#costar: kiyong

[draed]

@cr4shc0urse

"my toothpaste is fun," wonshik tries to argue fruitlessly, as if brushing your teeth is every truly fun at all. it's lucky sunhee interrupts them before he starts off on a tangent. wonshik resists the urge to crowd into kiyong and instead settles into his spot in the doorway, his shadow stretching back into the room behind him like a ghost. there are no cameras that could catch them here, in this bathroom. it almost feels like a liminal space: sunhee and kiyong and wonshik in this realm reality can't touch, free to be whoever they are in those uncertain moments.

"and i pay the kiyong tax every time he's over. who do you think has been buying the condoms?" that comment would probably cause derailment in every other situation, but then the topic shifts and wonshik shuts his mouth. slowly, like he's reaching out for a spooked animal, wonshik puts his hand over kiyong's, a silent support. it's a bonus if it stops the fidgeting.

the whole situation is so messed up. a couple of nights ago, he'd been in kiyong's bed, and they'd kept quiet as they heard his roommate shuffle around in the bathroom, the fan whirring overhead. now, people are moving his stuff. the guy's not even been pronounced dead yet. there's no body, but the way everyone's been talking he might as well be buried already, deep in the ground and with the funeral over and done with. another check on the list.

it's not that he doesn't get the impulse to get wasted. wonshik feels it deep in his stomach, in fact: a pull drawing him towards intoxication. that's exactly why he thinks he should ignore those thoughts, because if there's one thing chae wonshik is familiar with it's bad fucking coping mechanisms and questionable decisions. he can't deny that kiyong has a point about his toothbrush, though.

but: he's the voice of reason in this trio. so wonshik pulls a face and tugs at kiyong's fingers. "isn't the bathroom part of an active investigation now?" they probably shouldn't go in at all, even if kiyong has a claim to his scattered items. wonshik leans around him to try and catch sunhee's eyes. "i don't know if we should be going. maybe reception has a spare toothbrush if this is really a problem."

@cr4shc0urse & @draed — LOST AND

"or another room, at least? that's got to be fucked up, if they're making you stay in yours." she wonders if police have confiscated anything. does kiyong have a bunch of yellow tape around his bathroom now? she's surprised it took him this long to come over if they just left all of heesung's stuff in place.

It could be that part of the problem with relaxing is that everything looks identical. Wonshik’s room, mapped out like Kiyong’s own, and the bathroom with the same pale tiling that hints at a pattern without committing, like whatever nondescript hotel designer they hired to construct the place was concerned about pleasing everyone, and by the end of it pleased no one. That’s how it works, people pleasing, and even knowing this Kiyong can’t say anything about it because that about sums up his entire personality on this show. Placidly neutral and smiling when he feels the camera lens zoom in on him, nothing going on behind his eyes. And lately Kiyong’s been feeling the camera looking him, a near-physical thing. But he doesn’t talk about that right now, because it sounds insane, and then they’ll think he’s having a mental break because of Heesung and he’s not. He kicks the counter harder, “Look, I’ll kiss you but I’m not shoving your toothbrush in my mouth, if we’re sharing bacteria it at least has to be fun.” Does Kiyong actually care? Maybe to probably not, but Sunhee opening up her door helps him dodge at suspicion, so he turns and grins her way instead. That’s how you make it look like you’re not in mourning, Kiyong’s pretty sure. Smile a whole lot. Even though it stops feeling like a smile and more like a mask that takes too much effort to keep in place. Like the one he wore on set, only worse, because this one’s made out of his own skin. “What am I, a raccoon?” he uncaps Wonshik’s cologne left out on the counter and smells it anyway, not because he actually cares, but because he’s still got that jump of static in his limbs, like he needs to keep jerking himself into motion or else he’ll collapse. Some awkwardly put together marionette doll. "Are they letting you stay with wonshik now?" She says it so easy it’s a little unfair. “Nope.” Kiyong sprays some of the cologne on his wrist instead of meeting the look Sunhee’s pointing at him. “I think I heard some people, production crew? Talking about cleaning it out in case, like, someone needs a spare, so. I think where I’m sleeping is low on the priority list.” He recaps the bottle and slides it back into place. “And it’s whatever. It doesn’t matter, it’s just a room. A room that has my toothbrush. And so much soju.” Off the counter again, and he’s moving. Not out the door, not yet, Wonshik’s blocking one end and Sunhee the other. He settles on moving his hands instead, fingers tapping in something that looks almost agitated. “Let’s just…go get wasted, yeah? Unless we’re thinking trapping me in the bathroom to talk through my feelings is gonna help with much of anything.” It won’t, by virtue of Kiyong believing most of the feelings that crawl through his body are the kind of things that people would prefer to look away from. Like a monster under the bed, or roadkill. Kiyong does want to get wasted, but he also wants to go back upstairs without being alone. Because he’s not so sure what’s behind that door, but he really wants to know, in the same way someone really wants to know whether there’s someone breaking in through the window. That is to say, not at all, but in a way where you’re propelled forward and into it. An inevitable dread.

[draed]

maybe the beach had been a bad idea, because kiyong's grip on wonshik's shirt when he stumbles is so tight it pulls the fabric right over wonshik's stomach. not the strength of a man trying to overcorrect a stumble: wonshik gets one look at kiyong's face and can tell there's something else going on. far be it from him to pry, but what the hell is that about? they're not even that close to the spot where the waves lap at the sand.

kiyong's voice is dry when he replies. wonshik drops back, throws away his disappointing find, and re-appears at kiyong's side: between him and the water this time, nudging them a bit further onto the shore so he won't step into the wet and ruin his sneakers. "kinda. everyone used to talk about this place, right?" there had been a phase, when wonshik was a teen and finally old enough to actually watch these movies he'd been part of as a child, when he'd watched all the adaptations back to back, digging into fan-created forums for feedback. his own performance had gone over well enough, but he'd closed his myriad of open tabs after he'd read one too many comments about him being so cute!

"i dunno, i guess i can see why they chose this spot to film. but man, this is kinda like - all those moody movies about sad and lonely men with dead wives. that's the vibe this place has got." it's not bad, really. wonshik can appreciate it, viewed through a filmmaker's lense. if only there was a little more sun and warmth. he wouldn't have been opposed to going for a swim if he weren't sure he'd freeze to death.

he shrugs at the comment about habits wonshik knows, deep down, he's not shaken entirely yet, not eager to get into that at all. addiction is so fucking sticky. you think you get rid of it, but nope - look, you've stepped into it again! it doesn't help that there's a certain subsect of people who are hoping for him to relapse, if only to be proven right. "my fans know what i eat for breakfast," he deflects instead, "'cause there's a whole bunch of people in the comments every single time asking how i like my eggs." what makes it funnier is that kiyong's the one who's ended up in wonshik's bed, and wonshik's pretty sure he doesn't know and isn't eager to learn that wonshik's a sunny side up kind of guy who takes his coffee black.

"agents, right? always on our asses." get your act together. he's doing well now, but he still remembers very clearly those conversations he'd had in 2015, 2022. "it's gonna be easy work. no lines to learn, go home with a decent paycheck. and you know what, i'm happy you showed. i'm sharing with sunhee, y'know?" he's talking about the bathroom between their bedrooms, connecting them and, hopefully, the booze they're going to carry up. "we'll have some fun, even if this place is fucking bleak."

@draed —

"but really, i didn't think you'd wanna come." between them, wonshik figures he's the one more comfortable with the media, cameras in his face that aren't the ones they use on set. call it exposure therapy, a natural inclination towards the spotlight, or a whole lot of early-childhood training; wonshik's good at it. "would've been nice if they had decided to film in summer instead though. all of this would've been way more scenic with a little sun."

The sand slides out from underneath the thin rubber of Kiyong’s sneakers like a threat to throw him down. He knows that’s where water likes you, off your feet and twisted around yourself, the air wrung out from lungs like an old dishrag. It can’t happen, he’s too far from the surf for the water to drag him in. But it keeps pummeling into his brain, that thought. That memory. And then he stumbles, too caught up in the moment and that fucking sand running out from under him. He doesn’t fall, and the water’s still too far away, but he reaches out with a fist twisted into Wonshik’s shirt to steady himself. His grip is terror-tight, and it takes him a beat too long to rip his hand free. He doesn’t look at Wonshik when he starts talking, even if it’s dark out, like he’s scared Wonshik might be able to dredge out that fear from his face under the thin light of the moon. “Really? Is it living up to your expectations so far?” The tone’s all leached out from his voice, like he can’t find it in himself to match up with Wonshik viewpoint on this whole experience. But he can’t actually kick that thought out from himself, not when he’s standing here with him. Wonshik stops, his presence fading out behind him as Kiyong keeps moving forward. The distance gives him time to pull in a few deep inhales, enough to ease at the rattle of his heart xylophoning around in his ribcage. “They don’t know that though, for all they think you have piles stored up. Besides, your fans are probably frothing at the mouth just to see what you eat for breakfast.” Realistically and Kiyong would hate that, that level of curiosity, people pushing past boundaries. Like carving away skin to get a clearer picture of the person underneath; the idea of it feels morbid. It doesn’t match up, necessarily, with the way Kiyong craves attention and affection. It all feels at odds and jagged in his body, wanting and not wanting and he can’t figure out how to placate himself without spiraling. “I didn’t. But I dropped out of a movie I was in and then this came. And my agent was basically like…” Kiyong kicks at a clump of sand as he walks, just to push off talking for a little longer, “if you don’t go on this fucking show and get it together I’m going to drop you. So. Here I am.” This is the truth, and not the made-for TV answer that he dropped the movie so he could appear on the show. If Kiyong knew the show was going to happen, maybe he wouldn’t have let go of that opportunity so easy. “I dunno if it would be scenic either way, it’s kind of whatever.” Or maybe that’s just because it reminds Kiyong of where he was raised, only with more water.

[draed]

@cr4shc0urse

in 2023, filming for circles, wonshik had slipped into the shoes of mark. mark, just the name: no surname needed in a movie that kept turning around its own axis, pitting him and his estranged girlfriend against each other and forcing them them to reconnect over and over again. to prepare, wonshik had read the novel the movie had been based on, laid on the floor with his eyes closed trying to feel the sort of dread and grief inhabiting a man losing his carefully curated life like a rug pulled out from under himself. mark had been grief-stricken, turned distant because his mother had died unexpectedly, and he'd been such a momma's boy that he had previously been unable to decide on his own what career to pursue, which woman to marry, and what to cook for dinner.

wonshik doesn't feel like that now. he hopes to never feel that pathetic, even if his own view of the character might be particularly uncharitable because the director kept asking them reshoot, where are your emotions?? but that sense of loss is real, muddling with the uncertainty of what might've happened to heesung. wonshik wasn't even close to the guy or anything. but there's that, his own feelings on the matter, and then there's kiyong in his bed: restless and unconvincing in his attempts to act the opposite, clearly distraught enough to seek comfort in whatever wonshik is to him. despite how much wonshik would like to box up the situation and never think about it again, it's pretty difficult to do when you've got part of it sitting next to you.

"did you even really try," he snorts, waits for kiyong to stop jostling the mattress before attempting to turn back to the book he's been paging through half-heartedly. there's the sound of kiyong picking through his shit, or maybe sunhee's. wonshik puts away his entertainment and waits for what comes next: probably either a comment about the cologne he uses or a complaint of some kind.

he's proven right moments later, already on the move. wonshik props his shoulder up against the doorframe and squashes down that part of him that thinks that kiyong looks pretty there, messed up hair and up on the counter where he'd be easy to kiss. "just use mine." who the hell would pack an extra toothbrush? not wonshik, that's for sure. not on a trip like this. wonshik nods at his open toiletry bag. "did you go through sunhee's stuff too or am i that special?"

LOST AND — @cr4shc0urse & @draed ROOM 316 (NOT FOR LONG) - BORDERING ON NIGHT WONSHIK'S BED LOOKS LIKE A BURIAL MOUND AND SUNHEE'S ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THAT DOOR, (JUST LIKE HEESUNG WAS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF HIS DOOR)

He’d come here to run away. Kiyong’s always been good a that. It just turns out that Heesung is hard to run away from, even if he doesn’t even have any legs left to chase him with. Not working ones, at least. That’s what everyone thinks. That he must be somewhere gone and dead, littered on the ocean floor with all those old soda bottles and chipped seashell. Kiyong can’t imagine a worse grave. He’d thought a floor down and maybe Heesung’s memory would’ve gotten all turned around and left him alone. But it didn’t. He just keeps thinking about him. It. The situation. That’s what someone had called it, one of the PD’s, maybe. It all came down too fast and too hard, like a concussion. It left him just as disoriented. The situation. Which really just means ‘shut up about it, because this is a real horror and not the kind of make believe noise marketing we actually wanted to film.’ This is worse than letting them mop up his grief with a camera lens, the being forced to pretend that Heesung’s either fine or that he never existed in the first place, when he very much did. Right on the other side of Kiyong's bathroom door, actually. He’s taken over Wonshik’s bed for the past, well. Hours. Some amount of them. But he can’t bring himself to actually care, because of the situation. Was it just the PD, or had the cop told him that too, when they were interviewing him? Kiyong can’t even remember how he’d answered them. If he did. Part of the problem could be that Kiyong’s never actually experienced a death like this. Sure, older relatives have gone, but those are expected deaths. Life worn out from the spine until they're stooped down and reaching toward that grave, calling it a comfort. There were a couple of younger ones, two maybe, people he sort of knew from back home. But that was said to him second hand and after the fact, so it felt like an echo. Heesung’s was a scream. Not a Wilhelm scream, from all those horror movies. The kind of scream that forces it’s way up and out of you, choking and guttural. An animal scream, where it sounds all wrong and unnatural. Because that’s what this is, wrong and unnatural. Heesung shouldn’t be dead. Kiyong knows this like he knows his bones. An innate understanding that he doesn’t have to see to know is real. “I give up on sleeping.” Kiyong pulls himself up from the wadded mess he’s made of Wonshik’s sheets. He’s close enough that Kiyong can throw an arm around his shoulder. He tucks his chin in against the other side of his neck, can feel the sharp angle of his collarbone against his jaw and ignores it. Ignores that he hasn’t actually made an effort to sleep in the first place, he’s still got his jeans on and the grime of an energy drink sits stale on his tongue. Maybe the caffeine is still sitting inside of him too, because he’s up, climbing over the heap of Wonshik and bypassing him into the bathroom. He leaves the door open and clatters around inside, one foot kicking at the other door of that bathroom as he sits up against the counter. Was it premeditated and louder than it needed to be? Maybe. “You don’t have an extra toothbrush?” He calls that out too loud, too, even if he’s pretty sure he can hear Wonshik following in after him. It's for more than just Wonshik's ears. From his experience, Sunhee's easier to talk into things than Wonshik is.

[draed]

there's something about the terrain on this island. wonshik grew up by the sea, but not really: half an hour, and you could get there from the house he was born into. closer in the states, but there's that distance that's more emotional than anything. the salt in the air doesn't smell familiar; wonshik looks out at the force of the tides and thinks to himself that he prefers manmade terrors. there's a half-step missing in-between him and this landscape, an everlasting what if: what if he'd learnt to surf, or gone drinking at the beach, or took one of those girls on a walk along the coast.

but now it's a man he's with, and maybe there's something to that, too. the sand below them is damp and well-compacted, but some of it still got into his sneaker. it's the kind of mild annoyance you don't take notice of until you focus on it, by which point it turns into a real problem. but wonshik is good at ignoring those. instead, he drags his gaze from the horizon over to kiyong's pinches expression.

"i thought it might be fun." the smile is real, but the truth is that wonshik's just way too fucking attached to it all. when the invitation had fluttered its way onto his doorstep, it had felt like a responsibility min taekwoo himself had bestowed upon him: go forth and see it through, or some other bullshit like that. he probably would've felt guilty about it if he hadn't. like: these movies are the reason you've even got a career, so why aren't you honouring that properly? are you that ungrateful for all a dead man has done for you?

he stops dead in his tracks to lean down and dig into the sand, only to unearth a broken shell that isn't worth keeping. wonshik chucks it back into the sea and hurries to catch back up to kiyong. "i mean, maybe, but i'm not that interesting. all my dirty laundry's been aired already." he nudges kiyong back, the sort of good humour that makes it obvious he's not digging at his companion. "but really, i didn't think you'd wanna come." between them, wonshik figures he's the one more comfortable with the media, cameras in his face that aren't the ones they use on set. call it exposure therapy, a natural inclination towards the spotlight, or a whole lot of early-childhood training; wonshik's good at it. "would've been nice if they had decided to film in summer instead though. all of this would've been way more scenic with a little sun."

UNDERCURRENT - @draed THE BEACH - NIGHT KIYONG AND WONSHIK APPEAR, SMALL IN THE DISTANCE, AS THEY SLOWLY MOVE TOWARD THE WATER - It crashes, those waves. They’re heavy. Kiyong can hear it in the way they pummel into the sand. Churning up rocks and shells and hiding tangled ropes of seaweed in the swells. This wasn’t Kiyong’s idea, not with the way his pulse is jack-hammering its way against his wrist, like it might be intent to carve its way right out from his skin. It went like this: eyes met over dinner for a beat too long in a way that Kiyong knew meant he wanted to have a conversation, Wonshik. So why was it Kiyong that ended up texting him as the clock crawled toward ten? Probably because he’s been taking near any excuse to escape the hotel from the moment he walked into it. Regret settles stone-heavy in his chest and refuses to move. SENT: im leaving, going somewhere without cameras. you coming? WONSHIK: beach? So they’re at the beach. He hasn’t decided if this is better or worse than the hotel. Sea-brine sticks to the inside of his sinuses and stings, he wipes at his nose with the edge of his sleeve and tries for subtle. In the dark and maybe he doesn’t come up short. “So…” the sentence doesn’t find an end, the sound swallowed up by the rush of waves. Kiyong walks them straight against the sand without veering closer to the water, it’s cold anyway. That’s normal. He slips one hand into his pocket and fiddles with the metal catch of his lighter. Suddenly and he wishes he were alone with a high stack of dried out driftwood to set fire to. Here, he should say something like ‘how’ve you been?’ but he doesn’t feel like it, so all he has to listen to are those rhythmic fucking waves. “Kinda surprised you showed for this, would’ve thought you had bigger things to do.” That’s what he settles on, and it’s mostly the truth. A large enough block of time where you’re locked in place, by now Wonshik seems too big to put up with it. Not that Kiyong can talk, if he hadn’t pulled out of scheduled filming he would’ve had an excuse not be here, too. Maybe he just wants to commiserate. “Not that I’m complaining. I figure they’ll be real focused on you the whole time.” he jabs an elbow into Wonshik’s side to punctuate that statement, a laugh that shakes any idea that it might be jealousy. Kiyong, alone and without a character, isn’t sure he likes being filmed after all. This is the idea of a truth, and Kiyong doesn’t have those sorts of ideas often. He much prefers lying.