#1/4 of the Things About Andrew I'm Supposed to Write This Month i think i'll get to 2/4 only 😭😭😭

[fcble]

limbo for andrew!

LIMBO - A time my muse acted faithless and disloyal.

In which Andrew receives a tempting proposition. August 2024. 1.3k. A direct follow up to this piece! Would definitely recommend reading that first.

Jinguk's business card haunts Andrew. It occupies the majority of his waking thoughts, and even some of his sleeping ones. He reflects on the events of the meeting, trying to figure out exactly what he did to catch Jinguk's attention.

The only response he received from Jaeseop regarding Jinguk read, Sorry I didn't tell you about him! I didn't want to worry you (｡•́︿•̀｡).

Andrew is considerably more worried now than he was a few weeks ago. He fiddles with the card as he works in the living room, and a thumb-shaped imprint begins to emerge over the Danyoung Group's logo. No one asks him about it, despite Intak constantly reorganizing his figurine collection, and Kiyoung's daily coming and goings.

Wearing down the ink isn't enough, he decides. He has to try and do something about it. Kiyoung is out, like he tends to be, and Intak is asleep. Andrew is spending more time listening to the new Parannoul album than working, which makes it as good of a time as it's ever going to be.

He leans forward on the couch seat and dials Jinguk's number. The call connects almost immediately. He expects to hear a secretary or a personal assistant. He's greeted instead by Jinguk's velvet baritone. "Andrew. I expected your call earlier."

Andrew is thrown off immediately. Jinguk knows his phone number? He answers his own phone? He wanted Andrew to call him? He settles for a generic, non-committal response. "I was occupied."

"That's Taein-ssi for you." His assessment of Andrew's boss is accurate and matter of fact.

The sound of a pen clicking and the pages of a notebook flipping are audible over the line. "My lunch is clear today," Jinguk continues. "I'll see you at noon. My office is on the fifteenth floor."

There are no questions or requests in any of his statements. Jinguk speaks in the tone of a man used to getting his way, someone who won't take no for an answer.

"Of course," Andrew responds, trying to regain his balance. He doesn't bother to try and counter Jinguk's steamrolling of the conversation. It works for him. He didn't want to plan anything himself. He glances at the time on his computer. Fifteen minutes to eleven. He needs an outfit. Somehow, he thinks his current t-shirt and sweats combo is not going to cut it in front of Jinguk.

"I trust you'll be able to find your way to the Danyoung Group's headquarters."

That too is a statement, rather than a question.

"I don't see any issues with that."

"Very well." Jinguk's response is immediate, and the line clicks off.

Andrew doesn't have time to think about that conversation. He's too busy scrambling to find his way to the Danyoung Group's building.

An hour later, he finds Jinguk's office. Once he made it to the fifteenth floor of the skyscraper it became easy, because Jinguk's office seems to be the fifteenth floor. The elevator opens to a wide, open space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. From what Andrew can see, the area includes a kitchen, a ping-pong table, a foosball table, at least three TVs, and what looks like a salad bar in another area separate from the kitchen. There are a few desks facing in the general direction of the elevators, but they're all empty.  In fact, most of the room is empty, with the exception of a lone figure sitting on a leather couch near the windows. Jinguk.

Andrew's footsteps echo in the otherwise empty space, and Jinguk looks up from his laptop. He gestures for Andrew to come closer—a bit impatiently, if Andrew were to judge.

"Andrew-ssi. It's good to see you again."

Andrew gingerly takes a seat across from him. "Likewise."

Jinguk checks the time on his watch, a surprisingly slender and unobtrusive silver piece that probably costs more money than Andrew will ever have in his life. "We have twenty-seven minutes. I assume you have questions. Ask whatever you'd like."

Andrew gets the impression that Jinguk cancelled something more important than him. And the impression that no one knows who he is, besides someone important enough to have an entire half hour of Jinguk's time. He starts with the most pressing question he has.

"Are you headhunting me?" he asks bluntly.

Jinguk doesn't laugh at that, but Andrew would like to think he almost does. He smiles a sort of half-smile instead, like Andrew's insolence is faintly amusing, not an idiotic annoyance. "I would encourage you to seek other opportunities. I am willing to provide some of them, should you be interested."

"I extended my contract," Andrew says. "I have three more years with Taein-nim."

His words might as well be paper, with the way Jinguk easily shreds through them. "There's no issue there. Should you choose to leave, I will assume responsibility for any monetary repercussions."

It's all sounding a little too good to Andrew. It is disconcerting to hear Jinguk reduce the years of his career down to a number, some figure he can simply pay off. But then again, that's all an idol is, isn't it? He knew that when he first signed his contract.

"Why me?"

Jinguk regards him carefully. "You're a smart young man. You know you'll never reach your full potential in Taein-ssi's company."

Andrew considers it. What keeps him at Zenith, other than his contract? And Fable. He can't leave Fable. Rationally, he knows the PR nightmare that would cause. In a more calculated manner, he also knows that whatever solo career he can scrape together from the ashes of that disaster would be a poor, shoddy, imitation of Fable's popularity. No amount of money will buy his way out of that, contrary to what Jinguk thinks. And as much as he hates to admit it, he knows, too, that Jinguk is right. His creative direction and his music have both helped Fable grow—flourish, even—but as an individual, he's treading water. He's spent the past couple of years stagnant.

He stalls for time, probing the limits of Jinguk's generosity, since he's far from forth-coming. "I'll be able to continue my work as an artist." A statement, not a request. He thinks he understands Jinguk's modus operandi, so he responds in the same way. His music is the one thing he can't give up on. He can't sideline himself to be a songwriter or producer either. He likes the spotlight and the attention too much for that.

Jinguk nods. "We are more than capable of providing all the support you'd need. If you're interested in an American career as well, that can be arranged."

The prospect of going home is the best one he's heard all day. It's tempting, to cut loose and throw his lot in with Jinguk, like he did seven years ago with Taein. He plunged right into the deep end, with nothing but his wits and desperation. He could do it again.

"Forgive me for asking," he says, "but how does this benefit you or your company?"

Jinguk's smile seems to imply that he approves of Andrew's line of questioning, like some sort of reward for being on the right track. He straightens up in his seat and says, "At a certain level of power and social influence, such direct bargains become unnecessary. Think of it as altruism, and the Danyoung Group as patrons of the arts."

Andrew writes kpop idol music. He's not sure how much culture he's contributing to.

"I'd like some time to think about it," he says finally. He's asked his questions and received some answers, but he's unable to tell if Jinguk was entirely truthful. For some reason, it seems like there's more to the story than he's telling Andrew.

Jinguk dips his head in a curt nod. "I'll give you a month. I expect to have an answer from you then."

There isn't much to say to that, so Andrew agrees. A month isn't long enough for him to make a decision of this scale, but it'll have to do. The part he's left with now is the hardest one: making the choice.