#gyu is so embarrassing but also SO EMO???

[rkxsunggyu-blog]

TRC’S Triple Threat Challenge | Pray & Loser (Sunny Hill & BigStar Mashup)⚙️  Time: 1:36

The first words out of his mouth weren’t ones he meant to say aloud: “WOW, it’s really Tiger JK!” He’s so shocked to see one of his heroes that he stands there, dumbfounded and clutching the microphone with sweaty palms. This is happening. This is really, really happening. If he wasn’t held upright by the metal braces encapsulating his legs, his knees would be knocking together. 

“Hello, I’m twenty-three year old Kim Gyusung-- I MEAN, Kim Sunggyu!” he stutters. The sour sting of bile surges from his stomach to the back of his throat. It takes everything in him not to projectile vomit at the judges table. His nervous laughter is accompanied by the usual snorting, amplified to nightmarish proportions by the microphone. “I’m p-performing a song that has a special meaning to me,” he says. Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breaths. 

“I’m the Triple Threat that’ll keep on multiplying!”

Why did he say that? Why did he say something so cheesy and cringe-worthy? He can’t go anywhere without coming off like a goof, can he? Embarrassing himself wasn’t part of his audition plan, which was meticulously outlined in a journal at home. Sunggyu’s strategy for the performance is to stay within his ability. As he takes a deep breath, he reminds himself to keep his performance clean. He can’t let the competition make him desperate. From the moment he’s stepped on stage, he’s been restraining the desire to kick his performance up a notch. It’s tempting to add vocal runs or extra flair in his dance. But, he refrains and sticks to his plan. It’s better to be excellent with the basics than be mediocre – or worse, make a total fool of himself – by trying to reach the level of the other contestants. Even if he doesn’t realize it, his charisma may carry most of his audition.

Sunggyu does a complete bow before the judges, clicks the microphone back onto the stand, and takes a deep breath. He’s going to tackle dancing first. The crowd must be wondering, he supposes, how someone like him planned on dancing. For the first few nights after reading about the competition, he’d wondered too. The official rules never outlined what kind of dance they wanted to see. As long as it classifies as a dance, he can check off that box for the competition requirements. It’s unrealistic for him, both physically and training-wise, to burst into contemporary dance. The competition seemed impossible. He’d mused that if sleight of hand counted as a dance form, then maybe his zero chance of winning could be bumped up to one percent. He’s always been good with his hands -- quick with working wooden puzzles, excellent sleight-of-hand for his magic tricks, and fast to wrap holiday presents at his mother’s shop.

His hands. His hands were the solution. He doesn’t need his legs to dance.

It’s just his style to have a clever answer for everything. 

The music begins, but there’s not a single instrument to be heard. Instead, it’s a careful selection of sound effects he’d spliced together on a friend’s computer. Screeching tires. Scrunched metal. Heavy breathing. Cellphone dial tone. Sirens. All the while, he’s been creating a story using his upper body alone. It’s a form of street dance called tutting, the art of creating illusions through finger and wrist movement. Masters can make it look hypnotic -- like their bones are liquid, like their muscles are silk, and like each movement is a puzzle piece sliding into place. Sunggyu is only moderate in skill, but his background in sleight of hand finally seems useful. His fingers loop and twirl, wrists rotate and snap, and shoulders roll when necessary. He concentrates and is thankful he didn’t choreograph anything beyond his current capabilities. He needs to finish the combinations seamlessly if he doesn’t want to look like a fool. 

Here comes his favorite part. Sunggyu closes his eyes and keeps them shut, but it’s part of the routine rather than nerves. In the backing track, the sirens fade so voices can be heard instead. He’d recorded one of his friends saying “clear” and melded it with another royalty free sound effect: the zap of a defibrillator. Eyes still closed, his hands are clasped over his chest as he introduces another street style. He’s bopping, isolating the chest to move it back and forth while flexing. Every time he hears a zap, he double-bops and stops. There are only three zaps to save time and on the third, the hands locked over his chest unfurl like flower petals. They twirl in a final, spinning illusion and grab the microphone. He hopes that he made it clear his hands were supposed to represent his heart...or should he not have done that? It’s not like he’s supposed to be writing an essay thesis on stage.  

The background transition to the instrumentals are choppy, no better than the average high school student assigned an editing project. But, the ideas and authenticity were still there. A great performer can entertain. A great artist can make people feel -- make them cry until each blink stings, make them belly laugh until they gasp for air, unbottle the emotions they keep inside of them. He might not be able to hit a whistle note, but he could try telling a story with his voice. 

“Someone told me...”

The first few notes wobble. He’s nervous, no matter how meticulously he’s prepared. From the baggy clothes to help mask stiff body movements to the chunky glasses that obscure most of his face, he’s put thought into every detail. Then why is he sinking? 

...To pray, to dream...”

The next few notes wobbles, too. The stakes are high and he’s choking. He’s choking in front of Tiger JK – oh, and it’s so obvious. The performance anxiety happened the morning of the modeling competition as well, but he doesn’t have a bottle of soju to loosen him up this time. All he has is himself. He closes his eyes and thinks about his performances at the spring festival. He thinks of his candid performance of To The Happy World. He thinks of how free he felt – the whirling, soaring, cage-breaking feelings as his worries slipped away. Sunggyu feels the tension in his shoulders melt away. 

Now, his notes are crystal clear. They’re strong and it’s free, just like that day at the festival. He came in with nothing, so nothing is lost if he leaves empty-handed. 

That it will come true no matter what it is Tell me everything, please look and tell me Please tell me to stop.

He knows that feeling. He knows that earth-shattering moment when you realize your parents and teachers lied to you. Nobody is special in this world; your report cards and mother’s report cards don’t mean shit in society. There’s no safety, no guarantees, and no happily ever afters when you’re an adult. Maybe you’re not good as everyone thought you were. Maybe you’re disappointing them. Your teachers promised that you could be astronauts and CEOs, but you end off paying debt by doing laundry for rich kids. Maybe your parents promised to protect you from the monster in your closet, but what about the bank? The big, cold building that seizes your home and let’s you sleep on the streets. You can’t just wish on a star for a home, even if all your childhood movies promised it would come true. 

You know this, yet you keep dreaming. You keep dreaming and dreaming. You wish you could give up. Oh, you would give anything to stamp hope out like a light. Hope is cruel, mocking you as you dig your own grave of fantasy and make-believe.

I only hear rough, heartless sighs I never get to hear a sigh of relief I’m praying and calling for someone to rescue me.

If everything is going to plan, he should be around forty-nine seconds into the audition. Instead of jumping into the chorus, he’s inserted a rap segment that went well with the instrumental. The original song didn’t have a rap portion, so he’d selected one that helped convey his story best. The weight of people’s eyes -- expecting entertainment and ready to thrash him online if they didn’t get it -- fall heavy on him. His hands are sweaty and he grips the microphone a little harder, not wanting it to slip.

Honestly, I’ve never fit in with the world I was always alone It’s been a long time since I’ve forgotten about love I can’t listen to hopeful love songs anymore You and me both We’re just sad clowns, tamed and scripted I’ve come too far I’m coming home I wanna go back to when I was young.

He hopes he delivered the lines the way he wanted to; abandoned and bitter.  Rapping to one of Tiger JK’s own artists was pretty ballsy. He feels like he’s moving into autopilot to keep from breaking apart on stage. Would that piss off the CEO? It’s a quick, twenty second rap to make sure he qualifies all the requirements. But, it was carefully selected to emphasize what he wanted people to feel from his performance. He’s careful that way -- an authentic individual, even if at times he’s written off as a fool or outright crashes and burns.

The rap should clock in at twenty seconds and without wasting time, he dives back into the song. He’s delivering the chorus, then a few closing lines taken from the end of the song that should wrap up the performance well. 

Stand by me in necessary Little by little you get more sick Lalala lalala lalala lalala Don’t cry for me and I’m sorry

He’d only tampered with the lyrics once. In his eyes, it was a good reason: he never wants people to feel sorry or pity him. He just wants to be himself, not a sob story or pity party.

Little by little everything you lost starts to cave in. Someone said that life is like this That things become so dull, no matter what it is Tell me everything, please look at me and tell me Please tell me to wake up.

That was the end.

All that charisma melts into a puddle of awkward as he stares at the judges table, wide-eyed like the weight of what he’s just done finally hit him. What was he doing up here? No, that wasn’t the right question. The question he asks himself is why does he think he belongs up here? What does he do? Should he thank them? He has to do SOMETHING, he’s just standing there holding the microphone. 

Sunggyu isn’t sure if he mumbled a thank you. All he knows is he jammed the microphone back into a stand, backed up like he committed a crime, and ran off stage.