gilded

“oi, san,” he calls, approaches, looks down at him with a smile that is made for war. uncalled for. and to think there was a time the two of them would have been called friends. friends. that was never the truth. no, maybe at first. at some point. but taeho is the way he is, deals with people the same way he deals wth things. when it’s shiny and beautiful he may keep and treasure them, even think it’s going to last forever, but it never does. it never takes too long for him to forget them, set them aside, let them rot in some corner.  “our golden boy. how have you been doing? it’s been a while.”

it’s one of those events that doesn’t matter all too much, but that still matters more than your run of the mill music show. tickets sent out, promising artists billed and ready to run through one-two-maybe three of their most popular tracks. a lot of waiting around before they’re all shuttled off to their next schedule. usually. nowadays oasis is old enough that they usually end up performing near-last on the setlist. 

generally speaking, san usually keeps to himself unless one of his closer friends are in attendance and there aren’t any fans creeping around. they’re oppressive, and as a result san has grown guarded and secretive over the years. maybe it might not be a huge problem if pictures arose of him and, say, kiwon hanging out. but san still doesn’t necessarily want to broadcast the few small scraps of private information he has left to the word. 

and then, with people like jowi, he’s entirely sure it would get warped into something that it isn’t. it already feels like some fans have this entitlement to him, that they’re his secret keeper. him and jowi are just friends. they always have been. but who believes those statements when they’re put out, really? and san doesn’t want to test the waters of his fans’ sanity. 

so he keeps to himself, or his group mates. usually jaesun. sometimes milo if he’s willing to talk to him. but usually he closes himself off when it nears the time of performance. maybe a reminder to their lines, or roles, or whatever else milo’s decided to have a grudge about. it builds resentment, but san doesn’t talk about it. and he wants to keep to himself now, too. he would’ve, if not for the obtrusive voice clattering around them. 

it’s grating and familiar. a pseudo-friend lost to time, and their relationship has only plummeted farther and farther down since then. he can’t stand taeho nowadays. he stares at him, bland and blank-eyes when taeho walks in closer. invades personal space and greets him with sarcasm-laced words. san doesn’t want to deal with him. he never does. but taeho has a way of inserting himself into his life despite it. “fine. working on something for oasis. then...solo prep, i think.” it’s said casually. 

“Isn’t it a little late though? i’m surprised you’re even here i thought i was one of the only people still in the building.”

ft. @idryusan, june ‘19

there’s something that lingers. still. a haunting presence, a relationship cut down and killed. now it follows after him, ghost-like and ethereal. when it’s late and the dark spills around him. when he’s locked up and lonely. that’s usually when it comes. those feelings; a rush of a haunting that mean to consume him. a fixation that should have been shaken off, but now it all just rattled around in his head like shackles. and maybe the other end is still connected to her. 

jihyun. 

it’s hard to let her go. it’s hard to forget her. and it’s not like he thinks they’re in a bad place, necessarily. not now. maybe they were at points, back then. sometimes it can be hard to remember all of that though. sometimes san wants to drag back time, wants to have someone planted concretely in his life for the sole purpose of wanting. they’re similar, maybe. too similar. perhaps they wanted too much of each other, simultaneously withholding and unwilling to actually give. an emotional stalemate. 

that was their relationship. 

but it wasn’t the sort of thing where it all just...fizzled out. something still burns. an ill-advised sort of fire. something that could spark up dangerous, wild and unbidden. the kind of thing that should be carefully avoided. but san’s always been bad at that -- avoiding the things that will undoubtedly harm him in the end. 

san startles at her voice, a brief shake of bones underneath skin. but he doesn’t turn a shoulder, cut her out. continue dancing. after all, he’s both weak and willing. instead, he rolls a shoulder back, tests the rigidity of muscles and pivots himself on a heel. his smile, when he offers it, is tired. “only the dance?” he hasn’t heard himself speak all day, and it rasps near the start of the word from disuse. he clears his throat. 

san takes her visit as an unscheduled break, drags a hand back through sweat-soaked hair and wanders in a little closer. like she has a gravitational pull. too much control over his body -- she probably does (he’s always been weak for her). “wasn’t keeping track, i guess.” another pause, eyes flicking up to a clock and back down again. settles against her face. familiar features. the slope of her nose, down to her lips. san stares, blinks, jams a hand into his pocket. “why are you here anyway, if it’s so late?” he swallows down a thought, hesitates, and brings it back up again. “really wanted to watch me dance?” 

did you miss me too? 

he crouches down in front of him, brows lifting as he ruffles his hand through his own pink dyed hair. “you look like you’ve done enough dancing for today already,” he tells him helpfully, hands over a bottle of water. he pauses, looks at the other’s flushed skin, feverish with overwork, and tilts his head forward bodily, so that he can press the still-cold-from-the-convenience-mart-fridge water  bottle to the side of his neck, the back, the other side, until the quick paced breaths slow. then he releases his head, hands over the bottle. “that ones yours, since you sweated all over it.” he sits across from him,legs folded, and untwists the cap of his own bottle. “you’d learn our dance too quickly and then do it better than me, i don’t want to teach you.” 

if san were to know kiwon didn’t really want to be there, to come see him, he would probably rescind the offer. not in a way of threatening, or withholding. but in something other. the crumbling edge of a cliff, a letting go of a situation. it’s hard growing up in the spotlight. around expectation, people who want too much from you. people who are regularly disappointed in you. san worked himself ragged for praise enough to know that large parts of himself don’t warrant it. should be hidden away. he’s hesitant to get close to people now. a warriness. at the end of the day, it’s hard to want what san is. the real san. that’s the conclusion he’s come to. sometimes people gravitate away, when that realization has dawned. and part of san wants to force them to stay in place. and part of him wants to push them away. a battle between loneliness and self-loathing. 

why would he want to invite someone else into that brand of misery when they don’t even want to be there? but san hasn’t yet caught on. there’s nothing to take back. so he glances over when kiwon eventually slips inside the room, shudders immediate at the shock-cold press of water to overheated skin. eventually, tensed muscles slacken as he eases into the sensation of it. eventually, it’s pressed between his palms, and san rolls it between them as kiwon drops to sit. “only a warmup.” san promises, or lies. whichever. maybe a little of both. one leg stretches out, the toes of his sneakers pressing to kiwon’s. a lighthearted jab at the other’s teasing. 

“wouldn’t.” san defends, breaks the seal of the bottle and takes a sip from it. it nearly aches as it slides down his throat from the cold.

jowi sighs heavy on her lips as the other continues, slides her hands down her legs, reaches up to lace them behind her head as she stares up at the ceiling. “milo will understand. they’ll get over it. someday. you’re just…the most marketable, on paper. that’s all. milo takes it all too seriously, too…personally. he always has.” she lets out a quiet sigh, rubs her hand beneath her eye.  “i got drunk and went to ruwon’s. i got drunk and got stood up by gun in chile.” she frowns, pauses, “i think i have a drinking problem.” clicks her tongue, exhales. “or a boy problem.” there’s a moment of contemplation before she determines, “yeah, boy problem.”

san groans at the nickname (even if he doesn’t actually mind it). it resounds in his chest, nearly aches. there’s a weariness there. the kind of shallow-clipped breaths that come from overexertion. lungs that can no longer keep up. he lets himself loll useless against the floor. hardwood underneath his head, pressed cool to the flats of his forearms where his skin presses against it. every so often the oscillating fans whirs back around on them, and san’s afforded a moment of two of air against sweat-soaked bangs. 

jowi distracts him, a fingers against his nose. it tickles, and san scrunches it up. like he might be readying himself to sneeze. but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t pull himself out of her grip, either. their words wander. keep them company in the quiet of the practice room. perhaps unwanted company. does milo count as unwanted company? san can never figure it out. he never could. he’s pretty sure milo counts him as unwanted, though. his answer betrays as much. but it’s not like jowi’s kept in the dark about it, really. she knows most of it, along with that brief period where they’d finally clicked. fallen in step with each other. before it all turned into some large cosmic joke, and they ended up right back where they started. maybe worse. 

san still can’t figure it out. can’t figure much of milo out. but he also can’t blame him for it. so san settles. lets him resent, or find fault, or whatever it is that milo sees him for. san knows better than anyone else that he’s far from whatever golden thing msg’s touting him as. “what a relief. someday milo might tolerate me.” it slide sarcastic and stiff from his tongue. san pins his eyes to the ceiling. it’s not jowi’s fault. but it’s frustrating. milo’s frustrating. and to be honest, san finds it a little unfair. that there were those couple of years where it seemed alright. where it seemed like it might’ve been better than alright. 

“no,” he grumbles, rolls his head to the side, presses his temple to the cold glass window, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and his head spinning. “i didn’t have fun,” he sighs, stretches his legs out and watches the city sweep by outside. his head spins. he shifts. he hunches himself over, wraps his arms around his torso and groans. “i don’t want to go to my house. lets go to yours.” he sighs hopeful, glances askance at the other, as if unwilling to lift his head. 

“yeah, well. someone called me.” san admits. or maybe milo’s not lucid enough to wonder why san’s there in the first place. it’s not all obligation. part of it is. but he’s not milo’s keeper. they’re the same age. he couldn’ve said to fuck off, let milo figure it out. he could’ve called the manager. but he’s here, pulling milo along with him. a familiar weight tucked in against his side. the hard part is that they’re both simultaniously similar and different. they both don’t think a lot about themselves, not in the way of worth. but it’s hard to really lay it out in a way that’s palatable for them both. rolled into a pill that’s easy for milo to swallow. san’s gotten a push from the company. but there’s more to it. the fans might love him, but it’s too much. to the point of being invasive. to the point where san sometimes has visions of running from it all.

but he can’t admit that. he can all but hear milo’s bitter laugh at the thought of it. maybe he’s ungrateful. selfish. his mother had said it, once. really laid into him about it. san’s learned, by now, not to complain about his fans. what they might attempt to do, or what they’ve done in the past. it’s love. he should feel grateful toward that love. it shouldn’t feel so twisted, so toxic, so inescapable. it shouldn’t make him feel repulsive. maybe milo would’ve enjoyed it properly. maybe san’s the one busy fucking it all up. self hatred, it lives and breeds in san’s veins. but he doesn’t articulate it a lot. hides it away, shamefully. escapes his reflection. avoids his own face on tv. he doesn’t have a right to it.

he gets milo into the car and slides into the driver’s seat, twists the key and navigates the highway. “no? why not?” san asks him with a hum, occasionally tips his way forward in the seat or flicks a blinker on as he drives back toward their end of town. “yeah, sure.” san relents. sometimes they have these moments. usually addled. sometimes they have these moments where it feels like things might be alright. the world painted over in something soft. where milo doesn’t bring up san’s work. where san brushes aside that buildup of anger in front of them. where everything is honeyed and slow. sometimes he hopes for it.

outpaces his worries with liquor, or makes an attempt at it anyway. it’s another losing battle to fight, one in which he faces off against addiction. he loses that fight too, as he does with so many others. he’s surprised, in the midst of his stupor, when the other pulls his arm up over his shoulder, and he groans low and long, in protest and in exhaustion. he pushes himself upright with a huff. “yea’m jus drunk.” he mumbles, peers at him through blurred eyes, squinting against the tilt of the room around him. “did you come to party too?”

milo doesn’t really acknowledge him, or even answer the questions san levels him with. it has has hefting out a sigh as he pulls milo up to his feet. it’s not like san likes to see him like this. it’s not like he wants to play cleanup. it’s not like he hasn’t been in similar enough circumstances before, either. but it’s tough, because he doesn’t know what to do. there’s no easy way to fix it. them. no band aid to slap into place and then be done with it. it’s just a mess, even worse than where they started. but here san is anyway, hauling milo to his feet. he wonders if they’ll fight, later. when milo sobers up a bit. it’s hard to tell. hard to figure out what moment lapse back into a  similar place to where they were for a few fleeting years.

there’s a lot that san’s bottled up. a lot that he doesn’t admit to milo. it wouldn’t do anyone any good, and it’s not like san’s a standup person either. not like if he admitted to milo that he’s felt more for him over the years it would do much of anything. they’re not compatible, maybe. and there’s too much animosity. and what would anyone gain from san wanting for them, anyway? who would want that in the first place, aside from disillusioned fans who don’t know the first thing about who he really is?

milo wouldn’t. san’s pretty sure of that. “no, came to bring you home.” san corrects him, pulls milo along with him so that they can leave. “have fun?” san asks him as he navigates the building, out to a secluded sort of garage. clicks open the lock and eventually shoved milo into the seat properly. “feel sick?” san asks him once before he starts the car and pulls out of the lot. tries to navigate carefully back home. to keep milo from getting sick.

she tilts her head to the side, slides her fingers between his own, grins widely. “good. keep streaming it until they give me another comeback.” she instructs brightly, rolls over onto her side and props her head on her hand. reaches out to slide a fingertip over the slope of his nose. the filler is wearing off, with him outside of promotions at the moment, and it’s returned to the former beaky hooked glory she’d always appreciated. “how are the boys?” she questions, idle conversation. 

there’s something comforting about exhaustion, to san. the way it weighs him down. keeps his limbs from that flurried, anxious sort of movement he always has wound around himself. the promise of exhaustion, that inability to keep his eyes peeled open. a half-step away from collapse. he doesn’t necessarily count it as a bad thing, anymore. dangling himself over that precipice of exhaustion and overwork. it’s something he chases after, now. he likes to tell people it’s to improve. to perfect. and some part of it is. but he likes to step over his own limits. likes to let himself unravel. drop. unhealthy. a lot about san is.

“too many.” san mumbles out instead of guessing at a number. he doesn’t know. jowi’s better at math than he is. too many, and he’s not sure whether or not he regrets them. part of it, he likes. where he’s at now. and part of it, he hates. but it’s scattered, and it’s messy. it’s not easy to explain, and so san never bothers. there’s no point to it anyway. what does it matter if he proclaims that he hates something, or loves it? it won’t change anything. won’t change where he’s at, or who he is. a part of san wishes he could change, sometimes. rearrange himself into someone new. like a toy with clip on features, traits.

“stop doing math, you’re giving me a headache.” san complains, rolls onto his stomach and pillows his cheek against his forearm. the floor’s dirty, and there are scuff marks. leftover rubber from worn down soles. he shuts his eyes when he feels jowi’s finger trace down the bridge of his nose. he’d learned to hate that, too, growing up. something instilled in him. 

“they slotted us back to back this time,” she tells him, with a grin that tilts on her lips. “it’s funny, huh?” they’ve been playing this narrative since jowi was teased for debut. if oasis and prism are sibling groups, jowi is pinned as san’s extension, with admitted qualifiers. but it had been an easy way to pin her name up there in the headlines when they’d needed something to stick. it helped that they were friends, too, explained away predebut pictures of the two of them together before they could become a problem, pitted them as star students who studied together.

there’s no real reason for it. the practice, now. the way he commits to it, pushes his way through it until his thighs start to burn and tremble. until his bang stick from the sweat to his forehead. air squeezed tight inside of his chest. unattractive. everything he pours into this is unattractive. it’s just blotted away when it’s time to shove him in front of a camera. there’s no reason for it, what he’s doing now. a comeback on the horizon, but not choreography yet given to him. no track to record.

but here he is.

it’s ingrained in his system. obsessive and seeking perfection. running after it with desperation, a hope to catch it. then he won’t have to walk through life like he’s lying anymore. golden boy. when has he ever been? but jowi gets it, more than anymore else jowi gets it. maybe not exactly the same, but similar. similar enough that san never really needs to explain himself. never really feels strange or wary. they’re like two halves. most likely, the one person he can trust. a relationship grown from trying times and nothing else around them to grip tight too. similar ages, but different genders meant they weren’t in direct competition with each other. that made everything easier. made everything possible.

“would be nice if we overlapped. i know. team kill blah blah blah, but. whatever.” the words roll lazily between them. measured between the stiff breathing he’s still trying to control. it’s slowing, even if he can still hear his own pulse pounding away behind his ear. in time, that will slow too. and when he’s fully relaxed he’ll likely heft himself up to start the whole process over again.

“i still like your latest track though. it hasn’t worn off on me.” san murmurs out, hooks his index finger in against jowi’s and curls it. a small act of intimacy, physical affection. jowi’s one of the few people san willingly reaches out to on his own accord. even then, it’s usually in bits and pieces that sometimes slowly branch out into something more. bigger. he has a hard problem with it, sometimes. affection as a grander concept, but also the physical act of imparting feelings. but then, he has trouble with the words too. maybe with affection in general. with the entire concept of love.

he knows he loves jowi though. she’s the only person he really has a firm handle on with that. it’s hard to tell her though, explicitly. but he thinks she knows.

san has him by the throat, and isn’t that the way it’s always been? probably the way it always will be. san refuses to relinquish the power and milo makes half hearted attempts to grasp after it, to turn the tables, and lets them fall flat so that he can pretend this wasn’t all his idea. so that he can pretend he doesn’t really feel these things that boil inside him like some impossible potion, like this isn’t the greediest desire he’s felt in his short lifetime. and such an emotion is so rare for him that it startles, almost frightens, and certainly unsettles. his chest rising and falls in a sharp breath, in a sudden intake of air, the other’s thumb against his skin burning like a seal, like a brand. as if he’ll leave a mark there to claim him. “it makes me the same,” he tells him, in a moment of rare honesty, that pulls raw and ragged out of his throat. and he lets the other’s hand stay fitted to his neck when he moves in again this time, his mouth hungry against san’s, a rare moment of allowing himself to be demanding, to be desperate, to want something, someone, so desperately it burns.

san stares, and it almost looks like he’s trying to goad milo on when he snaps out about him dating. san’s not even sure if he had liked dating johyun. he’s still caught up in that, what it was. what johyun meant to him. but he knows it’s over. he knows he dashed that against the rocks. thoroughly. beat it dead and past it. “you can’t be what?” san asks him, and maybe he wants to make him say it. so he can chase him down further. can’t be jealous, or can’t be hurt. and then san can snap at him further. because san hates that, and the main reason is that he hates that feeling in himself as well.

it’s just easier to attack when someone else is hiding behind it. that milo’s scared. that he’s unwilling to step forward, to put himself out there. that he’s hurting, but unwilling to do anything about it. and san can rake him over the coals for it if milo will give him the chance, because he wishes it were easier to do it to himself, too. because he hates it. hates himself. and he wants to tear down milo like a stand in. like a mirror image. unfair, san usually is.

“fine, i will.” san agrees, even if he has no intention of doing so. there’s nobody in his life right now. nobody but milo. it’s why he’s in front of him, even after all that effort put into avoiding him. but he’d had a built in suppressant then. distance. ocean waves. when they’re stuck in the same hotel, san apparently lacks the self control necessary to keep himself sane.

“an expiration date? don’t be dramatic,” jaehwan says, but he’s smiling. san is dramatic, that’s his whole thing. jaehwan doesn’t have much of a share of patience for it, but right now, he smiles. “if anyone will last in this industry is you. for better or worse,” and he really doesn’t know if that’s a good thing. if san wants to last or if he just wants out of it. but he also knows what he’s saying is true. if any of today’s idols has the power to outlive all he rest is san.

“well. at least you’re making money either way, right? even if everyone’s an idol.” san nods along, mostly to himself as he talks. he saw jaehwan struggle through the years though, especially in trying to get indigo up on its feet. it had been a  tough first few years, and luck that swung them into fame. san’s not sure what he’d do in that position. he thinks he would’ve hated it. 

or maybe his mom would’ve. maybe he wouldn’t have cared if he drilled down deep and considered his own opinions on the matter. but what san wants as a general concept it blurred. overlapping too much with other people with his company. it’s a malformed creation in the end, robotic and logical in his steps for fame. and san will parrot it back, that he wants it. that he wants everything that’s planned out for him. and a large part of san genuinely believes it. that it’s his choice, mostly. to an extent. 

but san as a person needs a purpose. if he doesn’t have one, he panics. he wrecks himself. he needs something to look toward. needs something to march exhaustively toward. without it, he’d fall apart. san’s not so sure if jaehwan’s the same. it’s hard sometimes, to figure him out. they’re friends, sure. san would even consider them close. but he doesn’t know how much jaehwan really cares about the group, or acting. he complains, and san listens. san doesn’t fish past that, not usually. 

the questions lend a chuckle from jiyong’s parted lips, their interrogation instigating a new curiosity. “i’m aware of your anxieties, i didn’t think i’d end up as one of them. do i make you nervous, san?”

san’s tired of losing friends. it’s a stupid thing to be tired of, he thinks. he should move on. shrug it off. at moments, he tries. but it’s harder, sometimes, than he thinks it should be. moments of mistakes. approaching jiyong a little too desperate, and ghosted toward him by too many spirits attempting to possess him. or like this, with jiyong at his heels, and then in his apartment. 

he’s tired of hearing his voice as it lilts out, travels across the room to hit him like a sucker punch. drunk or not, it’d be easier if jiyong were quiet. if he managed to scavenge himself some humility in the gutter while he was waiting for san to show up. san’s just tired. he doesn’t feel like playing games. what if’s about their friendship. whether it was real or not, or whether jiyong pulled the wool over his eyes and then devoured him. lion to lamb. san doesn’t care anymore. he just feels empty, as he stands in his own foyer. 

listens to the quiet rattle of the aircon tucked away near the back window. feels the air, bone-dry and chilling as it circulates slowly around the room. he lets his body sway, shoulder fitting against the wall. his head follows, temple to plaster and he tries to blink away the beginnings of a headache. “got what?” san asks him, opens his eyes to glance jiyong’s way. muted curiosity. more compulsion than caring. san thinks that’s stopped. at some point, maybe recently. that well managed to dry up entirely. 

looking at him now, san’s not sure he manages to feel much of anything for jiyong. not a longing, or a desire to turn back time. not even anger, not anymore. or at least, not right now. just nothing. great and consuming. he stares at jiyong as his voice slips out between them, all sweet and enticing. like he wants san to bite down. get snapped up in a trap. a dangerous thing. san knows, he uses it himself. when he’s feeling vicious and cruel. when he wants to knock people down, when he wants to wrap them up into something twisted. maybe jiyong wants that still. to pull him close and break him again, and again. maybe for fun, maybe because he deserves it. 

san finishes the rest of what’s in his glass and slides it onto his counter. fits himself back to his wall. glances, first, up at his ceiling. “do you want to?” san asks him back, instead of answering the question. he pulls his eyes from the blurring silhouette of a light and lets his head loll to look over at jiyong. he’s got white spots floating around him now. until san blinks his eyes a few times and clears them. “do you want to make me anxious? wanna fuck me over?” he walks over, just a few steps until he makes it to the couch. plants his hands to the back of it and looks down at jiyong. his face is largely emotionless. san’s all but mentally checked him out from the conversation. 

noticing his body language shift a bit, she became curious, but before she could question him, the waiter brought over the bottle of wine that he ordered; displaying it for the pair of them to see, then pouring each of them a glassful. nodding as he left, she picked up the stem of the goblet and brought the brim to her lips; sipping a bit before setting it back down. “mmm, that’s nice. you definitely have great taste, san-ah.” yulhee cooed, leaning further back into her seat. “i really haven’t been up to a whole lot. i’m in the early stages of discussing my solo début. turns out i’ll be the first of celeste to do so, so i’m taking it sort of slow… hoping to take my time and wow people when it’s released.” she wasn’t going to lie and say she wasn’t afraid of what the public reaction would be; her overt sexuality sometimes a bit too much for them to stomach, but she didn’t want to seem too timid. she had her image to uphold, after all. “what about you? i’m sure your world is far more interesting than mine is. what have you got on your plate?”

it’s hard for san to make the exact connection in his head. that yulhee and his mother are similar, sometimes. they both are different people, different motivations. and that’s probably what makes it hard for him to drill down and have that lightbulb moment, that sometimes how she acts, what she does, reminds him of her. it’s probably also why he classify anything yulhee does as entirely negative. it’s harder for him to take with her than his mother. sometimes it gives him a bit of pause. but at others, he recedes back to that assumed role. gives yulhee precedence in whatever it is that she wants. 

moments like now, where he watches yulhee flit about like a preening bird. more focused on herself than the question she’d angled at him earlier. because what he’s saying, currently, doesn’t really matter much. filler words. feelings, or thoughts, they just drift. they always have. work matters, he knows. or opinions on work. but had anything else of what san had been talking about? maybe not. sometimes he feels that it should, or that he wants it to. but maybe not. he nods along when yulhee reenters the conversation. 

looking back on chile and san finds himself nodding. “yeah, olympus’ setlist wasn’t that thrilling either. but…” he trails off, chases it with a shrug. “i guess at least i got to do my solo stage, so.” it’s sort of how he feels nowadays, slowly letting go of his group. trying to move that focus instead to himself. he’s not sure where they’ll end up after this year, after all. part of him wants them all to fall apart. he’s not sure it’ll happen though, despite how much so many of them seem to hate it. he swallows down a mouthful of wine when it makes it to the table. he’s been drinking too much lately, he thinks. but there’s always someone drinking more, so it’s probably fine. 

the director clicks the cameras off to change the tapes and sends him off on his way, to which he offers a swift bow, bobbing forward with a grin before he turns away. he lets the smile slide from his lips and rolls his shoulders back, stretches one arm across his chest and then the other, as easy steps bring him toward an empty practice room. or at least, he’d thought it to be empty. the lights are off and there’s no music playing, but as he steps inside he finds san waiting there in the quiet. it’s hard to tell if he’d just walked in or if he’s been brooding for some time, but milo grins in his direction regardless, brow lifting slightly. “looking for a little quiet?” he questions, “me too,” he tacks on in a rapid admission, shifts to sit in a slumped shouldered sprawl on the open floor. “good filming today it seems like,” he adds, “the challenge this time seems like a lot of fun.”

this challenge is a bit different. it sounds interesting. if san had less going on, maybe he’d be more excited. trying to push his own agenda a little bit harder. talking himself up in front of the cameras. he still does, in bits and pieces. when it’s his turn for an interview he talks about his recent japanese debut. the hand he’d had in that choreography, how he felt like he identified more with a contemporary style. how he hopes that for this challenge they can try to branch out similarly. but his words are careful. placed delicately, and they end almost on a question. 

san has promotions. for olympus. and san has taeho to deal with. san has varieties to guest on, san has too much to do, and not enough time to sink into this show. not enough time to try and explore something in a way that where he knows he might be pleased with the end result. he works better by himself, he thinks. or at least someone with no connection to his own sphere. truth be told, san isn’t much of a team player. san doesn’t often enjoy working with his peers. at the crux of it, san isn’t a good fit for this show. but he put son a hell of an act for the cameras. lets himself get yanked around. grits his teeth and lets everything fall apart around him. doesn’t go into angry litanies when he thinks his team mates aren’t working themselves to their full potential -- or past it. that’s not his image. so they lose. 

san feels like he wasn’t supposed to lose. he thinks that if his team ends up losing this whole show he’s going to end up in a meeting with someone important, a frown on their face. he’ll have to deal with his mother too. they won’t care that he didn’t really want to be on it. or that he couldn’t drive himself, others, with the same manic fervor he does behind the scenes. in a similar vein, he doesn’t want to elan into his strengths if only to give a half-assed performance. again. at least in san’s eyes. obsessive and striving for perfection that isn’t really possible with the time constraints. he ends up in a darkened practice room once they set him free from the camera lens.