B O Y W O N D E R

He remains in a sate of rush, not out of indifference but out of technique. These people weren't here to see his handsome looks, or know his name, or even glance at a faceless body with a practiced physique. These people were hungry to see the births and deaths of stars. Lips part and a breath inundates his lungs, filling them with the pressure that envelops the room. All those eyes, all those hopes, all those judgments, how did people survive on stage? Although his smile threatens to wither away into something more catastrophic, it remains sturdy, solid. He wouldn't let his fortitude slip for a simple fear, even if it had the slight of hand. No, he'd show them what a star really looked like.

Of course that thought brings with it problems. Perhaps he should've been dancing to a more exciting song, perhaps he should've been singing. But midst all the perhaps, maybes, and regrets, the music begins and Minjun has no other way to go than forward.

It's not long before he's situated under the warmth of the spotlight. He delves in it, the little tingles of heat that run through his body in such a soothing wave that he fears a premature fatigue, but instead he drowns in attention. Their eyes, he can feel them on him. It's an odd feeling, that of awareness, but he ignores it as the first notes of the song begin to play and his body moves along with it in movements that seem inherent, so fitted to his body that it seems as natural as the rise and fall of a newborn's chest. Like every time, he gets lost somewhere between the calm of the sand and the calamity of an ocean, where his thoughts collide in such dynamic waves that he himself embodies it. His limbs, arms, legs, before awkward now express themselves with a maturity beyond his own. They're architecture, neatly planned by nature, and yet with each dance move he bends it, destroys it, denies the gift of perfect structure. Time after time, he rids himself of organic lines, of man made restrictions; he dies, is reborn, breaks, is put together again. The piano notes narrate his story, of his defiance to a more complex existence.

With his body he shows the simplicity of human will; he crumbles to the floor bur rises up with ferocity. He pushes one way only to be pulled to the other. It's such an intimate dance that he almost feels naked the way his body bends, the way he shows pain through physical memories that surface and tug his limbs in different ways, that weigh him down only to pick him up. He's exposing himself in the most public, private way possible. Hiding in plain sight, his fears take form only to help him along the dance; the music in the back turns into decor for him, he's the main focus of the show, he's the conductor, the puppet master. A hand lifts, glides down his body until he too is moving in that direction, knees bent, he chases that certain something. The whole dance is about chasing, never finding, it's the journey that's important--no the lost love, the lost opportunity. The only thing that matters is how he's traveling. Feet move him across the floor, the spotlight follows him, and before long his hands hold him up from the floor and his eyes open. He was done, for now; dancing was a never ending venture. He straightens with care, afraid he's as fragile as the dance made him to be. His limbs return to their normal posture that seems stiff until a languid calm trickles down into it.

"Well, fuck me," he mutters as his limbs, quick and nimble for the fatigue they carried, push him out of his friend’s home and onto the sleek white moped he’d drive with blind faith. He drives off, slower than in reality than in his mind, towards the audition that promised that life changing contract, fame, and many other trinkets that he felt he deserved. Of course he deserved even more than that, with his good deeds and looks, but for now he’d be satisfied with getting into a company—any company at this point. Desperation lived in his mind, and he didn’t mind the extra push.

Minjun arrives, gets off, and stumbles into the waiting room with the fluidity of practice; being late wasn’t a one time occurrence, it was a lifestyle, but it’s as he moves to sit on a chair and wait that he checks the clock on the wall. He was early, half an hour it seemed. A groan makes it to his lips but he cages it in—he didn’t want to seem ungrateful for anything. At least, he thins as his arms cross and his eyes thin, it gives him time for a quick nap…

"Number 2038?!"

His eyes creak open, slowly, carefully before they widen in fear. His number—his chance! “Oh, shi—I’m here. Here, here, Kim Minjun.” The stutters and mumbles go from English to the more appropriate Korean in an awkward transformation that leaves the woman he faces with a disapproving look. With his full cheeks he tries to smile at her unwavering mask, but once it proves permanent he simply pulls his hat further down past his face. “Sorry,” is the last piece of himself that he gives her before he struts, or rather ambles, in to the center of the stage before the judges. It’s only then, as his name, age, and dream slip off his lips that he realizes he forgot something very important, crucial to his cause really: his music. He’d practiced the dance at the studio for weeks, it only seemed appropriate to brandish himself with his hot moves to the club classic “yeah” by Usher, but here he was, empty handed and stranded. Regret clutches his heart and wraps around his throat to hold back all the fuck’s he wants to mutter out. His lips remain parted as he stares at the judges, and they stare back with merciless, cold eyes—or at least that’s what his nerves paint them to be. A certain cruelty trickles into their features as his mind tries to save himself, from embarrassment, from those monsters taking form of humans.

"Can you just play the song again," he hears himself say, because really, he has no other option than to freestyle to whatever the last person had danced to. He looks scared, hidden under the cap on his head; he becomes a child again, with a whimper in his throat and a quivering lip—except children can be scared. He was young, careless, he had to have no fears. There’s a smile that manages to dig out from all the negativity; it scratches through the doubts to flood his mind and body with a reminder: this was dancing, nothing more, nothing less. It was his passion, what he did more than talking, what he loved more than words. Minjun’s neck straightens, although a lack composure continues to grip his limbs into one of casual confidence. He looks at the judges only to find himself smiling, one somewhere between shy and cocky, when he hears the familiar words, "Let me hear you say hey Ms. Carter."

A light laughter threatens to push up past his stomach and wrench his body into a paralyzing fit, although to the outside he only seemed to be enjoying it. This song, out of all the songs that could’ve played, brings him hope that perhaps luck was on his side—that the universe was set on giving him what he’d hoped for. Yonce, the song he’d become obsessed with, was only one of the many he’d memorized a choreography to. And then, as “Gimme some!” resounds through the room, his body lowers in one of the more risque dances he’d allowed himself to learn.

The next moves come easy with a practiced cadence. They’re memories resurfacing, a reminiscing told through the body and not words. He becomes a puppet, the music tugs at his limbs, pulling him this way, twisting his back that way. And Minjun, a slave to the song, couldn’t enjoy it more. There’s control and precision in the way he moves and he knows it, realizes it with intensity, that it only comes from the music. His head empties, notes, lyrics, and dance moves inundate mercilessly and he allows them to command his body for a minute.

Ease is clear in this routine and it’s only that way from the many practices he’d spent trying to memorize it to the core, the basics of it, before he added his own flair—a sultry confidence and nearly arrogant flourish. This was his domain and a contained languidness in his movements was how he showed it.

Feet shuffle and move him around; arms expand, contract, spread, twist, all in organized movements. Stylistic changes paint his choreography with color, although a clear technicality ties each move to the next, a symphony of the body. It isn’t, though, until he’s on the floor, leg kicked and retracted, that he realizes he’s smiling, whispering lyrics, and having a good time. The effects of the song, he thinks. The familiarity grants him grace and he captures it to enhance his movements.

Choreographed moves continue, always embedded with his own changes, a different hand placement there, a slower curve here. The only scene that remains constant is the smirk he wears that exudes a knowing that comes from the past to tint the future with mystery, yet he remains in the infinite present with the confidence it spills. It’s so familiar, in fact, that it allows him to think. His body moves on its own at this point, the memorized movements live in his body rather than his mind—it was the product of learning and he delves in its comfort. His smile grows as his breaths, quiet and monotonous, carry a hidden singing of the lyrics.Just tell me how it’s looking babe, they call as he grins—who would’ve thought he’d ever be shaking his (nice) bottom to a row of judges? He turns around and recognizes that it’s probably over, the allotted time he has, and the confidence returns. Even through the shadows the hat he wears throws on his features, his joy is clear.

He walks forward in careful, solid but tender movements. “Baby just take aim.” His whispers are almost audible as he points to the center, a plump woman his victim. A cold demeanor clouds over a usually warm face, and he clings to that hope. The last movements fade off in a tight wave, diminishing to him pointing to fingers upwards, to each side of him, dipping his body one last time before he returns to a standing position. As the last movements wither away, he remains standing there with a grin plastered on his lips. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he tells them excitedly, although their features remain unchanged. He bows forward, a deep one that carries a lingering grace from his dance, before he walks out of the room, more confidence than last time. The smile remains for the rest of the day, it’s something that not even failure can take away from him. It embeds on his lips and never lets go.