#id.prompt

[idxchanyeol-blog]

snake oil and holy water

in which chanyeol tries to come to terms with the idea that his success was bought, not earned

character development prompt:  detail the shittiest moment of your career (+5XP)

To say that Chanyeol’s career thus far had been turbulent would be an understatement of mammoth proportions.   A true rollercoaster ride: his time with Poizn has seen soaring highs and crushing lows, winding loops and sudden turns in the track, thrill and terror in equal measure. And much like a rollercoaster, whenever they pull into a station for a moments reprieve and the adrenaline begins to fade, he’s left with a feeling of overwhelming sickness and regret.

The worst moment of his career (To date, at least) comes before he’s even stepped out on stage with his members. Before the group cement their reputation as a magnet for scandal. Before the downward spiral that sees him lash out at the fansign. Before his transformation into the hardened cynic of today.

The lowest moment of his career is spent alone in the dorms, plagued by worries that it’s all over before it’s even begun.

Before the fall comes the rise.

He’d always had concerns about company tampering during his time on the survival. On reflection it had been foolish, no, downright idiotic, to have not seen the signs. But pride has always been his downfall, and every victory was another victory with which to feed it. Every round he won, every rung of the ladder he climbed served only to inflate his ego which would in turn blind him to the harsh reality.

Or perhaps he did see the signs, and chose to turn a blind eye. A self-serving wilful ignorance. Selfishness is a trait that runs in the Kang family genes, so it’s not unthinkable that he simply pushed the questions to the back of his mind. Survival shows are cut-throat, and it’s as valid a tactic as any other. It holds less honour, sure, but it works. It sees him consistently on the top of the pile when he should be buried deep underground. He chooses to believe that he was always in the dark and not peeking through the curtain, but perhaps he’s more like his parents than he’d care to believe.

In truth it doesn’t matter what he knew. Regardless of how, he found himself crowned winner and for the briefest of moments was on top of the world. Finally, the recognition he’s so craved all his life. It’s a matter of days before he’s tumbling from the peak into freefall, recognition and admiration morphing into resentment and apathy. The cat is out of the bag.

To begin with he dismisses the chatter as idle gossip; rumours dreamed up by slighted fangirls angry that he’s beaten their favourites. Give it a week and it’ll stop, he’s reassured, they’ll move on to something else. They seemingly never do.  A week passes and the noise only intensifies, the alleged corruption that led to his win an albatross draped around his neck. With each passing day it gets heavily, the scrutiny intensifying. He’s yet to even debut and already the name on everyone’s lips.

This isn’t what he wanted though. 99 Entertainment was supposed to be an escape route. A training ground where he could forge his own path through sheer grit and willpower, not buy his way to the top. And yet all they are is incompetent. The story doesn’t die, it only spreads. An open wound left to fester, the poison slowly spreading and corrupting public opinion. Why it isn’t nipped in the bud immediately remains an unsolved mystery; perhaps they didn’t know just how toxic it was, or believed the patently untrue proverb that all publicity is good publicity, or that they would be proved wrong by his talent and stunned into silence once he returned to the stage with Poizn. Or, perhaps most likely, they were simply to inept to catch it before it spiralled.

Either way, by the time he’s pulled aside there’s no hope of clawing it back. Damage control is the only viable option. There’s truth to the rumours, he’s told, but he’s not to address them. To do so would be breach of contract. The voice that tells him is strained with stress. “We’re figuring out how best to handle this. All options are on the table right now. Including possibly removing you from the line-up to limit the blast. We thought that you should know.” He simply nods and walks away.

As he slowly shuffles back to the dorms his mind is racing, a thousand voices thundering inside his head. The glacial pace is deliberate as he tries to order them, each second a new barrage of questions raining down. Why did they do it? How much was I worth? Was any of the success actually mine? A few more steps. Was everyone else in on it? Did my competition throw it deliberately? What am I supposed to do with this information? A few more steps. What are my members going to think of me? Am I the only one? How does this impact them? A few more steps.

Was I not good enough? Am I not good enough?

By the time the door swings open he’s drained. Empty. Numb. The empty silence of the room roars as he crosses the threshold. A glance around confirms that nobody else is around. On a normal day he’d be curious about their whereabouts, furious that he’d not been informed or invited along, but now he’s grateful for the solitude. A bag is thrown aside carelessly as uneven footsteps echo through the room. He perches on the foot of his bed gently, eyes fixed on the carpet underfoot.

Chanyeol has known anger. Chanyeol has known sadness. Chanyeol has known disappointment. He hasn’t known whatever this is. It makes his stomach feel tight, as if he’s going to vomit at any moment, head spin like a concussion and lungs smaller than the breaths he’s taking in. Every negative emotion you’d care to name bubbles away inside him, a cocktail of melancholy.

And he feels dirty. Like he’s been used and discarded, a broken toy thrown across the room by the child who’s smashed him to pieces. His skin crawls with disgust, regret overcoming him. Why had he decided to do this? To sign his soul away to the devil on nothing more than a whim? To flee the haunted house of his family? The very ghosts he’s been trying to escape have followed him, and no matter how far he seems to run the shadow always stretches further.

Time passes. How much, he doesn’t know. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours and hours like days. He sits there, despondent and wordless. The first time he can recall not knowing what to say. Eventually he rises, carves a path towards the bathroom. A click confirms that the door is locked, that he is guaranteed some privacy. The hiss and patter of water from the showerhead confirms that he won’t be heard by anyone who returns. Clothes are discarded messily in a pile in the corner before he steps under the hot stream.

Crying in the shower to hide your tears is a cliché. But it’s a cliché that Chanyeol embraces with open arms. As soon as water hits his skin the floodgates open. A single ugly sob followed by silent weeping with eyes sown shut. His shoulders are hunched, breathing heavy as he lets go. Such displays of weakness are rare, but when they happen, they are guaranteed to be spectacular.

From this day forwards, he thinks, he’ll have the same reputation as his parents. There a problem? Throw money at it until it goes away. The very stigma he’s come so far to avoid now hanging over him for the rest of time. They’ll be so proud. He should have done better. If he’d done better, nobody would have asked questions about his win. Or they wouldn’t have cared at least. The company should have trusted him, not made shady deals behind his back and then prepare to throw him under the bus because they’ve left a scandal of their own creation to escalate out of control.

Sadness turns into anger. A plastic bottle is grabbed, launched across the room at full force. Just as the dull thud-thud of contact with wall then floor chimes out, an arm sweeps across the rest viciously and sends them clattering. And then a shout, primal fury that needs to be unleashed, followed by a fist to the tile guaranteeing his knuckles purple. The soft side of his hand hits in time with sobs as he slowly lowers himself to settle amongst the bottles, hugging his legs in tight and trying to regain control of his breathing.

The dream is dead. It was fun while it lasted.

Time passes. He still doesn’t know how much, but by the time he emerges his skin is pruned and the light from outside the windows has faded. The room is no longer unoccupied, and as he saunters back towards his bed wordlessly a flurry of concerned and inquisitive looks are thrown at him. “Not tonight.” Is all he manages as he lays back expressionless, too emotionally drained to even begin to explain.

As should be obvious, the talk of the dreams’ demise were greatly exaggerated. The situation was never dire enough to warrant his removal and the scandals that plagued his members proved to be a blessing in disguise, watering down the controversy and taking the heat off of him before he has a chance to make the rash decision to buy out his contract. It takes some time, but eventually he returns to his normal self, goes on as if nothing has happened and nods along with whatever the company says like the good little dog he is.

Vindictiveness is a defining trait though, and he’s never truly forgiven those involved for almost ruining him to achieve their own ambitions. Or indeed himself for believing his own hype and almost winding up buried because of it.

[idxtaewoo-blog]

words don’t come so easily

in which Taewoo films a short interview for Dancing9

Prompt: 6 month anniversary interview prompt 1/3

Taewoo has always hated giving interviews. Most aspects of life as an idol he’s grown to enjoy, or at least tolerate, but being faced with the barrage of questions has always made him uncomfortable. They’re too unpredictable. Ordinarily he’d use the other members of Nitro as a shield to deflect the interrogations, leaving them to take the lead whilst he hovers in the background nodding in agreement or laughing when he needs to, but today that’s not an option.

Today he stares into the enormous unblinking eye of television cameras alone, well-worn façade of confidence reflected in the glistening black of the lenses. Years upon years of training, hours upon hours of lessons in how to present himself in front of the media, and over half a decade of experience have taught him how to navigate the pitfalls. Confidence is everything. It’s also something he still severely lacks in these situations but the second he shows a hint of doubt, a glimmer of something approaching a weakness, he’ll stumble and fall.

And so he smiles brightly. Enthusiastically agrees with whatever the crew say when they address him, sincerely thanks the artist that touches up his makeup before the red light begins to glow and beams at the interviewer behind the camera once they begin. He isn’t sure what to expect, whether they’ve already decided to thrust a storyline or an edit on him already; competition shows are an alien concept to him. The questions aren’t as intrusive as he’d feared, or at least they don’t seem to be. They don’t lean on the struggles of his upbringing and try to make it seem like some tragic backstory as he’d feared they might, instead they offer up softball questions with easy answers.

“What are your thoughts on your career thus far?” The voice behind the camera asks in monotone, clearly tired of asking the same handful of questions to the room full f auditionees one by one.

Taewoo pauses for a moment to ponder his answer, or rather to make it seem as though he is pondering his words rather than reading from a company approved script he’s committed to memory. “I…. I am very thankful for the career that Nitro have had thus far, and I feel very lucky to have been a part of it.” He starts, voice projected louder and more assured, as it always is when in the gaze of the public. “It’s been almost seven years since we debuted and I think we’ve grown a lot as artists and as people since then. This is a different group than the one that came out in 2012, but change isn’t always a bad thing. Recently we have had many amazing opportunities because of the support of Gens and so we are very grateful to them and hope that we only continue to grow.”

Eyes roll as he speaks, and if they weren’t still recording, he gets the impression that the director would audibly groan. The response is one they’ve likely heard a thousand times already, but the sentiment behind Taewoo’s words was nothing but genuine. He was thankful, he did feel lucky and the years had changed them. To say anything else would be a lie. There were complaints, sure, but none that he’d ever dream of vocalising, especially on tape.

A sigh from beyond before the voice pipes up once more, still devoid of enthusiasm. Clearly they’ll be edited out in post. “Who is the most influential person on your career?”

Again he pauses, as though his answer isn’t already prepared. “Because it’s been so long and we’ve tried out many styles, there are a lot of different influences too. Of course I look up to 4ce and other seniors who paved the way for us but there is such a wide range that it’s difficult to answer.”

“I have always said though, that I don’t even know the name of the person who influenced me the most.” He admits with a gentle laugh. “As a child I was enamoured by street performers, and seeing one man in particular dancing was what made me fall in love with it and convinced me to become an idol.”

That answer doesn’t seem to draw the same level of disinterest or ire; at least he’s giving them something to work with. It continues on like that for a while more, harmless questions met with harmless answers. Eventually they go to wrap up, the director already scanning the room for the next name on their list, but before that one final question.

“What do you hope to show the public?”

And for once he’s stuck for an answer. What does he want to show? What does he even have left to show? Surely by now they’ve seen it all. With how often they promote and how frequently they have him appear on whatever platform to push them further, he’s genuinely unsure of the correct answer. He wants the company to know that he’s still a useful asset, that he’s more use on th field than on the bench, but the public?

“I hope….” He trails off, losing his train of thought and having to restart. “I hope to show my passion and skill. I rarely get to dance in this style, so I also hope that they enjoy it as much as I do.” A pause. Not the most insightful answer, but the only one he has in the moment. Another thought occurs and he spends a second debating it. The perception of him as arrogant was finally beginning to fade and a comment like this could possibly bring it back to the fore. A glance at the crew tells him that they expect more from the answer, and so he gives them what he can. “I would also like to inspire more people to start dancing in this style. As though I was that guy on the street for someone else out there.”

[idmijung]

play pretend

Trainee Lottery 02 (+5 skill, +5 experience)

For reasons Mijung couldn’t fathom, 99 seemed intent on making her an actress. From her part in Dream High to the role in XLNC’s music video and now this, a cameo in some musical drama she couldn’t even remember the name of. She’d auditioned for all the parts of course (or, well, she was going to audition for the last one soon,) but 99 Entertainment’s money and reputation certainly made her seem more attractive than other candidates. The 99 executives might not have bought her the roles outright, but they might have greased a palm or two. 

It didn’t make any sense to Mijung. She couldn’t act. Or, at least, she didn’t feel like she could. She never felt like she could do anything properly, except for dance. And while she might have come into her own with singing, that was after years of practice and hard work. The people in charge or whether she debuted or not were now throwing her into the deep end of the acting pool without any skills to keep her afloat. It made Mijung uncomfortable in ways beyond her normal, near constant state of insecurity. 

Ever the self-starter, Mijung decided to do something about it. Her handlers, coaches hadn’t required any more than just the barest acting lessons for her in the past several years Mijung had been with 99. That clearly wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Without prompting, Mijung sought out one of the acting coaches in the company. There were multiple. Mijung didn’t understand why she had never been referred to any of them, even before her newfound acting track. They probably could’ve helped her adjust her expression to seem more comfortable in the frequent moments she was not. But it hardly mattered. Mijung would take the reins and accept authorship of her acting roles from now on, even if she didn’t particularly want them. If the executives thought this was a good idea, it must be. It hardly hurt to get her face out there. Her whole life, Mijung had been overlooked. Maybe she did need this.

Every Tuesday evening, Mijung took private acting lessons.  It’d been difficult to carve out time in her training schedule. But Mijung managed, as she always did. A few less hours of sleep, shorter meals. She made it work. Tired, achy and hungry, Mijung tried her best to pay attention. She didn’t want to waste her time, or that of her teacher. 

“Mijung-ah,” the coach said, his right hand raised to call an end to the acting exercise she’d been working on. “I’m not feeling it.  Are you thinking about the character’s motivation? Because from here it looks like you’re just going through the motions. It’s just not believable.”

Mijung flushed. He hit the nail on the head and Mijung was embarrassed to yet again be making the same mistake he’d corrected her on numerous times before. 

The teacher shook his head. He knew he was right. “Try again.”

Mijung nodded, eyes cast downward. She tried to center herself before her next attempt but she was off-kilter. Why did she keep making the same mistakes? She could blame it on her exhaustion, on her sore limbs, on any number of things, but they weren’t the real problem. The problem was her. She was too in her own head to be able to get into a character’s. Mijung took a deep breath before starting again. She tried, so hard, to push away the negative thoughts. It entirely work, but at least after this attempt, the acting coach saw improvement. Maybe there was hope yet.

[iderinyoo-blog]

in her element

Trainee Lottery 02 (+5 skill, +5 experience)

It was just a small part. A little cameo in a drama, not a lot of lines, only one scene. Made for twitter users to comment on, not an impressive addition to a resume. It wasn’t exactly the lead in a Broadway play. Erin’s enthusiasm going into the audition might’ve fooled someone, though. She smiled brightly as she waited. Made small talk with other young actors there to audition for the bit part, all of whom seemed to wish she’d just stop talking but were too polite to blatantly ask her to. 

Erin couldn’t help it. She was a talker on a normal day, but she was downright giddy. Acting was her thing. The one thing she’d been passionate about since she was a kid. Even more than soccer, more than being a trainee, Erin connected with acting. She felt at home on the stage, in front of the camera. Erin lived for the attention, was born to entertain. Like Tinkerbell and Rachel Berry, Erin Yoo needed applause to survive. Maybe it was the fact that being outrageous was the only way she got any notice from her parents or her brothers growing up that had conditioned her to be like that. It hardly mattered. Erin’s desire for the spotlight was now set in stone, embedded in her very being. So deep was it that even such a small part on some drama she didn’t even remember the name of had her grinning like a fool. 

She didn’t intend on only doing cameos for the rest of her career, of course. No, this was just a stepping stone. A foot in the door. Just like Mickey’s Clubhouse, it was a way for Koala.T to introduce her to the Korean public, build up a fan base before her eventual debut. Erin saw starring roles and movie castings in her future. She always had. But if little cameos were all she could manage right now, she’d take it. Erin would take any chance to be in front of the camera. If she could make one person smile, one person feel something, even with such a small part, that was more than enough for her.

Soon, (but not soon enough for the other auditioning actors), it was Erin’s turn to audition. She practically skipped into the room with the assistant set to get her. She reminded herself to bow before introducing herself with her usual enthusiasm. The casting director seemed slightly taken aback by her demeanor, but Erin didn’t mind. At the very least, she’d make an impression. Erin was never the kind of person people just forgot. She wormed her way into people’s minds and hearts with ever-present smiles and contagious joy. Even if she didn’t get this part (and Erin was quite determined to get it,) the casting director would remember her. Next time he needed a bundle of energy, Erin would be the first person to come to his mind. 

“Ah, thank you Ms. Yoo,” the casting director said as he signaled someone to hand her a small script. “Could you please read the highlighted lines for us?”

[idoyun-blog]

all that glitters is not gold.

+ detail the one time you wanted to quit.

                                                  ( + 5 exp )

all that glitters is not gold.

years cooped up in a dormitory, the pungent smell of sweat waiting at every corner and muscle aches from hell with nothing to show. it’s easy for a young adult to feel hopeless in that kind of situation, and when the time to debut arrives? well, there’s nothing more bittersweet. finally, everything you’ve dreamt of is awaiting you. . . but, you’re stepping away from the familiar and into the unknown. who’s to say what awaits you?

                           ( warning: it’s not always good. )

at first, it’s exhilarating. being ushered off the stage and into the car just to be drove to the next venue, fans telling you how much they adore you, articles about how much potential the group has and variety show after variety show after variety show after variety. . .

             but when do you sleep?

                           when do you eat?

                                          when do you relax?

the initial excitement runs out when energy starts to run low. restlessness is replaced with irritability and exhaustion. the stages lose their charm and instead of a sea of lights, the crowd turns into a blur as you try desperately to keep your eyes open just until you get off the stage. . . just a little longer now, just a little longer. . .

you can only take so much of a lifestyle like that until you start to lose yourself in all the bright lights. at least, that was the case for doyun. following the release of baby i’m sorry in 2013, he began to feel an all-consuming sense of despair and hopelessness. he had no desire to perform, no desire to see his family, no desire to talk to his members, no desire to even wake up in the mornings. it was during that time that he had the first thought the maybe, MAYBE. . . this wasn’t the life for him. maybe he had made a mistake.

to this day, he can remember going back home for the first time since he had debuted. a vacation that he didn’t necessarily want, but he knew he needed. he can remember sobbing into his mother’s shoulder, clinging onto her as if he was a little boy again — the first time that he ever cried in front of her. “i can’t do this anymore,” he had told her, and it broke his heart to hear himself say those words. a dream that he had worked so tirelessly towards, something that had made him feel so free had become a cage around his heart.

but his mother, who had seen him give his all and succeed in such a beautiful way, refused to see him throw his effort away, and she gave him a piece of advice that would continue to stick with him. “in anything you do, you will face a hardship — call it a fork in the road. do you really want this, or will you go a different route? work through this hardship and the future will be easier.” it wasn’t the best advice, nor the most accurate. . . but it encouraged him to keep going and work through his inner turmoil rather than run from it.

               he was so close to giving up.

                                he was so close to throwing it all away.

to this day, that slump remains a secret to all but those closest to him. ask, and he’ll just smile. “i’ve never wanted to give up,” he’ll say, and you’ll almost believe it.

[idxchanyeol-blog]

home is for the heartless

in which Chanyeol films a short interview for Roommate

Prompt: 6 month anniversary interview prompt 1/3

Image is everything. Chanyeol knows that, the other cast members know that, but most importantly the company and his management know that. To say that his had been tarnished over the years would be a vast understatement; the sheer volume of scandals he’s been personally involved in or close enough to to get caught by the shrapnel has left some marks that no amount of polish will ever be able to remove. He’s not the only one of course; there are others in Poizn equally as scarred, but they seem at least slightly more willing to learn from history. Chanyeol is doomed to repeat it.

Though their most recent comeback doesn’t seem to have been received with quite the same fervour as Love Scenario, they’re still in a better place than they have been for many years. No longer the butt of the joke or irrelevant B-listers, now they’re a serious prospect. It was perhaps inevitable then, that 99 entertainment would try to reform his image slightly, to make him seem less distant and uninterested, and highlight the his more positive traits. Whatever those may be.

Apparently they’d thought that throwing him into a house with a handful of other celebrities would be the best way to do that. It’ll show you in a more natural environment, they said, show them that you’re just a normal person. He resists, saying that it’s just a way for them to keep him under surveillance for even longer. You’ll do it, or you’ll lose your solo, they say.

Begrudgingly he relents, and so now finds himself having to play fake happy as he invites a camera crew to invade his home, his sanctuary, and open the letter inviting him to the house on tape. They set up in the living room, all white walls and slick modern design, Chanyeol settling on the couch lazily and reading the text from the paper. As he concludes he crooks a smile, waiting for the questions to begin. He fully intends to be difficult, to put in the bare minimum amount of effort.

The first few are simple enough: who are you, what do you do, how do you live, “What do you wish to show the public?”

That I’m not a fraud. That I’m not a bad person. Are the first thoughts that pop into his head, and for the briefest flash of a second he considers saying just that. Because that’s the thing: behind all the bluster, the biting quips and toxic words, Chanyeol never wanted to be disliked. Even before he’d become a bastion of negativity people had treated him as though he was the villain, and playing nice simply didn’t seem to be a viable strategy to deal with it any longer. But perhaps he’s spent too log playing the role, and the line between actor and character has become too blurred to distinguish.

“I think that this programme might show people a new side of me. I hope it does anyway. People seem to think of me in a certain way that’s not always accurate, so maybe this will help change that.” He shrugs nonchalantly after a moment. “I’m normally quite a private person, so this is a very unusual experience and I’m not sure what to expect, so I’m not sure of the best answer either.”

As the interview continues, he warms to the idea slightly. There’s never a hint of who the other cast members will be, but as long as they’re not completely insufferable this could be tolerable and genuinely help to shift public perception outside of their core fans. For all of his criticisms of 99 Entertainment, and there are many, many criticisms, they may not have missed the mark for once. With each question he gets more comfortable in his seat, lounging back and speaking casually, nodding and laughing in all the right places.

What do you expect from the house? Who would be your ideal housemate? Is there something that the public doesn’t know about you?

A knowing smirk spreads across his features at the last question. “There are many things that the public don’t know about me. I am a man of mystery, though I guess it’ll be difficult to keep that up when the cameras are constantly filming.” He chuckles. Somehow he’s always managed to keep his personal life out of the public eye, his relationships (Both platonic and otherwise) away from any intense scrutiny despite making no effort to hide it. If you were to look hard enough, pieces could be put together and an image formed, but that it had yet to happen had always been a point of personal pride.

Next they ask him to give them the tour, let them film in the other rooms. Chanyeol agrees, rising to his feet and beckoning them to follow him deeper in, all the while keeping up conversation and answering their questions. As they film the lounge they talk briefly about his upbringing, though the subject is quickly changed when his attitude noticeably takes a shift back towards prickly. In the kitchen they discuss his eating habits. In the bedroom they focus on a collection of mementos of his career, picked up from various people and shows over the years.

In what aspect have you most changed since debuting? They ask.

“We are all a lot more mature now, but I guess that’s a given since it’s been almost eight years.” He laughs, answering without any semblance of hesitation. “As rookies we made a lot of silly mistakes, or at least I did, but these days we’re not quite so… brash, I suppose. Musically we’re not all that different, but our attitudes are different now for sure.”

The finish out on the balcony, a few dramatic shots of him looking wistfully out over the skyline as the sun begins to fade before they thank him and make their exit. It hadn’t been nearly as painful as anticipated. Perhaps this show would be a three car pile up rather than the eighteen he’d been expecting.

[idxtaewoo-blog]

feels like we only go backwards

Opportunity prompt: Dancing9

in which clashing egos sees reigning champions dethroned and Taewoo does little to slow the fall

After the overwhelming success of their first performance the Blue team, or Taewoo at least, feels as though they’re riding the crest of a wave. There are flaws in technique littered throughout the number, the judges say, a number of which Taewoo knows he’s responsible for, but the strength of the whole covers the weakness of the individual. Despite his doubts and their initial teething problems as a team, they’ve clawed their way to the top and sit crowned as kings of the hill.

When it’s announced there’s no containing his emotions, no hiding the way his whole body explodes with excitement or the way his face lights up with shock and pure unadulterated joy. At long last a tangible reward, validation, appreciation. Something to let him know that the sleepless nights, the pushing himself to the cliff edge, had been worth it.  

But of course all waves inevitably crash.

It breaks the shoreline shortly after they begin work on their second number, though most of the surfers seem blissfully unaware of their impending doom. Perhaps it’s overconfidence that blinds them, or perhaps the weight of expectation to clear the bar they’ve set blinkers their vision. Or perhaps they’re simply not as cohesive a unit as they’d presented to the world last time around.

Egos begin to clash within the first few hours, titans vying for screen time and control of the choreography. As soon as one alpha is established another beta steps free of the pack to challenge for dominance, to put their own distinct stamp on the original song. Each member has such a unique point of view when it comes to dance, their styles of disparate, that combining them is a near impossibility.

As expected Taewoo is one of the first to cede ground, to give up on fighting to include his b-boy moves and instead silently despair on the sideline. He tries to play peacekeeper, tries to keep some semblance of synergy and cohesion in the routine, but surrounded by such towering personalities his success is limited. More than once he finds the camera settling on his almost comical look of despair as he watches the chaos unfold, and more than once he finds himself staring directly into the lens exasperated, as though he’s stuck in an episode of the Office, praying that someone on the other side will help.

When filming of the final episode of the block begins Taewoo is too tired, too stressed, to even put up the pretence of vying for the spotlight. Schedules and responsibilities outside of Dancing9 have proven more intense than usual, the only sleep he’s managed to steal is in the car headed for the studio. Cosmetics are plastered onto his face heavy enough to cover the tell-tale signs, but there’s no hiding the dullness in his eyes or the constant urge to yawn.

The stage is, surprisingly, not a mess. Unfocussed, sure, and arguably more like a string of solos, but visually engaging and polished nonetheless. Amongst the madness it had been all to easy to forget how skilled each member was as an individual, but under the blinding stage lights each manages to shine. The red team shine brighter though, and the whole cover the weakness of the individual.

Their loss is inevitable. Taewoo had known that only a miracle could alter their face before the music had started, he’d known it when they’d been throwing themselves about the stage and he’d known it when the music had stopped and the applause had died down. And yet still there’s a part of him, some small voice in the back of his head, some painfully naïve optimistic voice, that thinks they may have pulled it out of the bag and cinched victory from the jaws of defeat.

It stings when the stage floods crimson and once again there’s no hiding the emotions. The way he visibly deflates, the way disappoint fills his eyes and the sigh of defeat before he paints over them with a half smile. He claps, he congratulates them, apologizes to his own team; the model of a good sportsman.

There’s always next time he supposes. Perhaps it’s just the wake up call they needed. But that doesn’t make the taste any less sour.

[idxtaewoo-blog]

the archive of (almost) lost dreams.

Prompt: Detail your parent’s initial and current thoughts on your career choice

Silence. Silence, Disbelief, Disappointment. That’s all that greets him when he sits with his parents to tell them that he wants to spend his life performing. They simply stare, a sadness glazing their eyes as he speaks about his idol ambitions. Though they never condemn him or force him down a different path, they never outright support him either. They’d always had high hopes for their son. A doctor, a lawyer, something grander than themselves that would allow him to transcend his borderline poverty-stricken beginnings. He’s been on track as well, at the top of his academic career with hundreds of paths to success laying open before him, each forsaken for a fleeting chance at a distant dream.

And yet they still couldn’t say not. As long as he maintains his grades and has some sort of back-up plan formulating in the back of his mind, they reason, there’s see no reason to crush his dreams underfoot. And so with a sad smile they tell him that they won’t stop him, that it’s a road he’ll have to travel without aid from them, but not one they’ll close off entirely

Things change when he passes the audition. He bounds home with a look of exuberant joy painted on his face, bursts through the door beaming, only to find his mother sat at the table alone makeup streaked by tears. She sniffles, wipes her eyes and scrambles to gather the papers that littler the surface and tries desperately to hide behind a mask of composure. “How did it go?” She asks kindly, face still plagued with distress and worry. When he tells her that he’s done it, that the company have agreed to take him, her face sinks for a moment before that same sad smile as before returns. “I knew that you’d do well. They’d be fools not to take you.”

Her inner conflict is obvious. Training with a company does not guarantee a debut, but it does guarantee debt. Debt not dissimilar to that which was drowning the family. When Taewoo finds out he decides to work any job he can get, almost every hour spent training or working. Each penny is siphoned back to the family coffers, and each time they cross paths his family tries to convince him to stop spreading himself so thin. That everything has a breaking point, and can only be stretched so far before it snaps. They never explicitly tell him to quit training, but he gets the impression that they want him to. That they need him to.

When his father falls ill he almost gives it all up. The stroke is near debilitating, turns the entire family’s lives upside down. The temptation to quit is stronger than ever, every instinct telling him that to continue is selfish and a betrayal of the family that raised him. Late night when he  returns from work, in the brief few hours he has before sleeping, the two sit and talk in ways that they never have.

Taewoo tells him that he plans to quit, to provide for the family full time, and he’s greeted only with silence. Silence, disbelief, and disappointment. “There are many things that I wished I had done with my life.” The older sighs after a moment, the words coming slower than before. “Once, I wanted to be an Olympian. A swimmer, if you could believe it. But I gave up when my parents told me it was an impossible dream. They were right of course, I was terrible in the water, but that’s not the point.” A laugh, an attempt in vain to lighten the mood that serves only to plunge him into a deeper pool of regret. “And then, a politician. Wanted to make a difference in the world, to make things better for the little people. But I was too afraid to pursue it so I’ve spent my life washing dishes, wiping the scraps from other people’s plates. And now, I can’t even do that. I missed my shot.”

“Don’t make the same mistakes I did, Taewoo. You have a chance, a real chance, to make this work. To be better than us and live the life you want to lead. We’ll survive just like we always have, but please don’t give up on this. Not for us.”

These days he doesn’t see them as much. Occasionally he’ll be granted a few hours on holidays or when they’re not attending a schedule, but it’s a rarity that they even have a chance to speak on the phone. His success has allowed them to reopen the restaurant, the association with his name being enough to see them draw in enough custom to stay afloat. The reception whenever he returns is always unrelentingly warm, but in truth he doesn’t know exactly what they think of his chosen path and the image the company paint of him.

What he does know is that when he talks about his life as an idol now, he’s no longer met with silence. In it’s place is pride and awe, that despite the odds stacked against him he’s clawed his way to the top of the pack. He still feels as though he should be doing more to repay them, and one day he will, but for now he simply revels in the fact that he isn’t the family disappointment.

[idxchanyeol-blog]

a beautiful indifference

in which chanyeol reflects on his relationship with his parents

character development prompt: detail your parents’ initial and current thoughts on your career choice

As soon as their Jenga tower of half-truths began to crash around them, Chanyeol made the decision to sever ties with his family in every sense bar the legal one. He would have filed paperwork to become legally estranged, but according to 99 it would have been too much of a headache. There’s already enough toxicity surrounding Poizn, the last thing we need is the controversy that would inevitably come with this they say. Just keep it to yourself and move on.

For the most part he manages to do just that. Throws out a couple of well scripted sentences if he’s ever asked about them and moves swiftly on lest the seething disdain bubbling just below the surface threaten to bubble over.

He stopped caring about what they thought of him and his career a long time ago. Their status in the fashion industry has meant that they’ve been interviewed before, and he is a topic that always seems to be raised. Curiosity gripped him the first time, and he couldn’t help but take a peek. They speak of their pride, how they’ve always tried to foster his penchant for music and how they adore their son. The words are sickly and saccharine, and just seeing them on the page induces a feeling of nausea. Even on the page it’s obvious that they are shallow and hollow, simply feeding the interviewer what they want to hear. They are also, in his view at least, patently untrue.

Chanyeol has an altogether more cynical view of why his parents are so supportive of his career in spite of the countless controversies that cloud it. Why they claim to be so invested in their son, and insistent on painting the image of the perfect nuclear family. Why they tried to pay his way into an audition. It’s good for business. An idol in the family is a marketing tool not available to their competitors, and increases their brand recognition tenfold. If nothing else it’s a smart business move, and if he weren’t quite so personally affronted by it one he might be able to respect. In truth he’s surprised that it hasn’t been pushed further, that they hadn’t tried to get the group to model for them before the relationship had gone south.

But he doesn’t care. They can do and think whatever they want to.

It’s strange how their opinion has shifted over the years. When he first voiced his musical ambitions to them during one of their rare and fleeting appearances at the family home they’d been surprised. They were also less than supportive. It had always been expected that he when the time came he would step up and inherit the company, carry the family name. He is a vessel for their legacy, nothing more, nothing less. The idea of anything else was unsettling, and they made no secret of their distaste for the idea. The words were stern but not harsh, discouraging but not outright dismissive. “This isn’t what we want for you. You should consider sticking to the path.”

But when the ambition persists, and he is able to prove his talent, he ceases to be a vessel. Then he transforms into an asset. An investment for the future with the potential for huge returns. Idols have a shelf life, and once his fifteen minutes of fame are over, he can return. And so, attitudes shift. He’s recognized, albeit briefly and from a distance, in a way he’s always wanted and told that if he wants to follow this path, they won’t stop him.

On the surface they, as always, do little to help or even encourage. Leaving him to succeed or fail on his own, he’s left to his own devices. Behind the scenes won is slyly slipped to the company, a down payment on a star that they’ll one day see repaid in publicity. They don’t believe that he can make it on his own, and so a little extra encouragement is offered in the way of a financial incentive. He wishes he’d never found out. That he’d been left blissfully unaware about their lack of faith in him and not had to deal with that crushing body blow. He wishes that they hadn’t left an enormous question mark hanging in the air, this constant insecurity lurking in the back of his mind, the voice that whispers he’ll never be good enough.

He wished he knew how just how much influence they’d had.

He wishes that they’d at least apologize.

He wishes that they’d they’d show some sincerity in their words when they speak about him.

But he doesn’t care. He cares a little. They can do what they want. But he wishes that they’d treat him like their son.

[idoyun-blog]

93_yuniverse what’s a caption?

                                                    ( + 5 exp & + 5 per )