might view him, especially when those other people are Jaeseop—almost renowned for his stringent refusal to break up with his girlfriend to be an idol—and Andrew, who’s only ever talked about and expressed interest in women.

Cheeks burning, he looks anywhere but at the two of them. “I don’t know.”

Andrew pushes the neglected bottle towards Byeonghwi. “You should drink. Get over him.”

“That was his friend,” Jaeseop admonishes. He knocks Andrew’s hand away from the bottle. “Don’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

Byeonghwi doesn’t want to be treated like a kid. He’s an adult. He can make his own decisions. So he reaches over Jaeseop’s arm for Andrew’s cheap American beer and holds his breath as he gulps it down.

Maybe Andrew's right. Maybe he needs to move on—Gicheol obviously has. Maybe he shouldn't have let him define so much of his life and their relationship.

But Byeonghwi can't unlive his life. And if it weren’t for Gicheol, then he wouldn’t be here now, in Seoul, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation, his silence taken as a sign of agreement to a change in topic.

It isn’t until he’s alone a few hours later, after Haksu emerges from his bedroom and asks Andrew to please open bottles quietly with a bottle opener instead of loudly with their dining table and Andrew and Jaeseop finally leave, that Byeonghwi takes notice of the pervasive scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. It never used to bother him—he’d head home after a long day with Gicheol and his parents never cared, so he never cared. Now, he gets it. It’s faded to a certain acrid staleness that makes his nose wrinkle and his head ache. He retrieves his last cigarette butt from his pocket, scattering ash over his bedroom floor. Then he opens his window as far as possible, and tosses it out into the night.

[fcble]

In which Byeonghwi reaches the point of no return. FEATURING: Lim Byeonghwi, Kim Gicheol, Fable ensemble WORD COUNT: 2.8k SETTING: November 2023 WARNINGS: Homophobia. Use of the f slur.

Crowds outside of Zenith Entertainment aren’t uncommon. Fable does alright for themselves, and it no longer surprises Byeonghwi that fans wait for a glimpse of them. Then there was Mingeun’s scandal a few years ago that drew a crowd that has yet to be rivaled. Today can’t be about them. Byeonghwi is late for practice, and so he assumes everyone else is there already. Taein hasn’t yet given his blessing to Andrew’s latest album, but he and Jaeseop are already acting like it’s been confirmed as their next release. There’s even a demo version of the title track recorded by five of them—everyone except Jaeseop, because he’s expected to enlist in the coming months.

As Byeonghwi gets closer, he sees three people standing close together on the sidewalk, locked in some discussion. They’re watched by a similar unit of managers and bodyguards and stylists and other people of similar professions. Closest to Byeonghwi is Jaesun. He breaks from the group for a second to smile and wave at the small assembled crowd spilling over into the street. It’s cheesy, but Byeonghwi can’t quite blame him. He’d do the same. When Jaesun moves, he catches a glimpse of the person standing across from him: slouched posture, hands tucked into his pockets, high cheekbones above hollow cheeks.

Byeonghwi’s heart stops then skips a beat. His breath catches in his throat, and he breaks into a run. No one pays him any mind, probably because these are Jaesun’s fans, and they don’t know who he is.

He skids to a stop, then trips over his words, just like he always does. Only one syllable comes out clearly: “Cheol!”

He can’t recall the name of the other guy, but he knows he’s one of Gicheol’s groupmates. Gicheol’s face shifts from shock to confusion to a placid expression in a few seconds.

"Hwi," Gicheol says, cool and impersonal. 

“You know him?” Jaesun says, grabbing Byeonghwi’s wrist and pulling him closer. He looks harried and overwhelmed and out of control, not like himself at all. “Great. Get out of here.” He pushes Byeonghwi until he stumbles to a halt, a mere handful of centimeters in front of Gicheol.

The person in front of Byeonghwi is a stranger. Outside of his characteristic slouch, there’s nothing that resembles the Gicheol he used to know. But something is going on with Jaesun, and Byeonghwi isn’t going to make a scene in front of a crowd. He wishes Gicheol would turn around and leave. Then he starts thinking about how each passing minute makes him later and later to Fable’s scheduled practice. 

“Let’s go,” he says, leading Gicheol away. He turns around only once to make sure he’s being followed.

The walk is silent. Byeonghwi knows there are people who have photos of them now, who will post them on social media and find out who they are, and then infer their relationship before framing it in some newsworthy way. He isn’t sure why friendships between idols are considered news, but he can picture the headlines and the captions. Fable’s Byeonghwi and Field Day’s Gicheol, Plus, Five Other Idol Pairs You Had No Idea Were Besties.

He also realizes, outside of Fable’s practice room, that they don’t really know who Gicheol is. Byeonghwi’s never mentioned it by name. He’s compartmentalized his life so well, split who he was before he became a trainee from who he is as an idol, that Eunsu would be proud. It was a somewhat conscious decision. He never mentioned Gicheol, never called him anything other than his friend, because that would lead to questions and assumptions. If Byeonghwi ever started talking about him, he doesn’t think he could stop.

He opens the door anyway.

“You’re late.” Jaeseop.

“Who’s that?” Haksu.

"Give him a break. He probably had to get through the crowd outside." Andrew.

“Field Day.” Mingeun. A brief pause. “Dart?”

Gicheol smiles a half smile, straightening his posture only slightly. "Guilty as charged."

It's a side of him Byeonghwi hasn't seen in person in ages, ever since that fateful day in middle school. The side of him that steps into a room and immediately commands it with his presence.

“You know him?” Haksu asks.

“Not personally,” Mingeun says. He somehow stares Byeonghwi down with a piercing glare from his cross-legged position on the ground. “Byeonghwi does.”

Put on the spot, Byeonghwi doesn’t know how to react. The slight head tilt and questioning look from Gicheol ask why no one recognizes his name.

Byeonghwi can't stand to look at him, so he looks at Mingeun instead. "We grew up together," he says. The explanation is short and unsatisfying and true.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Gicheol smile and nod along.

"Hwi, you never—" Haksu starts, before Andrew jabs him in the side, hard enough to make him shut up.

Byeonghwi completes the sentence in his head. Never mentioned it. Never spoke about home. Never brought it up.

"Yundam invited me to film something," Gicheol says, inadvertently saving Byeonghwi from the embarrassment of explaining himself. "We got here, and then I learned I wasn't invited after all." The hurt flashes briefly in his eyes. Byeonghwi doesn't think anyone except him picks up on it.

"My manager is driving them," he continues. "Looks like I'm stuck here until they're done."

A silent exchange of looks flashes through the group. It starts with Mingeun, his body language making it obvious that he's restless and their schedule is even more delayed. He's shifty and so clearly itching to stand up and do something, until Haksu reaches over and rests his elbow on Mingeun's knee. Jaeseop matches Mingeun's sentiments in the slightest tilt of his head and furrow of his brow. Singularly opposed to them is Andrew, always too nice for his own good.The stern glare in his eyes tells Jaeseop and Mingeun they shouldn't even consider kicking Gicheol to the wolves outside.

Intak is so still and quiet and uninvolved Byeonghwi almost forgets he's in the room with them.

In the middle of this standoff, Byeonghwi feels trapped, between his friend and his group, between his past and his present. He's paralyzed, still frozen next to Gicheol. 

Jaeseop speaks diplomatically, rising to his feet. "It's nice to meet you. I know you’re Byeonghwi’s friend, but we’re working with unreleased music." He doesn't outright say he wants Gicheol to leave, but the subtext is obvious.

Gicheol holds his hands up in mock protest. "I won't leak anything. Scout's honor."

He was never a scout, but no one except Byeonghwi knows that. Somehow, that’s enough to let him stay.

The focus of their practice turns out not to be the title track of Andrew's next album, or any sort of preparation for their upcoming tour, but rather the unnamed song Andrew insists will be a pre-release single. It has a retro sound Byeonghwi—and almost everyone else—fell in love with from the first listen. The only person who remains opposed to Andrew's creative control is Intak, who had frowned and said it didn't sound like music they should be making. Andrew couldn't care less about what he should be doing, and that's how they all end up following his direction.

Gicheol fits in so easily, sprawled out on the floor like he belongs there, absorbed in his phone screen and oblivious to the people around him. Byeonghwi tries not to think about him. He fails.

It's impossible to listen to Andrew or his music. They're working on dividing up the lines. He has no idea why they go through this song and dance every time, when it almost always ends up with the same structure: Haksu does the intro, he and Andrew trade off the pre-chorus and the chorus, Intak has a verse, and the rest of them are left with the scraps. 

Mingeun fights, tooth and nail, on every single song. This one is no exception. 

Byeonghwi thinks he's a good singer. Andrew doesn't seem to share the sentiment.

He watches Mingeun sing a line, followed by the back and forth of Andrew frowning and hunching over his computer and his printed lyrics before he gives Mingeun some more direction, and Mingeun tries the line again. This continues until Jaeseop intervenes and suggests they try a different line, or let someone else do it.

Byeonghwi steals glances at Gicheol when he can. He marvels at the fact that Gicheol is there in the room with him. Then he tells himself he shouldn't do that, because it's been years and he really should stop.

"Can you try this line, Hwi?" Andrew asks. Mingeun must have given up, or been told his singing isn't good enough. Judging from his scowl, Byeonghwi assumes it's the latter.

"The first one of the chorus," Andrew prompts, and Byeonghwi scans the triple-spaced text on the paper in front of him.

It's clearly labeled as the chorus, so he takes a breath and sings, staring at the paper.

"Try it again," Andrew says. He pauses, as if to think of the rest of his feedback. "A little more anguished. And sit up straighter."

So Byeonghwi fixes his posture, thinks of Gicheol, and does the line again.

Andrew appraises him like he's seeing him in a different light. "Not bad. Try the next one too."

"What the fuck," Byeonghwi hears Mingeun say softly under his breath.

Eventually, during a break a couple of hours in, Gicheol asks, "Can we talk?"

There's nowhere private on this floor, and the combination of the rooftop and Gicheol holds too many bad memories, so he leads the way down the hall to the men's bathroom. Everything in it comes in pairs: two urinals, two stalls, two sinks, Byeonghwi and Gicheol.

Byeonghwi leans against the door so no one else can open it and interrupt them.

Neither of them speak. Gicheol tucks his hands into his pockets and slumps down into his usual posture. 

When the silence becomes unbearable, Byeonghwi says, "Please leave."

Gicheol whistles a low note, leaning back against one of the sinks. “Really? That’s what you have to say to me?”

"You wanted to talk to me," Byeonghwi says childishly. He never could have predicted the turn of events that would lead to Gicheol sitting in on a Fable practice. Beyond that, he was the one who ended their friendship in the first place, a memory Byeonghwi is still trying to forget. It keeps him awake at night, sometimes, still wondering where he went wrong and what he could have said to make Gicheol stay. They've seen each other here and there, because the industry is small, and pretended the other person didn't exist, passing each other at music shows and festivals without so much as a shared glance. Seeing him like that, or even in Fable's practice room, is one thing. Talking to him again is something completely different.

“Why is Mingeun-ssi the only person who knows who I am?” Gicheol asks.

The question is so unexpected Byeonghwi almost laughs. It’s simple and childish and has nothing to do with the bigger problems between the two of them. How can it be, that after all this time, that’s all Gicheol has to say?

“Mingeun-hyung knows who everyone is,” Byeonghwi says. “He could name everyone in Field Day if you asked him. He could even point them all out from a picture.”

He doesn’t address the other, unsaid part of the question. No one in Fable knows who Gicheol is because Byeonghwi has never told them.

“Does Field Day know who I am?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer.

“Of course they do,” Gicheol says. “Why wouldn’t they? You were my best friend.”

The past tense isn't lost on him. He wishes they could go back. Back to when they were best friends, before they grew up and apart and away. Then they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.

For the first time, he regrets running after Gicheol. He should have been content to be his fan, content to pursue a path of his own without constantly thinking about the person who was his best friend. He could have balanced on that thin line. He could have seen Gicheol for who he is as a person as his friend, and then seen Gicheol as an idol from the perspective of his most dedicated fan. Then it wouldn’t matter that Byeonghwi was always suffocating, crushed by his unrequited crush, because that’s the very relationship between an idol and his fan.

He can’t quite put all his feelings into words, or explain what sets the two of them apart in how they think of their relationship. So he says, “I don’t know. You always talked about how you would move to Seoul and leave us all behind.”

“I never said that.” Gicheol retrieves a square box from his back pocket, and Byeonghwi is about to tell him off from smoking in such a small enclosed space—and then say he doesn’t want one—when he realizes it isn’t a cigarette box but a pack of gum. Gicheol watches him stare, and then says, “I’m trying to quit smoking.”

“Oh,” is all Byeonghwi can think of to say. He does distinctly remember sitting in the cafeteria at lunch time, listening to and admiring all of Gicheol’s bravado, because even when they were thirteen, he was someone who knew what he wanted and how he could get it. Byeonghwi’s never been like that. He’s seen so much of it: Gicheol, Mingeun, Andrew, Haksu. The more he witnesses drive and ambition in other people, the more he realizes he could never do it himself. He became an idol out of happenstance, because he chased Gicheol and Gicheol's dream, and something about him—his appearance, most likely—impressed Taein.

He wonders if time has warped his memories. Standing here and watching Gicheol chew his gum, jaw working furiously over and over in the same repetitive motion, he has difficulty seeing the same person he saw when he was thirteen and eighteen. He's twenty-two now. He knows he shouldn't pine for his first crush for the rest of his life.

“Say something,” Gicheol says, but there’s nothing for Byeonghwi to say. His voice and his words escalate in pitch and something like anger or desperation. “Anything. I don’t care what it is. Say you still love me because you’re still fucking obsessed with me. Like a fucking faggot." 

In an instant, his rose-tinted glasses shatter. Byeonghwi wishes he could say he didn't expect this slip-up. Ever since his confession and Gicheol's frosty response, he's known that his friend was now disliked with his very existence. It’s always been lurking just beneath the surface, hiding below his idol veneer, a concept Byeonghwi now sees right through. He wonders how much more it would piss off Gicheol if he told him about the time he spent trying to be with other men instead, men who reminded him of Gicheol, but weren’t him, men who were tall and thin, dancers and smokers and skateboarders. None of his attempted relationships ever lasted very long, because he thought about Gicheol the entire time. He decides he shouldn’t risk it.

Almost immediately, it seems like Gicheol regrets it. “Deny it,” he pleads, softer this time. “Tell me it’s not true, Hwi. You were mistaken. We were kids.”

The Gicheol Byeonghwi knew would never say that. The Gicheol in his head would have told him he loved him back all those years ago, and now they’d be more than friends, not having this terrible conversation in the bathroom of his entertainment company. The Gicheol in front of him did neither of those things.

"Get out. Leave right fucking now.” Byeonghwi’s voice shakes. He stands up straight and watches Gicheol nearly fold into himself with his usual slouch.

He turns his back on Gicheol and pulls the door open, briefly locking eyes with an obviously not eavesdropping Haksu. Propping the door open with his foot, he looks back at Gicheol.

Gicheol doesn’t look back at him. He just leans over the trash can, spits out his gum, and walks out into the hall.

Byeonghwi waits until he disappears down the stairwell before he turns to Haksu.

"I have to use the bathroom. I heard him call you a—" Haksu says, and then stops, clearly uncomfortable with the word. "You aren't, right?"

He asks the question with such certainty, like he already knows what the answer is going to be. Byeonghwi can't disappoint him. He steels himself for what he has to say, doing his best to ignore the pit forming in his stomach. He can't take too long to respond, or Haksu will be suspicious and know something is wrong.

Haksu gives him an imploring look.

"I'm not," Byeonghwi says. He knows they both know he's lying.

[fcble]

In which Byeonghwi has a crush. FEATURING: Lim Byeonghwi, Kim Gicheol WORD COUNT: 6.8k SETTING: September 2016 WARNINGS / NOTES: Smoking. This was not supposed to be this long but here we are. Happy pride month.

Halfway through Byeonghwi’s third year of middle school, he gets a new seatmate. It’s not his choice. Haeju, who sat there for most of the year, has transferred somewhere else. Sitting alone was lonely in the beginning, but Byeonghwi is used to it. His friends always tell him how jealous they are that he gets two desks to himself.

All the space is luxurious, until the day an unfamiliar boy with headphones wrapped around his neck and a skateboard tucked under one arm walks into the classroom seconds before class starts. His entrance is intercepted by the teacher, who forces him to introduce himself to the class.

The new boy does a quick, half-hearted bow. He slouches as he stands. The top three buttons of his uniform shirt are unbuttoned, and his tie is crooked. “I’m Kim Gicheol. I moved here last week.”

Byeonghwi can’t imagine why anyone would choose to move out here, to such a small city, where the greatest attraction is a railroad connection.

Gicheol takes the only seat left in the classroom, right next to Byeonghwi. He would fit in better in the back, where a group of boys and a couple of girls are dressed almost exactly like him, missing only the skateboard.

Next to him, Byeonghwi feels uptight and a little self-conscious in comparison. He shifts slightly to the left to give Gicheol as much space as he needs. He spends the rest of the morning so consciously aware that there’s another person next to him that he doesn’t hear a single word about what they’re supposed to be learning. 

When it’s finally lunch time, Byeonghwi expects Gicheol to gravitate towards people more like him. He doesn’t expect him to make a beeline straight for him in the crowded cafeteria.

Gicheol’s lunch tray hits the table with a loud thunk, interrupting Byeonghwi’s conversation with Jundae.

“You don’t mind me sitting here, do you?” Gicheol asks, sitting in the empty seat next to Byeonghwi without giving him a chance to say no.

“You’re the new boy,” Chaewook says with his mouth full from Byeonghwi’s other side. “I’m Chaewook. Byeonghwi’s neighbor and best friend. We’re not in the same class.”

“That’s Jundae, and that’s Woong,” Byeonghwi says, introducing the two other boys that sit across from them. “They sit in front of us in class.”

“It’s so unfair that everyone except me was placed into the same homeroom,” Chaewook complains, still eating.

Jundae shrugs. “Not our fault.”

After that, the conversation turns to Gicheol. They grill him for his backstory to learn that he moved to Jecheon from Paju with his mother and grandmother. He doesn’t have any siblings, but he did have a dog until they moved. The dog stayed behind in Paju with one of his cousins. The only thing he won’t talk about is why he moved.

“I won’t stay here for a long time,” Gicheol says. “I’m going to move to Seoul. I want to be an idol.”

Byeonghwi exchanges a glance with Chaewook, and then they both break out in laughter. Even the usually stoic Woong cracks a smile. Maybe it’s unfair, because he’s just met Gicheol. But Byeonghwi can’t picture him, with his skateboard and his sloppy uniform, singing and dancing in perfect synchronization.

Gicheol stops eating. “It’s not that funny.”

“You don’t look like an idol,” Jundae says. 

“I know.” Gicheol stabs a gamja jorim with both his chopsticks. “It’s my stupid dream.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jundae says. “But whatever, if that’s what you think.”

Gicheol becomes Byeonghwi's friend very quickly. If he had to describe him in one word, it would be cool. There’s no looking past it. Gicheol is cool. He rides a skateboard and listens to loud American rock music and carries a pack of cigarettes in his back pocket.

Even after his status as the new guy wears off, he still stands out. He dresses himself differently and holds himself differently. Byeonghwi is entranced. He starts making excuses for the two of them to hang out without anyone else.

He learns more about his boring city through Gicheol’s tourist eyes. Everywhere is new. The mall, frequented by only the most geriatric citizens, becomes a place of endless fascination. He explores the parks and side streets and alleyways. He hikes out to the mountains and rivers, goes for swims in nothing but his underwear, shivering the entire time. He smokes his first cigarette in an abandoned rail tunnel, coughing while Gicheol thumps him sympathetically on the back.

The one thing Byeonghwi doesn’t have the courage for is skipping school. He’ll be in high school soon, and then university, and he simply can’t afford to miss a day. Gicheol skips, every now and then. Byeonghwi covers for him, saying he’s sick or his mom’s car broke down, even when lying makes him feel like he’s riddled with guilt. He doesn’t know where Gicheol goes or what he does, just that he always returns the next day without fail, saying nothing about his absence. 

“Where do you go, when you aren’t in school?” Byeonghwi asks once he finally builds up the courage to do so.

The abandoned rail tunnel has become their spot. The two of them sit there now, padding the hard ground with old blankets stolen—borrowed—from Byeonghwi’s house. Most of the light comes from a flashlight laying on the ground, to supplement the little sunlight that trickles into the man-made cave.

In response, Gicheol pulls out his pack of cigarettes and flips the lid open, offering it to Byeonghwi. Confused, Byeonghwi takes one. Gicheol follows suit. He lights them both for the two of them, and inhales deeply before he says anything.

Gicheol exhales a cloud of smoke. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh.”

The lit cigarette dangles from Byeonghwi’s hand. He’s gotten only marginally better since his first time. “I won’t laugh,” he promises.

“I go to auditions,” he says.

“Auditions?” Byeonghwi repeats.

“Auditions to become a kpop idol,” Gicheol clarifies. 

That wasn’t the great secret Byeonghwi was expecting. “That’s it?”

Gicheol takes another drag from his cigarette. “I should have made you promise not to laugh and not to ridicule me.”

“I'm not,” Byeonghwi protests. “I thought you would say something else.”

“Like what? We've known each other for months now. What did you expect?”

Byeonghwi is too ashamed to share his thoughts. He has a hard time reconciling the playful, energetic boy who's become his friend with the person who walked into the classroom that fateful day. He says as much.

Gicheol laughs. “I wear the uniform like that because it's ugly as fuck. Skateboarding is faster than walking. Smoking…” He trails off. “Halmeoni and Eomma always did it around me. I thought it was normal. Halmeoni’s so absent-minded. She doesn’t notice if a pack or two disappears.”

Byeonghwi side-steps his words. “You travel to Seoul by yourself?”

“It isn’t hard after the first time.”

Byeonghwi could never do that. Traveling around his hometown is one thing, because he's lived in the same place his entire life, and he knows exactly what it's like. Traveling some five or more hours across the country to a much different, much larger city is terrifying. 

“If you’re not going to smoke, I’ll take that,” Gicheol says with a nod to the lit cigarette still in Byeonghwi’s hand.

Byeonghwi hands it to him wordlessly.

Something changes again between the two of them. Gicheol reveals more bits and pieces of his life. His dad left when he was seven. Becoming an idol is the easiest way he can think of to be a celebrity, in hopes of impressing and reconnecting with his father. The real reason he moved was for his grandmother’s ailing health, because she hoped the countryside air would be better for her.

Byeonghwi does his best to be open-minded, though he wonders how Gicheol’s mom can run a household and raise him and take care of her own mother all at the same time. He accompanies Gicheol to the local dance studio on Thursdays after school, the one day a week Byeonghwi doesn’t go to hagwon or have soccer practice. He was previously unaware such a place existed.

Gicheol fits in there with the same ease it took him to become one of Byeonghwi’s good friends. He greets everyone by name, introducing Byeonghwi as they go along to an empty practice room. 

It’s dingy and a bit dark, even with the lights on. The floor reminds him of that of a gym, complete with scratches and scuff marks. The opposite wall is covered with floor to ceiling mirrors. A bar around waist height spans the length of another wall.

Byeonghwi drops his backpack to the floor, shutting the door behind him. “Do you ever have an audience?” he asks.

“I used to, before I moved.” Gicheol connects his phone to the room’s speaker. “Sometimes I’d perform with some friends.”

“I’ll be your audience.” It comes out much more eager and enthusiastic than he intended.

Gicheol doesn’t seem to notice. “You would? Thanks.”

Before long, Byeonghwi becomes a fixture. Not in the regular dancer sort of way, but more like a furniture fixture.

“You can't come here only to watch,” Gicheol says.

But Byeonghwi likes watching him. He likes sitting on the floor or standing off to the side, entranced by the way Gicheol makes the music become part of him. It’s obvious to him, who knows nothing about music or dance, how good Gicheol is. He’s like a different person when he dances, and in a good way. Byeonghwi loves seeing him so clearly skilled and impassioned.

“I’ll teach you,” he offers.

Byeonghwi laughs nervously. “You don’t have to do that.”

Then he thinks about all the new and exciting and enjoyable experiences he’s had with Gicheol that he never would have had otherwise. He thinks about how Gicheol’s sole after school and sometimes weekend activity is coming here and dancing. He can’t take his words back.

“I want to,” Gicheol insists, oblivious to the turmoil in Byeonghwi’s head.

Byeonghwi pretends to be reluctant as he agrees.

So he becomes not a furniture fixture, but a human fixture, always in the company of Gicheol. If he knew what Gicheol’s teaching style was like, he would have accepted without hesitating at all. Gicheol can’t describe with his words what he wants Byeonghwi to do, so he positions him in front of the mirror and guides him through the movements.

Every place on Byeonghwi’s body that he touches sends another pulse of warmth through him. Each evening, he remembers all of the individual touches, whether it was a gentle guiding nudge, or a full movement of his arm.

Byeonghwi picks it up fast. It comes as a surprise. Part of it, he thinks, is that maybe he has a natural disposition for it that he never would have found otherwise. The other part of it is that he finds himself overwhelmed with the need to impress Gicheol.

The surprise when in his voice when he says, “You’re pretty good” is the greatest thing Byeonghwi has ever heard. 

He flushes at the compliment and makes it his main goal to please and surprise Gicheol, in pursuit of that same feeling over and over again.

As time passes, Byeonghwi is able to keep up more and more. He practices on his own without telling Gicheol: well within the confines of his bedroom, on sleepless nights when he can’t think of anything other than what he’ll do the next time they see each other. 

They learn kpop choreographies, because that’s what Gicheol has to know. Byeonghwi is only along for the ride. He sits back and watches as Gicheol stares at a video on his phone, moving one arm and his legs as he starts memorizing the moves. It takes him a few rewatches for him to get the general gist of each dance. Then he’ll teach the steps to Byeonghwi, who has yet to master the art of learning from watching a video on a tiny screen.

It amuses them both to no end that Gicheol is always the one out of breath by the end of a song, when he’s been dancing for much longer than Byeonghwi has. Outwardly, Byeonghwi blames it on the years he spent playing soccer. Inwardly, he knows it’s because he’s around Gicheol. If Gicheol asked him to jump, his only question would be how high?

“Something is going on with you,” Chaewook declares one evening. They're sitting on the floor of Byeonghwi's living room, supposedly working on their homework. A plate of sliced watermelon and some rinds sits between them.

Byeonghwi is doing his homework. Chaewook is eating.

“Nothing is going on,” Byeonghwi says.

“You're acting strange. Like you're not really here.”

“How can I do that?”

“Somehow.”

Chaewook has four older sisters. It seems to make him more susceptible to emotions. It's also why he likes to spend evenings at Byeonghwi's house.

He snaps his fingers. Byeonghwi looks up.

“I know why,” Chaewook says. He swallows the rest of his food quickly. “It has to do with Gicheol.”

Byeonghwi feels his heartbeat quicken in his chest and a surge of heat rush through his body. “It has nothing to do with Gicheol,” he says.

Chaewook stares him down. “You spend more time with him than you do with me. It's suspicious.”

“You count?” Byeonghwi says, deflecting the accusation, because it's true. He's been blowing off his friends a lot lately with excuses—his parents need him to run errands, he isn't feeling well, he has to study extra for the next test. They’re not completely lies. Sometimes Byeonghwi rushes through his chores and spends the rest of the time with Gicheol. Sometimes he tells himself he’s feeling fine when he’s not, or only skims over his notes. It’s all for Gicheol. Byeonghwi doesn’t know how he existed without him. It’s like his life only started the day the two of them met.

“I don't think it's good that you hang out with him so much.” Chaewook lowers his voice. “I heard he was in a gang in Seoul. Every time he skips school it's to go participate in gang activities. Yookyung-noona told me she saw him at a bar last weekend. I heard he has a fake ID to buy soju and cigarettes.”

Yookyung is Chaewook’s second oldest sister, flirty and flighty and a gossip. Byeonghwi wouldn’t take her word for it, because nothing else he just heard is true. The only one with the slightest bit of truth is Gicheol’s smoking habit. Chaewook would have an aneurysm if he knew Byeonghwi had also participated in it.

“Gicheol isn't from Seoul,” Byeonghwi says. He doesn’t reveal why Gicheol skips school. It feels like their little secret, something he clearly never revealed to anyone except Byeonghwi.

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Chaewook insists. 

There’s no winning with him. Byeonghwi can’t make an empty promise to not spend time with Gicheol, so he says, “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He puts his head down and goes back to his work, signaling to Chaewook that he’s done talking about this.

“Let’s go to an audition,” Gicheol says. It’s a freezing January evening, but they sit outside anyway, two bundled-up figures on the stone wall bordering the parking lot of their school.

For once, Gicheol isn’t smoking. He sits on his hands instead. “I heard of one next month. It’s a new company, but the founder used to work for SM Entertainment. They’re saying that if you can pass that audition, you can pass an SM one.”

“When is it?” Byeonghwi asks. He doesn’t think he has any of his own desire to participate. 

“February third.”

Byeonghwi runs through the calendar in his head. They graduate a little over a week after that, on a Saturday. “There’s school that day.”

“It’s almost the end of the school year,” Gicheol says. “It doesn’t matter if you miss one day. Have you never skipped class?”

Byeonghwi shakes his head. “No.” He can see his breath, a little white cloud of air that quickly evaporates into the dark sky.

“So let's do it. Once.”

Byeonghwi thinks about it. It never occurred to him that he could make his own choices and not go to school if he didn't want to go to school. Wants have always been difficult for him. He knows what it feels like to want something, that yearning tug in his chest. It's just that the feeling is always accompanied by one of wrongness, quickly followed by guilt.

He doesn't know if it's possible to want a person, but there's something about Gicheol that gives him the same feeling. Byeonghwi makes every excuse he can to spend hours with him, to feel the sparks that shoot up his spine when they sit like this, pressed hip to shoulder under the guise of warmth. It's an unfamiliar yet pleasant feeling, the way his heart rattles in his rib cage so frantically he thinks it might burst out, the way his mouth goes dry and his tongue twists when he tries to speak, when he tries to say things to make Gicheol laugh.

“Okay,” Byeonghwi agrees. “I'll go, once. I won’t audition, but I’ll go with you.”

He thinks about all the time they’ll have together: the almost five hour train rides each way, the rest of the day with the city at their fingertips. 

Gicheol wraps Byeonghwi up in a one-arm hug. It does nothing against the cold, yet Byeonghwi feels warmed from somewhere deep inside himself.

Later, he regrets it. The date of the audition draws closer, and Byeonghwi is forced to confront the reality of lying to his parents. He spends sleepless nights tossing and turning, wondering just how he’ll stomach it all. The thrill of spending an entire day with Gicheol does nothing to dampen his guilt.

His stomach churns in circles when the night before the audition finally arrives. They have everything planned out: Byeonghwi will sleep over at Gicheol’s house with its more absent-minded adults, citing a school project, and then they’ll sneak out early in the morning. By the time the rest of the city wakes up for school and work, they’ll be well on their way to Seoul.

Everything goes according to plan. Gicheol wakes Byeonghwi before the sun, and they slip out the door, shivering, to the train station.

The train is much warmer inside than outside. They sit in one of the middle cars, trying not to call attention to themselves. They're two teenagers and it's a weekday. It's a bit obvious that they should be in school.

Byeonghwi makes this more obvious by working on his homework. Gicheol had let him sit by the window so he could see the scenery on the way to Seoul. Byeonghwi stares at his math homework instead. 

Gicheol doesn't do much. He puts on his playlist of audition songs. There are only five of them. They share one pair of earbuds, the left side for Byeonghwi and the right for Gicheol. Byeonghwi is sick of the songs an hour into the ride.

Other than that, he stares past Byeonghwi out the window and wanders around the train and comes back with food. They eat as the landscape rolls by, nothing but empty wilderness.

Byeonghwi teaches Gicheol the basics of Go. They play on Byeonghwi's phone, passing it between the two of them with each move. It takes a few games for Gicheol to pick it up. Byeonghwi beats him handily six times in a row.

It’s easy to tell when they’ve reached Seoul. They passed through other, smaller cities on the way, but none of them can compare to the glittering skyscrapers and crowded blocks of the capital. It’s an almost entirely new experience for Byeonghwi, who hasn’t been to Seoul since he was six. 

Gicheol leads the way, striding out of the terminal with confidence. He walks faster than he normally does. Byeonghwi hurries to keep pace. 

Eventually, they find their way to the location of the audition. It’s easy to tell that they’re at the right place, judging by the line of teenage boys, young men, and some parents that snakes around the theater where the audition is taking place. Everything in the area screams at Byeonghwi that he doesn’t belong: the polish on every single other person he sees, the speeds at which the crowds move, the undercurrent of grime on the streets.

Gicheol is no exception either. He’s dressed nicer than Byeonghwi has ever seen him, wearing the slightest hint of makeup with immaculately styled hair he arranged on the train ride.

Byeonghwi follows him to a young woman who marks the end of the line. She holds a clipboard balanced on a stack of paper.

“Are you registered or a walk-in?” she asks, sounding bored.

Gicheol flashes her a bright smile and says, “Registered. For Kim Gicheol.”

He emphasizes each syllable of his name and the woman scans her list. Byeonghwi catches sight of name after name after name, words so tightly printed on the page he wonders how she can read it.

She checks his name off the list. “You have your paperwork?”

Gicheol takes it out of his backpack and shows her he's completed it.

The woman nods and turns to Byeonghwi. “And you?”

“I'm not auditioning,” he says quickly, trying to wave her away.

She looks him up and down and says, “You should try.” She hands Byeonghwi a blank form and moves on.

Holding the paper like it's contagious, he looks at the questions. They're all fairly straightforward: name, age, height, weight, talents and skills, on and on and on. 

“You should try it out,” Gicheol says.

“Can I see what you wrote?” Byeonghwi asks.

There are no surprises on Gicheol's paper. It makes sense. Byeonghwi knows his name and age. His desired position is dance. His favorite artist is Infinite. His special skills and talents are acrobatics and his tenacity. Byeonghwi doesn’t think that second one should count, but he is very tenacious.

He retrieves a pen from his pencil case. There's a spot on the paper where he can attach a picture of himself. That's not possible when he's standing here in line. He draws a stick figure self-portrait. He takes a guess at his height and weight, then adds a few centimeters to his height and knocks a few kilograms off his weight. He fumbles answers to the rest of the questions. He lists IU as his favorite artist—that sounds fine. His previous experiences with singing, acting, or modeling—none.

At the front of the line, they’re waved in in groups of ten and led to a backstage dressing room. There, their papers are collected, and they're given instructions of what comes next. The auditions take place in groups, to save time. Each of them will get a minute to introduce themselves and demonstrate their skills for the judges.

Gicheol sits on the floor of the dressing room and takes deep breaths. Byeonghwi has a sudden flood of empathy for cattle. He feels like livestock, with the way they're being herded everywhere. 

He doesn't talk to anyone else. One of the other guys in their group insists on playing his music out loud, very loudly, and practicing his dance. Gicheol stares daggers at his back until Byeonghwi distracts him with an extremely tense game of Go.

Then they move again, up a sloping hallway to one of the stage wings. From here, Byeonghwi can hear everything happening on stage. He listens to one auditionee sing. He doesn't sound bad.

A voice—one of the judges, presumably—says through a microphone, “Next,” cutting off the original singer. 

The next person introduces himself, and an upbeat dance track starts to play over the speakers. A few seconds in, the same voice stops him.

“Is this normal?" Byeonghwi whispers to Gicheol.

Gicheol shakes his head. “They usually see out your whole audition. It's polite, even if your performance is bad.”

This does not bode well for Byeonghwi. He hears only two auditions in full: one rapper who performs a whole forty-five second verse, and one vocalist who introduces himself in four languages before he sings an American pop song in flawless English.

Then it's their turn. Byeonghwi is eighth in line. Gicheol is seventh.

Byeonghwi blinks against the bright stage lights, but he doesn't squint. He tries to stay relaxed, forcing a pleasant expression onto his face. There are about seven people sitting in a row in the audience, mostly middle-aged men. Only the one in the middle holds a microphone. He must have been the one speaking and ending auditions early. 

“You may begin,” the man in the middle says.

The first of Byeonghwi's group is cut off halfway through his song. Byeonghwi forces himself to breathe. It isn't a big deal, if he’s cut off, he tells himself. He never planned to be here. What does he expect?

Two of the people before Byeonghwi and Gicheol get to perform in full. One of them is the dancer with the obnoxiously loud music. Then it's Gicheol's turn. He steps forward, announces his name loudly and fully, and starts his prepared dance routine.

Byeonghwi loves watching Gicheol dance. To be fair, he loves watching Gicheol do anything. Having seen the work he put into his craft and his final performance is a special experience, and one only he gets to have.

The seconds tick on and on. Byeonghwi waits for the inevitable signal that Gicheol's attempt is over and it's his turn.

It never comes. Gicheol's music draws to a close. He strikes an ending pose and holds it for a second, before bowing and thanking the judges. He steps back in line and grins from ear to ear at Byeonghwi.

Emboldened by his friend's success, Byeonghwi steps forward.

“Hello, my name is Lim Byeonghwi.” He bows formally, a full ninety degree bend at the waist. He holds it for maybe a beat too long, and has to push his bangs out of his eyes when he stands up.

“I’ll be singing ‘Shall I Love You Again’ by Kim Dong Ryul.”

Then he starts to sing. He picked an older song—a song the same age as him—because he thought the judges would be older. He was right on that one. Byeonghwi keeps his eyes not on the people evaluating him but the row slightly above them. Since he never heard it with Gicheol, he expects his performance to be cut short. 

It doesn't happen. He finishes his prepared verse and chorus, heartbeat triple what it should be. Then Byeonghwi bows formally again, and steps back into line.

Neither of them pass. Byeonghwi thought their performances weren't bad. At least they were able to complete their auditions. Gicheol has faced rejection so many times it’s normal to him. 

Byeonghwi never entertains the idea of auditioning ever again.

They graduate middle school and start high school. Gicheol misses the second and the fifteenth and the eighteenth days. The seat next to Byeonghwi remains cold and empty.

After school on the eighteenth day, Gicheol calls him. Byeonghwi is on his way to hagwon with Jundae and Chaewook. He slows down his walking pace, earning himself a questioning look from Jundae.

“I passed the audition!” Gicheol says over the phone. The joy in his voice is evident. Byeonghwi wishes he could see his face.

“Congratulations! That’s great,” Byeonghwi says.

He’s happy for him, of course. Gicheol participated in so many auditions, only to be rejected at the first or second phase. It was about time his skills were acknowledged.

“I thought I wasn’t going to make it,” Gicheol says. “I was nervous, because it was only my third time doing a third round audition. I forgot one of the lyrics. But I kept performing, and they liked that. My train’s almost here. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”

The line clicks.

“He passed an idol audition,” Byeonghwi explains to his friends.

“He’s still into that?” Jundae asks.

“It’s his dream.”

Jundae snorts. “It’s stupid.”

Byeonghwi doesn’t think it’s stupid. He still thinks Gicheol is cool, and so by extension, whatever he wants is also cool.

They continue in silence to hagwon.

Gicheol comes back that night flush with excitement.

“They gave me the offer while I was still there,” he says when Byeonghwi meets him at the station.

It’s late at night, but Gicheol’s energy is invigorating. After a few hours of cramming his head full of Korean history dates, he needs this.

They walk slowly back home. It’s cold, but in a pleasant way, not the piercing cold that somehow penetrates all of Byeonghwi’s layers during the depths of winter.

“They said I could move in as soon as I wanted. The company is small, so I wasn’t sure what they’d offer. They house all their trainees together and I won’t have to pay for anything until I debut.” Gicheol chatters away, more excited than Byeonghwi’s ever heard him.

He’s happy, so Byeonghwi should be too. But what he feels instead is dread. He knew Gicheol would leave eventually. It shouldn’t be so surprising, and it shouldn’t hurt the way it does.

“When will you be on TV?” he asks lightly, burying the dread deep down.

“I don’t know yet,” Gicheol says, looking slightly crestfallen. “I’m only a trainee until my agency thinks I’m ready to debut. I’d do it now, if I could.”

“I’ll wait,” Byeonghwi says, “for as long it takes.”

Gicheol gives him a strange look. Byeonghwi’s heart stops. He’s said the wrong thing, and now Gicheol thinks he’s weird and won’t want to be friends with him anymore and—

“I guess that makes you my first fan,” Gicheol says.

Byeonghwi feels like he’s soaring.

Gicheol loses access to his phone. He warns Byeonghwi of this in advance. It still surprises and worries him when his texts remain unread and unanswered except for a very specific period of a few hours on the weekends. 

Byeonghwi memorizes it. He makes sure he’s available, evading Chaewook and locking himself in his bedroom to smile at his phone screen when Gicheol finally texts back. It pales in comparison to having the real Gicheol next to him. 

Looking back at his old texts after nearly a week always feels a bit weird. He’s sure whatever problems and news he has can’t hold a candle to Gicheol’s new idol and city experiences. He’s afraid Gicheol will see them and laugh, or consider his messages trivial and childish. He’s probably busy making cooler, more interesting friends than Byeonghwi.

But Gicheol responds to everything diligently, reacting appropriately to every message. Sometimes Byeonghwi calls and tells him all of the rumors that popped up, seemingly out of nowhere, following Gicheol’s move to Seoul. They laugh about the ridiculousness of one of the latest reasons: Gicheol is secretly a chaebol heir, who had to flee in the first place because of arguments and assassination attempts over who the company really belonged to.

Byeonghwi brings up some of the older ones too, like the bars and the fake ID. He expects Gicheol to laugh along with those too, until he says, “I do have a fake.”

Byeonghwi stops laughing. “You do?”

“I thought it might be useful, but I don’t use it,” Gicheol says.

There are no situations Byeonghwi would ever find himself in that a fake ID would help him in. He stays quiet, and Gicheol changes the subject.

Byeonghwi continues to send his highlights during the week, and Gicheol responds over the weekends. Sometimes they call, sometimes they text.

And then one weekend, Byeonghwi gets a text with perfect grammar and punctuation. It reads, simply enough, Please stop contacting me. Gicheol doesn’t text like that. He never uses punctuation and drops all his particles. Byeonghwi responds with a number of question marks. His message isn’t even read, despite it still being within the two hour time period Gicheol usually has his phone.

He calls, twice. Both times, Gicheol’s phone rings and rings and rings. Byeonghwi listens to his voice mail message just to hear his voice.

Time ticks on and on. Gicheol never responds. Byeonghwi lies listlessly in bed, staring at his blank phone screen.

A few weeks later, he receives another call. This one is from Zenith Entertainment, with a revision of results from the audition he attended. They want him to audition again. He thinks about Gicheol living in Seoul and the Gicheol-shaped hole in his heart. It’s only been a little over a month since he left. It might as well be a lifetime. Byeonghwi immediately accepts.

The woman on the other end of the line asks if he's available tomorrow. Byeonghwi thinks about how he's supposed to go to school, and tells her he can make it.

The train ride is lonely without Gicheol. He listens to music for most of it, reviewing the few songs and choreographies he does know. He spends the rest of the ride assuring his friends he's fine and hasn’t been replaced by an alien with a willingness to bend the rules who happens to look like him—Chaewook’s words.

From the Seoul station, he navigates to the address he was given. When he checked the map earlier, the building was marked as a copywriting agency. Byeonghwi remembers Gicheol telling him about how the company is new—he remembers every small detail Gicheol has ever mentioned to him—and decides he’ll trust the woman on the phone.

The sign on the building reads “SEOUL COPYWRITERS INCORPORATED,” just like it does online. Byeonghwi stares at it for a moment and double checks his location. He stands on the sidewalk for a moment, weighing his options.

Then the double doors swing open and a young man walks out, dressed in a loose button-up tucked into a pair of slacks. Byeonghwi figures he’s a copywriting employee, until he calls out, “Lim Byeonghwi? For Zenith Entertainment?”

Byeonghwi almost jumps. “Yes, that’s me.”

The young man smiles at him. “I’m Jaeseop.” He holds his right hand out, Western-style. Byeonghwi hurries to shake it. Jaeseop’s grip is firm and solid. It’s oddly comforting.

“I know the signs are confusing,” Jaeseop says as they enter the building together. “The company offices are on the third floor. I keep saying we need our own sign, but apparently it’s easier for me to go up and down every time.”

The first floor appears to be a lobby of some sorts. A young woman sitting behind a computer screen looks up when they first walk in. She turns back to her work as they head toward the elevator. 

The elevator arrives quickly, giving Byeonghwi barely any time to take in the rest of the building’s interior. They ride up to the third floor in silence.

He feels inappropriately dressed. He thought this would be an idol audition with singing and dancing. He wonders if every small entertainment company looks like this.

The elevator opens to a long hallway with doors on both sides. Jaeseop leads him almost all the way down the hallway.

“We’ll be in here,” he says, pushing open a door and gesturing for Byeonghwi to step inside first.

It looks like a conference room. Most of the room is occupied by a long table with twelve chairs. The walls are white and featureless. One of them has a shelf built on it, empty and white and featureless. A projector screen along another wall seems to be only decoration, if that even counts as a decoration.

A middle-aged man, the same one who sat in the middle at the audition, sits at the table with a laptop and a few papers in front of him. The top one is Byeonghwi’s audition form. There are a number of pictures of his face paperclipped to the top, printed on glossy photo paper. He only vaguely remembers taking a few photos on the way out from his audition.

The man faces the door, looking up when Byeonghwi and Jaeseop arrive.

“Have a seat, Byeonghwi,” he says, nodding at the chair opposite of him. Byeonghwi sits.

Jaeseop crosses the room and takes a seat next to the man.

“My name is Lee Taein,” the man says. “I’m the founder and CEO of Zenith Entertainment.”

Byeonghwi surges to his feet so he can execute a formal ninety-degree bow. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he says formally. The only knowledge he has about kpop auditions is what he’s heard from Gicheol, and he never mentioned anything about a talk with his label’s CEO.

“Likewise,” Taein says, sounding amused. 

Byeonghwi doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. He sits back down.

“Let’s start with you,” Taein says. “Tell me about yourself.”

“My name is Lim Byeonghwi,” he begins, like Taein doesn’t know his name. “I was born in Jecheon, and I’ve lived there my entire life.”

Jaeseop nods encouragingly, and Byeonghwi continues on. 

“I’m a high school first year. I was part of my middle school’s soccer team. I stopped playing in high school because I thought I should concentrate on my academics and pursue other interests.”

He leaves it open-ended for them to assume that another interest of his is being an idol. His real other interest is learning what Gicheol is doing in Seoul and asking Gicheol why he stopped talking to him and finding a place for himself in Gicheol’s life. The pursuit consumes him, but Byeonghwi doesn’t mind.

Taein never asks him to sing or dance or model or anything like that. He asks a series of questions that seem to be more about Byeonghwi’s personality. What’s his greatest strength? Biggest weakness? Where does he see himself in ten years? What could he bring to a group? Has he faced any conflicts while working in a team, and how did he solve it?

Byeonghwi answers each one as honestly and thoughtfully as he can while Jaeseop takes diligent notes. He isn’t sure what Taein wants to hear. He wonders if all auditions are like this. He wonders if he should ask if he has to sing or dance again.

“For my last question, I want you to be honest.”

Byeonghwi feels nothing but relief. He needs this—whatever it is—to be over already. He’s sweating through his shirt. It’s sticking to his back and he’s afraid of raising his arms.

“Do you want to be an idol?” Taein asks.

Byeonghwi weighs the question in his head. It seems to him that the obvious answer is yes. He should want to be an idol. He thinks about lying. Would he be able to live with himself if he lied when he was explicitly asked for honesty?

“No,” he answers truthfully, “but with time, I think I could.”

Taein nods, expressionless. “Thank you for taking the time to talk with me. You’ll hear back from me with your results in a few days. Jaeseop will see you out.”

Zenith Entertainment doesn’t provide housing like Gicheol’s company does. Byeonghwi doesn’t learn this until after he accepts the final offer and is faced with the extremely daunting task of moving his life to Seoul. It looked easy when Gicheol did it.

He looks at impossibly expensive apartments for a few days, despairing because he has no way of paying or living on his own. He’s beginning to think that maybe this is all over before it even began when Jaeseop saves his life.

Jaeseop, who turns out to be a trainee and not the personal assistant Byeonghwi thought he was, bears an offer from another trainee who lives alone. 

“He’s a few years older than you,” Jaeseop says over the phone. “And he doesn’t have another bedroom.”

When Gicheol still talked to him, Byeonghwi heard worse stories of too many people in too small rooms. He figures two people in an apartment meant for one is nowhere near as bad. 

He barely thinks before he accepts the offer. He learns only a little more about his new roommate: his name is Andrew, he’s American, he has a bachelor’s degree in music composition, he attended the same audition Byeonghwi did—how funny is that?

Byeonghwi’s head spins, thinking more of how close he is to chasing down Gicheol than how he’s uprooting his own life.

He sends Gicheol a text: moving to seoul!!! It sits, unread, beneath the few other sporadic texts Byeonghwi had sent him anyway. If he really didn’t want to talk to him, he would have blocked him or changed his number or something more drastic.

For now, he’s buoyant with hope. He’ll find Gicheol again, and everything will go back to the way it was—the way it should be.

[fcble]

do you feel like the leader of the group was correctly chosen and if not, who else could take their place ?

## BYEONGHWI : “Everyone knows Jaeseop is our leader because his uncle is the CEO. He's good enough at it. Our performance leader is Mingeun because he has the most experience and the highest standards, but he couldn’t do what Jaeseop does. He always starts problems instead of solving them.”

He pauses briefly, as if imagining what a group under Mingeun’s leadership would be like before moving on. 

“If I had to pick someone else to be the leader, I’d pick Andrew. He’s smart and he speaks well. I think he’d be good at it.”