#ghost.doc

We spend the evening getting grease all over our hands and drinking probably too much beer.  Jeon insists it’s a requirement when enjoying barbecue - “You can’t eat meat without having a drink!” - and I’m not about to say no, though I don’t think I really could.  He’s got a charm that’s both elusive and incredibly apparent but unlike most people in his age bracket, it seems completely effortless.  It’s not hard to see why he’s so successful.

Jeon tells me about his life and growing up in Portland, a place he says “drinks its own Kool-Aid.”  I’m not really sure what that means and ask him to explain, which he does with a laugh that draws the stare of our waitress.  “Portland’s a weird city.  As in, that’s what it’s known for.  Its ‘weirdness’, as if that’s a good thing.  I guess I get the appeal.”  He doesn’t mince words when he speaks, throwing caution to the wind as easily as he drains his third glass of Asahi Black.  “It’s this weird mix of fucked-up addicts who think they’re living in a La Dispute song and “precious” Portland transplants who have no idea how to handle it.”

I ask him whether or not he’d ever go back and he nearly chokes on the piece of lettuce he’s dipped in ssamjang.  He laughs long and hard - I’m reminded of the hyenas in Broadway’s The Lion King - and shakes his head.  “I’m not saying LA’s any better but it knows what it is and what it isn’t.  There’s also a way better food scene there.”  The smile he offers is shameless.  “Better looking girls, too.”  

Although we haven’t known each other very long, I have a feeling he’s leaning heavily into whatever preconceived notion he thinks I have of him.  When I voice my belief, he laughs again, pulling his bucket hat off and tossing his dark hair away from his eyes like an old Hollywood ingenue.  It turns out I’m right.

When I ask him about what has surprised him most about living in LA, he lists things off like he thinks about them regularly, throwing his tattooed fingers up with each count.  “How people will believe anything they read in the media, how many people actively seek out paps, how I really don’t understand how people don’t get trashed at after parties, and how hard it is for anyone to get my name right.”  It’s not surprising how unrepentant he is but it’s still hilarious.  

I ask whether he’s ever considered changing his name or taking a stage name (“What, like Drake?”) and he shoots the idea down immediately.  “My parents gave me this name, just like they gave me everything else.  I’m not about to strip it away so some people can feel better about themselves.”  As someone with a Korean mother and an Italian-American father, I get what he means.  We’ll ignore the fact that I go by my English name.

The longer we spend in the restaurant - far longer than the requisite two hours most other diners seem afforded - the clearer the picture of Jeon gets.  

He loves his family and talks endlessly about his mother, insisting that her kimchi puts this restaurant to shame.  He offers up a few of his biggest influences, citing Canadian duo Majid Jordan, singer-songwriter John Mayer, and trap and bass DJ RL Grime.  He eats with abandon, devouring slabs of pork belly faster than I can blink, though he never hesitates to refill my glass, either.  He tells me how he’s wanted this since he was a kid but that it’s definitely not just sheer, dumb luck that’s gotten him where he is.  He doesn’t explicitly name the apparent sacrifices he’s made but there’s something in his eyes that reads like an obituary.  I don’t press him on it. 

Later on, while I’m editing this piece, Kim Namjoon - his agent and close friend - tells me that Jeon is “the kind of guy who’s effortless.  He’ll try anything and be good at almost everything.  He was made for this.”  

A lot of young celebrities want to be creators but Jeon actually embodies being one.  He gives respect where it’s due, detailing all the long hours he spends writing and in the studio.  “It’s not easy - it takes a ton of work - but that’s what you sign up for.  ‘If you want the career-changing big fish, you gotta be willing to put on the big boy panties and sail out to the deep water.’”  I don’t recognize the quote right away.  Turns out it’s from one of the Fast and Furious movies.

By the time we part ways - he insists on footing the bill, pulling out bills from a Prada bi-fold which he acknowledges with a simple “don’t tell” - I realize nearly five hours have passed.  I get it now.  

It seems that Jeon’s a paradox, equal parts refusal to play by the established Hollywood rules but also someone who wants everything that comes with meeting the expectations.  Someone who wants to have his cake and eat it too.  If anyone can do it, it’s likely him.

New Years Eve, the barracks were a barren landscape save for the core Taskforce. Johnny and Aldridge had taken it upon themselves to be on firework duty in the blasting site, having been lighting and sprinting all night like giddy children, much to Leon's chagrin. Simon and Jude preferred the viewing area, a little station commandeered with spreads of food, drinks of both alcoholic and non. All that didn't matter, Simon lacked any real appetite. Hadn't nearly all day, save for when Jude forced him to eat something. He never knew such a small, inconspicuous box could weigh so much, make him move in ways that made defusing a bomb look like a damn walk in the park. He'd had the ring picked out for two months now. Two months of pretending it didn't exist so he didn't blow it, didn't cave until it was time, where everyone would be together. Everyone had to be together. They started dating when Aldridge and Leon were around, as well as Price. Gaz and Johnny came later, but have grown to be important as the rest of them. Semantics aside, Simon could only hope that his mouth wouldn't fail him in asking the whole question to begin with. His stomach had been threatening to live in his throat, and if he somehow gagged during it, he'd simply call it off and go back into hiding. While Jude joked with Gaz, Simon admired that laughter that spilled out from who would soon be his husband. Hopefully. The way his face would scrunch up, head thrown back without a care when he was truly humored. Those strands of white seemed to be slowly multiplying, and it painted a preview of what it would be like growing old with him. Growing old with Jude, maybe with children of their own. Now that sounded exactly how he wanted to ring in the New Year. He nearly got caught up in his own daydreams of the future that he hadn't realized the chaotic duo had finished setting up the grand finale, walking back the charge line to their safe spot to celebrate. A mere minute left, Simon finding Jude and tucking him into his side. That box was searing his thigh, and he was convinced a hand wrapped around it in his pocket would be enough to shelter him. He was wrong. Maybe taking it out of the box was better? No, that means he'd have to kneel down and what if they didn't kiss on midnight? That was more important-

Pretty sure proposing was more pressing than a timely kiss-

That countdown was the near-death of Simon as his hand fumbled recklessly in his pocket, fishing out the ring from its pillowed nest and gripping it between his fingers. It drew a look from Jude, of course, that signature brow raise making an appearance and the start of a question on his lips that was promptly smothered at midnight. It was as if he were kissing Jude all over again, going head over heels with his emotions and letting them wash over each brush, each push back of their locked lips. He was supposed to ask, but honestly? Slipping it right onto Jude's finger felt right; a question would have made it feel so... transactional. Your knee. Get on your knee. He had to all but tear away from the kiss, sliding down to his knee and nearly taking it out in the process of it slamming onto the ground. He bit back the hiss of pain, hadn't even noticed the tremor that set into his hands as he took hold of Jude's left.

The age old question that always pops up in his inbox. How does he do it? How does he manage to carry onwards despite the atrocities of war? Any advice? Ghost stares at it, adding to the mental tally of it all with a small chuff. Best to answer it now than let a sea of others roll in.

I suppose you want some sort of noble answer about this. How it’s family, loved ones that get me by. Far from it. Last thing on my mind, really. Sounds callous, I know. What gets me through is the fact of there being no other way. There is no such thing as a saving grace for myself, I ran out of those years ago, strewn about missions and takedowns. Fear, that’s temporary. Regret, that’s everlasting.

Imagine if I let my nerves take over the call for a shot, next thing I know one of my men isn’t making it home from my direct hesitation. All over some fleeting jitters? Only thing in my mind that gets me through is the acceptance that blood will be on my hands either way, I just get to decide whose.

Get to decide whose. Does he show pity to the mother backed into a corner of a breeched room, married to what she believes is her purpose despite her opening fire? Or does he neutralize the threat to save countless other lives in the bigger picture? Lose out on an HVT to helped a down helo of men who knew what they signed up for, who may not even stand a statistical chance of survival?

That domino effect was regret, a debt he could never begin to repay. He’s seen many a men to the ground, lost the battle with morals and doing what was now a civilian luxury of saving graces, of mercy. There was one thing that kept him level headed, if anything, when he hit the wall. When he had an ounce of humanity seep out in the heat of the operation.

“What’s worse, war or hell?”

“Hell, obviously.”

“The answer is war. Do you want to know why? Who goes to hell?”

“Sinners.”

“That’s right. Only sinners go to hell, and everybody dies in war. Families, women, children, babies, pets. Everybody dies in war, that’s what makes it worse.”