#r:solo

[lilithapocalypse]

R:hoy es martes.

W:y mañana miércoles,a ti que te importa.

R:...

W:si,siempre lo mismo,cuánto tiempo estarás así es lo que te importa.

R:solo el estar así me importa.

[rkrxcky]

`slate gray [ nova ent. evaluation ]

For this month’s evaluation, you’re asked to visit your favorite trainer for a one-on-one talk about how you see yourself, what you’re most confident in, what you’re weakest in, and what you have in mind for your future at the company.

Initially, he balked at the very thought. Because he’d done more than two dozen evals during his time at Nova, evaluations where he had to sing and rap and dance and act and everything in between. But never had there been a evaluation where they’d just been asked to talk. And it wasn’t reading from a script, it wasn’t talking to a camera or an interviewer with rehearsed responses prepared in the back of his mind. It wasn’t spouting sugar-coated greetings for fans or heavily filtered heart-to-hearts with network cameramen. It was just talking, just talking about himself, talking about his place at Nova and in the world as if somehow he even remotely knew where that place was.

Funny how he was fine with performing on stages in front of thousands of eyes and just as many cameras, how he could dance his heart out for company staff or stand in a recording booth with a producer tearing his lack of vocal ability apart, and yet, the thought of sitting down for an actual conversation with one of the coaches he trained under every day absolutely terrified him.

“Can we talk now?” He asked reluctantly, after a one-on-one dance practice with his favorite coach, a man named Junsu, whom Ricky had grown quite attached to since his first day at Nova. He was tall, muscled, and always looked somewhat disheveled in a way that made him appear intimidating and unpredictable, like something out of an action movie. He was no nonsense, and was one of the very few coaches who still talked to Ricky as if he was human, a young adult willing to learn and grow, and not as if he were a robot with a heart of tin or a child in need of constant coddling. Ricky could trust Junsu to be honest, straightforward, but without growing frustrated with the way the trainee’s insecurities translated into off days of having to do the same thing over and over again. He knew how to bring out the best of Ricky’s skills, knew how to nudge him toward the best of his abilities, without cracking an invisible whip at his back with every misstep.

“Sure,” Junsu answered easily, shutting the room’s speaker system off and dabbing the towel hanging on his shoulder across his shining brow. At the look on Ricky’s face, he added, with the slightest tinge of amusement, “We’ll have to do it eventually, Ricky.”

“I know, I just...”

“It’s no big deal. You’re overthinking it.” Like you do when you dance, was the unspoken implication behind his words, the same thing he often scolded Ricky for during all their one-on-one training sessions.

Junsu knelt until he was sitting cross-legged against one of the mirrorless walls and Ricky sat a couple feet across from him, wringing his half-empty water bottle nervously.

“Where do you want to start?”

Ricky took a breath, glanced up at his coach with a pleading look that garnered a light chuckle from the man, who casually reached for his own water bottle.

“Okay, I’ll start then. How’ve you been doing lately?”

“Seriously?”

Another laugh, because the distraught expression on Ricky’s face was almost entirely comical.

“Just talk to me like you talk to Dr. Oh.”

“I hate talking to Dr. Oh.”

“Okay, then talk to me like you talk to the other trainees.”

“Well...I don’t...Really,” he confessed, embarrassment tinging his cheeks with a hint of pink, his eyes averting to the dented plastic between his fingertips. Junsu urged him to continue with the slight nod of his head, pleasantly surprised at the sudden honesty coming from the young trainee.

“It’s just...Since the MGAs...Maybe even before that...I don’t know, it doesn’t feel like I’m very close with anyone anymore. It feels like everyone...Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

“What’s stupid?”

“I...” he hesitated, hating the way the thoughts that had plagued him for ages sounded out loud, “It feels like they all hate me. And not just the other Nova trainees, just everyone. It feels like I let everyone down.”

“At the MGAs?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled sheepishly, knowing how ridiculous it sounded.

“But you won.”

“I know, but-” he paused to check his frustration with himself, with his own nonsensical thoughts, “Everyone was so upset about Seokjin hyung, and everyone was fighting, and even my friends were mad. I don’t really have friends outside of Nova anymore, but I found out even they hate me. I don’t know how to be like Seokjin hyung.”

“Why do you want to be like Seokjin-ssi?”

“Everyone likes him so much and he didn’t even do anything. He left and then he came back and sang and we won because of him--”

“You won because of the whole team, Ricky. Yourself included.”

“It doesn’t feel like that.”

“Would you have felt better if you hadn’t won?”

Ricky hesitated, almost shook his head, then shrugged instead.

“You don’t know?”

“People wouldn’t have been upset.”

“What about your fans? I’m sure they would have been upset if you didn’t win.”

“I don’t have any fans-”

Junsu sighed, a clear sign that he disagreed entirely with Ricky’s doubts.

“Nova’s fans, then.”

“It feels like I let them down too. Because it felt like a scandal.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, though.”

“It feels like I did. It feels like I did everything wrong.”

“Listen, I’ve seen the MYNAME kids go through much worse for doing much less. It’s something you’re going to have to get used to in this industry. And you’re lucky that you’ve had so much experience with it early on. When you debut, it’s going to be experience that you share with your group members, and these things are a lot easier to get through when you don’t feel like you’re on your own.”

Ricky’s lips pursed in a thoughtful pout, his eyes scanning the grain of a nearby freshly-waxed floorboard and the way it had been interrupted by the slate gray scuff of someone’s brand new sneakers.

“Do you feel like that now? Like you’re on your own?”

Yes, he wanted to answer automatically.

“I have Huidong hyung, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I do.”

“But you don’t feel like you can share in this experience with him?”

“It’d be burdensome for him.”

“You’re thinking ‘it’s not his problem, it’s mine’, right?”

Another beat of hesitation from Ricky, who wasn’t sure, based on Junsu’s tone, whether such a thought was right or wrong.

“But if you’re friends, I’m sure he’d be willing to lend you an ear at the very least,” a brief pause ensued as Junsu adjusted his position, stretching out his right leg in front of him, “I’m not always going to see the world the same as you do, Ricky. I’m an old man-”

“So is Huidong hyung,” Ricky retorted jokingly, garnering a laugh from Junsu and even the slightest of timid smiles from the trainee.

“Right, but he’s training alongside you, so your perspectives are more similar. If things like this are troubling you, you have to share them with the people around you. Let them help.”

“I guess…”

Junsu tugged the towel off his shoulder and flicked it lightly at Ricky’s shoulder.

“Yah, don’t ‘I guess’ me. Respect your elders,” but his tone suggested nothing but a sort of mentor’s playfulness that Ricky never saw from any of the other coaches but Junsu, “Well what about your training then? Do you think you’ve made any progress?”

“Well, yeah...at least I hope so.”

“Your dancing has definitely improved, I can tell you that much.”

“It’s what I feel most confident in. That and cameras. I’m not that great at anything else.”

“You’re good with scripts, your improvisation techniques have improved.”

“But I mean, performing stuff. I’m still not that great of a singer…”

“Singing, from what I know, which is only so much (I only ever worked as a backup dancer for a reason), requires confidence. It’s not just a melody and a harmony and a rhythm. It’s just like dancing. It’s just like any aspect of performance, really. You dance well because you know you dance well, and it shows. Even if you overthink it,” punctuated with a pointed glance in Ricky’s direction, “You let your natural instincts to do well at it shine through. You’ve just got apply that to your singing.”

“But it comes so naturally to other people. And they get so frustrated with me in the recording booth…”

“You weren’t a born singer, and maybe you’ll never be a lead vocalist, but you can carry a tune and you’ve got all the right resources to get better. You’ve been at the forefront of this company a lot lately, and they wouldn’t let that happen if they didn’t see absolute talent in you. Nobody wants someone untalented representing their business.”

“I always worry...Because...There are more talented people than me-”

“There are, in some ways, yes. And the truth is there is always going to be someone who does something better than you. That’s just a fact of life. But you’re a natural in front of a camera. You memorize lines and choreography and music at the drop of a hat. You’ve had industry experience ingrained in you since you were a child. You’re not an incredible vocalist or rapper, but you’re not horrible at either. Even in this business, where all anyone does is compete, it’s a matter of being the best you you can be, not the best someone else. That’s what you need to focus on. That’s how you see the greatest improvement in yourself.”

“I just want to be able to make people happy...with what I do…”

“And you can’t do that until you’re happy with what you do. Trust me.”

Ricky found himself rendered silent, speechless, the grain of the wood floors unfocused compared to the images of his coach’s words that kept replaying in his head over and over again, making too much sense for him to discard or ignore.

“And if recent events are anything to go by, I’m sure the company must have great things planned for you, and if I’m wrong, I owe you a meal,” said with the same casual dry humor Junsu was notorious for, “But I’m not. I’ve seen trainees come and go for nearly a decade now, and they don’t usually put the kids they don’t have faith in in the spotlight. Nova doesn’t invest valuable resources in a face they haven’t put serious stock in, alright? Cheer up, Changhyun.”

He leaned forward to ruffle Ricky’s hair, pulling the trainee’s gaze up from the floor.

“But what about you? Regardless of how Bin-nim sees it, what do you think your future at Nova looks like?”

It’d be a massive question for anyone in Ricky’s position, for any hopeful trainee watching days tick by in anticipation of a debut without any signs of whether or not that debut was ever actually going to happen.

“I just want to debut,” he answers simply, timidly, after yet another beat of hesitation, already embarrassed at an answer that feels pitiful and childish rolling off his tongue, “I want to debut and be successful and happy and make other people happy with my performances. I want to be...the best I can be...I don’t want to be forgotten. I want people to remember me as someone great. As someone who made their lives better. But all I know how to do is sing and dance and act for cameras so...So this is the only way I know how. I don’t want to do anything else.”

“And you love it, right?”

A fervent nod from Ricky, the only sure answer he felt totally confident in since they’d started their talk.

“Good, because at the end of the day, that’s really what matters the most. Don’t forget that, Ricky. Remember that you’re doing this for yourself too, and not just for everyone else.”

[rkrxcky]

` suddenly

Booo Nova boooo! Its a good thing you’re a royal’s trainee or your ass whooped if you’re signed with Nova xP

hyung, I would /never/ sign with Nova even if they offered me vacation whenever I wanted it! I’d rather go and fly a plane into the damn ocean than deal with a company like that. Half of the results tonight were just shit anyway and a waste of time watching. ):<

    I would never sign with Nova

        Rather fly a plane into the ocean

            The results were shit

                A waste

                    Boo Nova

Boo Nova

His breath caught somewhere at the base of his throat and threatened to firmly lodge itself there for the rest of his life. It wasn’t his first experience with the mass of passionate reactions to the MGAs’ results; he’d seen the tweets, some of them, faceless viewers who would have been disatisfied with the show’s apex regardless of who took home the grand prize. At least that’s what people around him kept insisting. But this was different. This was reading less than 140 characters at a time in front of a hundred trainees and trainee hopefuls, half of which he knew, 140 characters of his hard work and hard-earned victory being dragged through the mud staring him in the face.

Minsoo was supposed to be his friend.

It felt like the painful knot in his chest was expanding, threatening to consume him from the inside out, starting with the limited contents of his stomach, which turned dangerously. He’d felt humiliation before, but not like this, not when all he saw was a confirmation of the fact that nobody wanted to see him win, that nobody thought he deserved it and that they were determined to shout it to the world until he was convinced he didn’t deserve it himself.

He didn’t know what he did to deserve this, this sort of betrayal that made it painful to look someone who was a friend in the eye. He did, on accident, meet eyes with Minsoo, briefly, just briefly, for a second that wasn’t long enough for him to hide the hurt and anger and betrayal in his eyes. He saw the guilt there, the confirmation that the elder male had, in fact, posted those tweets, that he hadn’t been framed, that no photoshop was needed to drill their friendship into the dirt.

Someone snickered sardonically at the rookie mistake of messing up on Twitter where everyone would see it.

Ricky’s face grew warm. He could feel eyes on him, but he didn’t dare look around, in spite of the fact that he wanted badly to tug his own gaze away from the front of the workshop where black text on a white background had somehow managed to destroy him. He couldn’t help but wonder who else here felt the same as Bora and Minsoo, who else hated the fact that his team won, who else despised Nova because of him, who else thought him untalented and undeserving and unimportant. He was an embarrassment, and he couldn’t do anything to escape it.  

He wanted to leave, to disappear from the confines of the room they were grouped in, maybe from the world. He inhaled shakily, quietly, found even that action to be labored and heavy. But he couldn’t leave. He wasn’t just here for himself; he was here representing his company, just like his fellow trainees, and leaving in the middle of it all would be disrespectful and inconsiderate and unprofessional. No, he would sit there silently, seething, falling apart, holding back frustrated, exhausted tears, until they were all dismissed, as a group and he could crawl away to his hotel room, away from harsh, prying eyes. Because he wanted to be an idol, and idols never let the decrepit claws of public hatred tear them apart. Not in public, at least.

He didn’t realize he’d gone back to holding his breath, to staring darkly at the pair acting out scenarios, to clenching his fists in his lap so tightly he’d leave crescent-shaped impressions in his palms, until he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He glanced to his left, remembered the supportive gesture belonged to Huidong, felt himself grateful that he had a friend here to help ground him. It seemed to make the humiliation hurt a little less.

It didn’t do much for the sense of betrayal still burgeoning in his gut.

[rkrxcky]

`against the world

it’s only when they’re picking micro-trash up off of the venue floor, folding up the tablecloth, gathering pens and photobooks, consolidating fan gifts and handing them over to the members, that it hits him. it’s all over now. two weeks of preparation, one night of performing, one promotional single, a torturous taste of the idol life that he still hasn’t been able to grab a hold of. everything he’s ever wanted was his for two weeks. two whole weeks. and now it’s back to windowless practice rooms and pining after the future he’s not even sure will be his.

the room was emptied of fans long ago and already it feels way bigger than it had before. it’s bigger and he feels smaller and he’s back to being just ricky. not ricky of team nova, not ricky of the mga’s, just ricky. he wonders how long it’ll take for obscurity to swallow him whole again, how long it’ll be before he’ll spend extended periods of time questioning how he was able to forgive seokjin so easily, as if they’re actually friends, how long it’ll be him against the world again without a team to be a part of, to support, to lead.

he doesn’t cry, because that would be dumb. he’s perfectly happy, because they’ve just wrapped up a fansigning, they’ve just performed a single last on inkigayo, they’ve just won the mga’s and landed briefly in a nationwide spotlight big enough for the four of them. he’s living his dream, even if that dream is ending now, ending in a four-walled airport conference room with hideous carpeting and black-clad staff milling about clearing it until it’s spotless.

someone ushers him out of the room behind wendy and mijoo with a hand on his back, his arms stuffed with the handful of gift bags he’d acquired throughout the day. he goes quietly, but he doesn’t want to, and as much as he enjoys slipping into one of those big vans with tinted windows meant only for idols, his heart still sinks, because he knows that this is the last time for a while, maybe forever if he’s incredibly unlucky (or incredibly inadequate), that he’ll experience life like this, just like he’s always wanted.

[rkrxcky]

TEAM NOVA ; THE WAVE PROMOTIONS     160618 fansigning @ Gimpo Airport [ 2:00pm ]

this, more than anything, feels like the true mark of making it. making it where, he’s not so sure. but there’s something so incredibly official, so very real, about sitting behind a table set up for a fansign. he’s got his own permanent marker and his own chair and his own bottle of water and there are people presumably lining up to see him, to get the signature he’d stayed up all night perfecting on a professionally edited matte photo of him as if he’s someone worth waiting in line for at all.

he doesn’t know if he deserves all this attention, as much as he’s always craved it, and he finds himself hanging in a limbo of emotions between excited and insecure and envious of seokjin and proud of his own achievement very early on, before the signing even starts. he fiddles nervously with his pen, trying not to fixate on the fact that he’s been set at the end of the table, the end of the line, last, which somehow feels like a lot of pressure all at once. 

the fervent pacing of the staff behind him and all around the venue doesn’t help either, even though he does recognize a face here and there from certain nova events. somebody recites strict instructions into a grainy microphone, something about having pages bookmarked for signing beforehand and about keeping conduct orderly to avoid forcible removal. the thought passes his mind that no one would scramble to see him scribble his name across a picture of his face, but the high-pitched voice of a fan calling his name from across the room pulls him back to reality. this is his reality now, if only for a moment; somehow they’ve made enough of a good impression on these one hundred people for them to be here just to see them. they have fans. he has fans, and it’s enough to make him want to grin like an idiot. he bites back said stupid grin, but smiles in the direction of the shout, bowing his head rather shyly in a greeting and giving a small wave with the pen still hanging between his fingers, his heart skipping, and not unpleasantly, at the sound of numerous camera shutters going off in response.

he could get used to this. in fact, as the third fan moves in front of him, slides a small pink gift bag across the table and slips a big red hairbow headband onto his head with a shy smile of her own, it’s fairly clear that he already has.

[rkrxcky]

`lights, camera

he feels surprisingly at ease considering the setting. one might expect someone like him, someone who second guesses everything he does because of the impossible expectations he puts on himself, someone who can’t even look in the mirror too long because he still hasn’t quite come to terms with what he sees looking back at him, to be impossible insecure, overwhelmingly anxious at the very thought of a photo shoot. but it’s like dancing, or performing for rolling video cameras. he’s been doing this since he was little. he knew how to pose and smile and quirk his eyebrow just the right way for just the right shot before he knew his times tables. he learned how to take instructions from a director or a choreographer or a photographer better than he ever learned how to interpret any math formulas thrown onto a whiteboard by a teacher. 

this is where he thrives. this is where it’s so incredibly easy to tune out everything around him, the bustling stylists, the chatter at the heavily catered table set up at the side of the room, the producers, their temporary manager, the mnet people, the nova people, his teammates, dozens of prying eyes, music blasting from some unseen speaker. it’s him and the photographer and soft light reflectors and bright flashes and the occasional dabbing of powder across his jawline or his nose. he briefly puts his other worries aside, forgets about the fact that he hates the way this blazer hangs off his frame, forgets that he’s terrified of how the public will feel about the single or his choreography or the fact that he can’t even properly unite a team to sign contracts with the company he’s so unquestionably loyal to.

now that he’s here, in the zone, in the realm that he thrives in as easily as he blinks, it’s easy to pretend he’s six again, and not weighed down by the pressure of success and the fear of failure, even if that, and everything in between, was exactly what he’d signed up for when he signed his name after that tiny black X.

[rkrxcky]

M G A s —— season 3 episode 9 : THE FINALE        ✯NOVA’s #teamricky

He’d never felt nervous in front of cameras. He wasn’t nervous because of the cameras. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous. It was just like reading a script, filming a scene. Only, instead of playing a part, he wasn’t playing anything, he was just being himself, on stage, in front of millions of people. That didn’t make him nervous either. Was nervous even the right word for the way his heart pounding in his chest seemed to drown out all sounds around him? Maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t nerves at all. Maybe it was the unavoidable thought that in a few minutes, he’d be saying goodbye to his team as he’d ever known it forever. It’d only be a few weeks, but it felt like they’d been together for a lifetime. Or the fact that in those same few minutes, they’d found out whether or not they’d won the biggest prize in their lifetime.

Whatever it was, nerves, sadness, fear, excitement, anticipation, he was glad to have his teammates there with him. It was a strange feeling, as if they were standing up on a music show waiting to hear who had the chart-topping single this week, even though such scenes were still far out of reach for him and his peers.

It was also some sort of relief to go first, to get it over with, to not have to worry about comparing their heartfelt letter to whoever’s came before theirs.

They handed him a handheld mic, told him it was his turn, told him he didn’t have to worry about finding any taped X on stage as long as he stayed center and slightly downstage relative to his team. The pressure of being first, of being in first, was impossible to ignore, and it made the feeling of thousands upon millions of eyes on him, even if some of those eyes were staring at him through a camera lens, that much stronger.

They announced him, his team, and he stepped forward slightly, as he’d been instructed, making sure to clear his throat while the mic was away from his face. He heard his teammates timidly recite the chant Wendy had invented behind him, and it was only when he smiled shyly himself in response that he realized he could already feel a lump forming in the back of his throat.

“Ah,” he started, unfolding the typed-out network-approved version of their letter, printed on cardstock and stamped with the MNET and MGAs logos on the side of it the audience could see, “One hundred fifty words isn’t a lot. But...we did our best. Please take care of us.”

He took another inaudible deep breath to properly steady his voice, perfectly aware of all the eyes on him and, surprisingly, how much he didn’t mind the feeling.

“We want to thank everyone who has helped us get this far and discover our true potential as a team…”

By now he’d practically had the letter memorized, but not verbatim, to avoid it sounding too rehearsed lest it should come out sounding ingenuine. But it was enough that he had a chance every now and then to look up at the camera pointed at him, the one they’d been directed to read to.

“...Thank you to Nova and Hyun Bin sajangnim for giving us a space to practice and with it, a chance at showing our best selves on stage...”

For him these words resonated more than just a few weeks of rehearsing with a team and a camera hanging around every hour they did. It was, between the lines, a thank you to his CEO for renewing his contract, for giving him that space to practice nearly 24 hours a day, for giving him a chance to become, eventually, what he’d always wanted to be.

“...Thank you to the CEOs and MNET for giving us this opportunity to achieve our dreams...”

Because this was not the first time he’d poured his heart out on this stage for these people, and because, hopefully, it would not be their last.

“...Thank you to our friends and families--”

His voice caught somewhere in his throat, on some foreign body of emotion he hadn’t even realized was forming until it was too late. He hadn’t seen or even really spoken to his family since February, since his week of paid vacation, a gift for renewing his contract. And before that, how long had it been since he’d seen them? Months? A year? It’d felt like an eternity, just like it did now, even though he knew, as it had been announced to him on his birthday, that his mother was cancer free and recovering and healthy. He could only hope they were watching the MGAs, to catch the rare glimpse of him on smaller television screens, that he was making them proud even though he rarely had the time to call, even though he spent so much time away from home and away from them to achieve his own dreams. He could only hope that they knew half the reason he did this was so that he could pay them back for getting him this far.

He tried to blink back, then will back, the water forming in his eyes, embarrassed that he would do something so silly as cry on national television over something as simple as a letter. He felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder, knew immediately that it was Seokjin’s, and was reminded that he wasn’t alone in this, in missing the loved ones he never saw anymore, in questioning whether or not this pursuit of his dreams was condemningly selfish. It made resuming the speech that much easier.

“Thank you to our friends and families for always supporting us, no matter how crazy those dreams are…”

A bashful chuckle from himself, prompted by the knowing one that came from behind him.

“...Thank you to our former teammates and to each other for never giving up on ourselves, and to our coach--”

Another pause, because as much as he’d insisted that it was too self-serving for him to read a thank you to himself on stage in front of everyone, it seemed Wendy and the rest of the team had managed to slip it in anyway. It was another reminder that soon they’d likely split up, would never again work together in a similar context. And another reminder of how many times they’d insisted he was a good coach in spite of his own sure doubts, how many times they’d thanked him for getting them this far every week in spite of the fact that he was sure it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with their own talents.

“...And to our coach, for never giving up on us…”

His hands were full and he didn’t want to accidentally smudge meticulously painted-on makeup, which meant he couldn’t do anything about the single tear that escaped, in spite of his best efforts, his right eye on his next blink. He sniffed quietly, slowly, gradually regaining his composure as he continued.

“... And no matter what the results are tonight,” whether they would work together over more grueling, exciting, terrifying weeks, or whether they’d be compelled to say goodbye to each other, to the team, forever, whether his teammates would receive contracts to their dream companies or whether they would go home empty-handed, as if their hard work had been for nothing, “thank you to the fans and the viewers and anyone else who rooted for us along the way…”

He looked up to the camera permanently, clutching the cardstock closed in his hand, because, if anything, he had these last few lines memorized by heart.

“...Thank you to everyone who helped us stand on stage as Team Nova. Thank you MGAs.”

[rkrxcky]

M G A s —— season 3 episode 8 : THE DEBUT SINGLE         ✯NOVA’s #teamricky | song [ 2:08 - 3:36  ]

The instructions they’d been given had been very clear, very simple, to pick three contestants from other teams that they’d want on their own. By then it was also very clear what the producers had in store for them for the next episode. Yet, in the midst of seeing his team’s name in first place again and being so incredibly grateful that they wouldn’t be losing another member this time around, he’d very nearly forgotten he’d picked anyone’s names out at all. It’s when Seokjin’s name rings out between others’ that he does remember, and he feels his heart stop briefly, because even though he had no control over it, still doesn’t, he somehow feels at fault for losing Soyou, another valuable member of the team, one whose maternal presence has kept them glued together through the rougher periods of the competition, to a competitor whose presence in the competition he’d been determinedly attempting to ignore.

Nobody would be surprised that he was the type to hold a grudge; at least, no one close enough to see the side of him that was crippled by the overlapping fears of failure and inadequacy, and abandonment. The fear of failure and inadequacy Seokjin had reminded him of often, just by existing, back when they used to train side by side. Because he’d gotten in on sheer luck and likeability and handsomeness, as if it was nothing, and Ricky’s own insecurities were a constant reminder that he had to work until he literally dropped to see any kind of recognition, and not necessarily of the positive variety. And just as they’d begun to grow close, as Ricky’s contract was renewed along with his confidence in his place at Nova Entertainment, Seokjin confirmed his second worst fear: abandonment. He up and left without a warning or a goodbye, just like Baekho, just like Sunny, just like Jeongguk and Jaebum and everyone else who’d forgotten him in their own quests to live different lives.

And now he was back, bringing to the forefront of Ricky’s mind the fact that all of these people had come and gone, had left him behind, a fact that Seokjin had now become the physical manifestation of. Sure, he’d been the one to come back, but that only seemed to make the fact that he’d left in the first place that more real.

And now he was on Ricky’s team and Ricky had no one to blame but himself. He should’ve known they wouldn’t have a say past their three picks, that they wouldn’t get more than one. Whatever assumptions he’d made to make himself feel better about scribbling down Seokjin’s name on that card in the neatest handwriting he could muster (though if one looked closely, Seokjin’s name was probably the messiest of the three, hastily written down as if he might’ve change his mind should he have hesitated any longer), none of them mattered now. He thought back to the advice of the supervising trainer he’d gone to for help, the one who’d reminded him dancing was easier to teach than any natural vocal talent, and that, in an idol group, there would always be someone who had to stand in the back. Do you want that to be you? It was advice that’d kept Ricky awake and unfocused on any dance routines for hours, because it was a truth he hadn’t necessarily been entirely prepared for, in spite of the fact that it was one he’d been dreading since he set foot on his own MGAs stage two years ago.

He knew Seokjin was talented, in spite of the finesse he lacked in his dance movements. He knew he was charismatic, had the looks of an idol without even having to try. And he knew, based on whatever Seokjin himself had scribbled onto his own official application, that he wanted to be in Nova. That had ultimately been the deciding factor for many of Ricky’s decisions regarding the competition: how much the people he picked wanted to be here. Not here, in the MNET studio singing for their lives, but here, on team Nova, and, perhaps, under the watchful eye and guiding hand of Hyun Bin himself. It was a sense of loyalty he subconsciously searched for in the contestants, perhaps because his fear of abandonment still thrived. But it could only be described as some kind of strange irony that he’d picked Seokjin as one of his three for this very reason. How loyal could he be if he’d already revealed himself a quitter in the first place?

It didn’t matter now that they were face to face in the designated practice room of the Nova building meant for his team. Because the damage had been done, and they had a debut song to pick. Things were a little more difficult now, and not just because of the tangible tension filling the air of the small practice room. Logistically, things had been admittedly easier when the team had only consisted of female contestants. And even before that, his carefully selected team of multi-talented dancers had never posed a problem when it came to picking dance-heavy songs. But he knew Seokjin’s skill levels, even if he had improved, and he was certainly no MYNAME or LC9.

They pored over YouTube videos and internet lists for hours trying to agree on a song. Ricky had been on edge since they’d announced the new teams and Wendy, after settling into the fact that Soyou was gone to make room for Seokjin, was no kinder to the new member than Ricky had ever been. Their words around the room were shorter, their collective patience was noticeably thinner, and Ricky was beginning to feel his lack of sleep (and his lack of a decent meal since yesterday) heavier than he had in a while. He had to excuse himself, because the anger he still felt with Seokjin combined with Wendy’s own misplaced hostility was nearly suffocating.

Seokjin found him at the end of the hallway, where the nearest vending machine hummed away in bright fluorescent colors, and it took a quiet, fairly unnoteworthy confrontation in the hallway Seokjin wasn’t technically even supposed to be wandering for the pair of them to come to terms that were less crippling for the team. It was an apology, and a genuine one, but it would take Ricky more than a few minutes listening to Seokjin grovel to get over the initial feelings of abandonment that had settled into his very core. But by the end of their silent walk back to the practice room together, he wordlessly offered the elder male the energy drink he’d pulled from the machine, a sign that perhaps things would, eventually, not be all bad between the two of them.

By then the team had settled on a song, one that was heavy in vocals and boasted very little choreography, leaving plenty of time to show off the team’s natural talents in singing and in charismatic communication with the audience and the camera. Over the next few days, Ricky helped them perfect the formation changes, divided lines as strategically as he knew how without being very confident in his own vocal abilities or knowledge of vocal abilities period, and reminded them to channel the realest emotions they could muster into the highly staged performance. However, he still radiated a subdued aura compared to the one he’d started out the competition with, and it wasn’t until later, when everyone had gone home for the night and he’d stayed behind to catch up on vocal practice of his own, flipped through backed up Snapchats from Sohee, that his spirits started to lift again.

It didn’t mean that he was any less nervous on the day of the performance, however. Aesthetically, the team looked amazing, as if they were ready to debut as a group tomorrow. But he still found himself second guessing every choice he’d made about the stage, crushed under pressure from all directions, including the kind that came from ranking first yet again after the upset that was the double elimination. Should he have pushed for a different song? Something more upbeat and cute to avoid the redundancy of doing another ballad-like song? Something more suited for the girls’ voices? Were the formations dynamic enough? Would they be distracting? What if someone messed them up? Or tripped? What if someone forgot a line or flubbed a note? What if he didn’t give everyone the right parts? Should he have let Wendy arrange a guitar-only version of the song like she’d suggested? Why was MNET still letting him do this??

His thoughts were noise in the caverns of his mind as he took his own spot in the wings, blending with the noise of an excited audience and busy staff. Someone strolled by and dabbed powder on his brow where he’d begun to sweat it off under lights and nerves, but he hardly noticed. Then the lights dimmed as someone else shoved a camera in his face, blue gels illuminating the stage alongside the three soft white spotlights that passed upstage and eventually settled on Mijoo, Seokjin, and Wendy.

All he could now was watch, wait, and hope that, once again, all their hard work had paid off for the better.

[rkrxcky]

` 15

M G A s — season 3 : COACH AUDITIONS                              song [ 1:20 - 2:15 ]

He’s seen thirteen people go before him. Most of them are names and faces he recognizes from his seasoned few years in the industry; some of them are friends, perhaps even akin to family in a few cases. But none of that makes the situation any less intimidating. Because being in the same room as Min and Hyuna and Taemin doesn’t do anything for his nerves when they’re all staring down the five most powerful people in the music industry.

It doesn’t help that he knows how talented everyone in the room is, that he knows from countless hours of monitoring and social media stalking and overlapping performance schedules. He knows because he competed against some of these trainees on the MGAs, which makes it some strange twist of fate that they’re all back here again, competing for something they aren’t even sure of. But it doesn’t matter that he has no idea what comes next if he does make it through, he still wants it so badly, still craves the spotlight that’s evaded him for so long.

His intimidation is only justified with every face that stands on a tape X and sings or raps or dances their heart out. He probably can’t hold a candle to Taemin or Bobby or Jieun, who could probably debut tomorrow and sweep the charts all on their own, and as the list dwindles down to his turn, he starts to think they all could, everyone he’s auditioning alongside. He’d like to think he’s at the same level, otherwise he wouldn’t be here, but looking back on his own rehearsals for today while flattening sweaty palms again the sides of his jeans has him doubting everything. He can’t explain why he’s so nervous, when his place at Nova is secured for two more years, when he has virtually nothing to lose. But he knows it’s terrifying to think he’s going to get up there and sing in front of fourteen other trainees who are so incredibly talented, who could be his competition on the charts one day, in addition to the Big Five CEOs, when just a few weeks ago he wasn’t so sure he was good enough to get up and sing in front of anyone ever.

Even as he moves to his spot on the piano bench and adjusts his button-up shirt so it doesn’t tug so eagerly at his windpipe, he’s not sure he’s good enough to get up and sing in front of anyone, but he’s here now, and he has to. Hyun Bin’s sitting right there watching his every move and he has to do his part to make him proud, to somehow prove to him that he made the right choice by picking Ricky and not one of the other extremely talented trainees in the room.

He takes a deep breath, and then another, waiting for what feels like an eternity but what is really only a few short moments for his hands to stop shaking. And then he starts his song, playing as softly as he can so as not to drown out his own voice, which is supposed to be the main focus of his short performance. And just as quickly as they began, his short 45 seconds are over, and as the last piano note fades into silence and he returns to his spot among the other auditioning trainees, his hands began to shake a little again. He feels himself turning a little red, subtly clenches his hands at his sides, and pointedly avoids eye contact with his CEO altogether.

But by the time they’re dismissed, sweaty palms have actually stopped shaking. Much to his surprise.

[rkrxcky]

M G A s —— season 3 episode 7 : THE BALLAD          ✯NOVA’s #teamricky | song [ 2:40-4:10 ] 

It was clear in his demeanor the next time they met as a team, the four of them now, which somehow incredibly sparse compared to the five he’d gotten used to, that he was still strongly affected by the results of the last episode. He still hadn’t gotten much sleep, outside of the hour he’d stolen in an empty practice room, a quick break in the hours of practice he’d assigned himself to make up for the time he spent with his teammates, and the slump in his shoulders was indicative of his mood, which was more subdued than usual, and noticeably so. Right away he’d conceded most of the authority to the girls, suggesting in a flatter tone that maybe it would be better if they chose their own parts in the song he’d reluctantly selected for them, reluctant only because he wasn’t even sure if it was the right one. He wasn’t sure about anything involving the competition anymore. Certainly they knew their own voices better than he did, and since he wasn’t performing this round, there was no chance of him ruining the stage with his own singing voice.

He tried his best to mask his defeat, but he could only do so much when his body was so exhausted. Even in this state, he usually got through days at Nova before anyone noticed, if anyone did. It was easy to blame any change in mood on being tired or drained, which was a state a trainee could wear like a badge of honor, because it was a boasting of hours of hard work and dedication. But nothing went unnoticed with the three young women he now spent hours every day with, which became apparent very early on, the cloud of self-deprecation over his head being immediately dissolved by a determined Soyou. He was halfway through admitting that he was no quitter but that he also wasn’t a leader, when she interrupted him mid-thought, startling him by taking his face in her hands, her expression so stern that it took Ricky several moments to process the fact that she wasn’t actually angry with him at all.

“Yah. Yoo Ricky. You listen to me. I have never done anything like this in my whole life. I was sure I was on the wrong path, but now I now that I’m finally doing what I want more than anything. I’m not that confident, and I’m only so confident about my dancing because I’ve been doing it my whole life. But singing? And dancing? Rapping? In front of all of those people and the judges and the whole country? But I did it, and it was all because of you. I’ve never felt more confident performing than I have under your guidance and I will always be thankful for that. Even if you don’t think you’re a leader, I do. You’re not giving up that easily. Got it?”

It took a moment for him to process her words, a moment of him gaping at her like an idiot and clamming up because she was very close and he was very embarrassed, before they truly sank in. This, this unbridled confession of admiration and gratefulness, any remotely apparent acknowledgement of his talent, was so rare that it felt foreign, strange, almost some kind of surreal. He glanced around the room at the other members as best he could with his face still in Soyou’s grasp, then nodded slightly, doing his best not to let his emotions show through his carefully cultivated aura of masculinity, his words coming out careful in the process.

“But…you didn’t say what part you wanted to sing.”

It was a moment of what could only be described as accidental cuteness, a moment that alieved the natural tension permeating the air, a moment of lightheartedness that was much needed in the absence of Luhan, who’d always been the resident mood-maker. He smiled a little for the first time in what was probably days, and they slipped back into their usual rehearsal routine. Of course they picked up the choreography easily, as was to be expected, and he found himself, while sitting against the mirrors of the room and listening to them sing, somewhat envious of their natural abilities now that he was facing them so raw and concentrated. Soyou adapted well, though she was not as confident in her vocal abilities, as she tended to do, and he could feel his confidence and competitive determination slowly returning to the surface.

If his mood had improved, it was only shaken further the moment Wendy collapsed, barely caught by Soyou before crumbling to the floor in a graceful heap. His heart seemed to hit the floor and climb its way up his throat at the same time, and he could feel everything falling apart around him. His own head spun a little as anxiety crept its way up his spinal cord, and all he could do was stand there dumbly until Soyou began barking orders at the rest of them for help. He surrendered his own water bottle and the only protein bar left in the backpack that doubled as his overnight bag and his dance bag, realizing with a pang that he hadn’t eaten much today himself. Someone suggested a hospital and he felt his heart skip a beat; he could only imagine the unfavorable editing MNET would have to offer if the cameras were to follow them to the emergency room. He stood back as Soyou nursed Wendy back to health, mostly silent, awkward and unsure of what to say or do and trying to shove back the feelings of inadequacy that had begun to rapidly resurface.

He made sure to end their second rehearsal with a deep bow and an apology, for being so unhelpful and for letting his emotions and self-doubt get the best of him. He promised, as he’d done for a camera, to work harder, to make them proud and to do all that he could to help them rise to the top.

Regardless of all the work and hours they’d put in, regardless of his gradual recovery from Luhan’s elimination, his nerves were still on edge on the night of the performances, like live wires coursing through his entire existence and threatening to set all rational thought aflame. Hair and makeup and wardrobe were back to being less invasive now that he was meant to sit as a glamorous audience member and not perform on stage in front of at least a dozen cameras, which gave him even more time to sit around letting nervousness consume him. He was able to send the camera they shoved in his face a small smile, letting his current feelings show through somewhat because that kind of nervous energy was the kind of thing competition shows thrived on.

The performance ran just as he expected, with very few hiccups, because his team’s talent and diligence showed on stage, as did their determination to make both Nova and Luhan proud. It felt like a blur mostly, and he couldn’t help but notice the unshakeable itch in his very being to be up there performing himself; in spite of the results just days ago, he didn’t forget how exhilarated he’d felt being up on stage again, how much of a blessing it’d been after how long he’d missed it. It was a thought he kept to himself when he hurried (albeit with composure) backstage at the next commercial break to congratulate his team, to apologize again for being a hindrance, and to reassure them that they looked and sounded just as good as, if not better than, they’d practiced. However, he keeps a few extra centimeters of distance, as if his incompetence, his sickness, his mediocrity will somehow rub off on his exceptional teammates.

He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread curling in his gut at the thought that no matter how hard they worked or how well they performed, there was always the chance they’d lose again tonight. But he smiled through it as best as he could, if only for the sake of his teammates’ morale.

[rkrxcky]

M G A s —— season 3 episode 5 : WORST SKILL ROUND            ✯NOVA’s #teamricky | song [ 0:00-1:01; 1:13-1:39]

They announce the theme of the week and he feels his heart hit the floor. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, because as the shock dissipates into a stark realization, he doesn’t even think to conceal the fact that he is, for all intents and purposes, mortified.

He knows why they’re doing this they way that they are. They want to see the contestants’ variety, want to see the side of the competitors that otherwise might never have seen the light of day. He remembers how versatility got him through his own season of the MGAs, and he likes to think maybe he knows a thing or two about what the judges are looking for. Well, he’d like to, but he knows better than that; he knows where Nova lacks, but he doesn’t know what’s going on in his CEO’s head, not even for a second.

He has no idea why on Earth anyone would want to hear his team rapping.

And the fog only thickens when he sits his team in a circle and asks them to rap one by one. They’re safe in the confines of their designated practice room (which luckily isn’t the neglected one in the back corner of the first floor with foggy mirrors and unwaxed floors), or as safe as they can be considering there will be at least two cameramen coming in and out every half hour to catch the best clips they can for the show, and he’s grateful for it when Wendy opens her mouth to freestyle. He tries to maintain the best poker face he can, but exhaustion and anxiety overrule his acting skills and he can’t help but look more than a little defeated. He’s certain he won’t hurt anyone’s feelings; it’s a well-known fact among the five of them that Team Ricky will never debut as a rap group. But the thought of putting this on stage for an actual live MGAs performance terrified him.

They’d somehow taken first last week, shocking Ricky out of his corporeal body for at least five whole seconds, putting a metaphorical target on their heads and lining them up for utter humiliation if they weren’t careful. Being at the top of the list doesn’t mean they’re allowed to get arrogant or afford to slack off in any way. If anything, it means they have to work even harder, to outdo themselves, to avoid the easy, painful fall from first to last. Such a feat would take even more time and energy than their last performance did, in a way, because starting from scratch with anything was always much harder. He remembers how long it took for him to learn how to rap on a level that was even remotely acceptable, how long it took for him to feel more confident than embarrassed. It took a year, at least. They didn’t have a year to take these contestants from nothing to something. They had three days.

He does his best to pick an acceptable song, which is a strange surreal process, considering he’s looking through songs that were released when he was no older than ten. Did he even listen to music then? Certainly he had to have, during those hours spent on sets with handlers making sure he never got bored or went missing. But he doesn’t remember many of them, and he’s only truly satisfied with a song he think will suit his team after hours of searching, when the sky starts to lighten and birds sound and he realizes he didn’t sleep at all save for that fifteen minute doze that happened halfway through his perusal of Big Star’s early discography. He can only hope they’ll like it, and that it isn’t too difficult for absolute beginners to pick up in a few hours.

The learning process is organized chaos at best. Luhan somehow manages to keep the mood light by giving them all ridiculous ‘rapper names’ and somehow Wendy’s rolling around and banging of the floor turns out to create noticeable improvement, but Ricky’s nerves live on edge as if they’re paying rent.

He gives them the same advice his coaches gave him when he was learning how to rap, tells the vocalists it’s just like singing, but to a rhythm instead of a melody, tells the dancers it’s much easier when you count a rap the same way you’d count a complex set of choreography. He’s not sure if it’s enough, or if there’s a miracle in the world that could help them pull this off, but he won’t sleep until he knows he’s put in everything he has and everything he can into this performance.

(His company’s evaluations loom over his head like an ominous storm cloud, but he disregards it for now, for the sake of his focus.)

The day of the performances roll around and he think he might throw up he’s so nervous. This isn’t like last week, where he felt solidly confident in his team’s performance. That was when the worst possible outcome was a few uneven elbows during a dance break. Now all he can picture is Wendy tripping over a shoelace and rolling off the stage to pound on the judges’ table, or Luhan flubbing up and saying a bunch of random nonsensical words in English instead of his actual lines. He has to consciously focus on not fidgeting in the makeup chair as they doll him up for a few chance shots of perfectly-controlled facial reactions. His team is in a different room somewhere, doing who-knows-what. Knowing them, they’re rehearsing diligently, but it still makes him nervous that he can’t be there with them.

He sits with the other coaches, though he isn’t very talkative this time around. For one, it’s because he still feels a little intimidated by a few of them, Bobby especially (the thought of Tiger JK himself and Bobby watching his team rap only makes his nervous nausea worse); he almost feels guilty having been in first place last round, as if somehow their seniority in age means he and his team don’t deserve it. And it’s hard to look a coach in the eye when he’s seen their teammates ousted by his own team’s efforts. He reminds himself to relax during the round of performances, during the other teams’ and his own team’s, or at least to look somewhat relaxed, because no camera is too fond of that terrified deer-in-headlights look that his brain currently feels like.

It runs fairly smoothly, to Ricky’s surprise. The whole concept of his team rapping still makes him want to cringe, but they manage to pull it off. It’s no miracle performance, and it’s obvious that none of them are Yoon Mirae herself. And picking a Tasha song for his team to perform in front of the original artist’s husband is probably the boldest move he’s made with anything in a very long time.

He can only hope, as his team files off stage in one big clump of camaraderie, that all their hard work, time, effort, hopes, dreams, charisma, and ultimately, their boldness, have paid off.

[rkrxcky]

M G A s ------ season 3 episode 4 : SURVIVAL EDITION             ✯NOVA’s #teamricky | song [ 0:15-0:19 / 1:05-2:29 ]

His first thought is his mind wondering over and over again like a broken record why anyone thought it was a good idea to put him in charge of anything. He doesn’t know how to lead a team or tell people what to do. How can he be expected to lead any group of people to victory when the majority of his own time is spent trying to hold the delicate fibers of his own life together and only succeeding half the time? Sure, he made it all the way through the first season of the MGAs and found himself one recording contract with his dream company richer. But he also found himself scared and questioning the integrity of his future and nearly every aspect of his identity or lack thereof. He didn’t even think anyone around him considered him an adult, in spite of his recent birthday, or anyone particularly special, let alone someone who was capable of coaching his own team on a national competition show for a prize even he couldn’t help but covet.

His second thought is a reminder to himself not to let his nagging self-doubt show on camera. But there are certain things he knows the cameras are allowed to see: basic insecurities about being young and only somewhat experienced, about not yet having debuted himself and being unsure of just how qualified he is to coach the talented members of his team (though if he lets that one show, it must be promptly followed by the reassuring backtrack that he must have something to offer if his CEO handpicked him of all the trainees in the company; it’s just enough humility mixed with just enough inspired confidence so as not to seem too far toward one end of the spectrum or another). They’re allowed to see his initial shyness around the teammates he picked out himself, the initial unsureness about his song choice, and his gradual warming up to the entire situation at hand.

The thoughts that follow are a series of observations as the week progresses. Mostly they’re observations about his teammates, some that he keeps to himself and others that he shares into the gaping lens of a camera when he’s asked. They all have the work ethic ideal for any Nova hopeful, especially Soyou, who seems to latch onto his style of coaching effortlessly. Luhan is...a handful on his worst days, noticeably foreign in more ways than one and harboring a distracting sweet tooth for the pretty girls he won’t stop flirting with, but even he (usually) falls back into line after a bit of prodding. Wendy keeps Luhan in line when Ricky can’t, because it’s still taking Ricky some time to find the right way to tell a team that consists of contestants that are mostly older than him what to do, and he’s grateful for that. He’s also grateful that his CEO seemed to agree with his picks for the team, and though he was initially flooded with a small wave of disappointment when he lost Seulgi, who’d arguably been one of his favorite competitors from the beginning, to one of Sphere’s teams, he finds himself with a group of contestants he couldn’t have been more lucky to be partnered with. That revelation comes when he sees them all dance the complex choreography of MYNAME for the first time together. It needs cleaning, needs matched angles and identical kick heights, and he hears that much in the split second differences between shoes squeaking against polished hardwood flooring. But none of them are lost or confused or uncomfortable, and many of the insecurities he harbored from the beginning about his song choice fly out the window.

He’s still not so sure about himself as a coach, but he does his best, and so far the group doesn’t seem too unsatisfied with him. He passes on what knowledge he can, though he’s sure he doesn’t have that much to give (he surprises himself as time goes on and he realizes some of the most basic aspects of performing he’s learned during his years as a trainee are some of these competitors’ most valuable lessons, and he starts to wonder if maybe he’s not so bad for this job after all).

He teaches them how to search for the right camera, how to find that little red light and perform to it directly, as if making eye contact with every single audience member simultaneously (For Luhan, he tells him to look into the lens as if he were looking at a pretty girl who’s broken his heart; it’s mostly a joke, but it turns out to be more effective than he thought). He tells them that nerves are normal and that really singing the way they’re expected to while really dancing the way the choreography demands them to is really, really, really, really hard and not to get discouraged if the routine ends and they feel like their lungs might explode. He does his best to divide their lines according to their skills while still giving everyone a chance to shine and he gives them the creative freedom of picking out their performance outfits among themselves.

He apologizes once or twice, just in case he’s being too tough on them, because as the nights get later he starts to fixate more on the little things, on bent elbows being lifted a little too high or knees not being bent enough, or facial expressions lacking in charisma in a way that makes it look like they’re overthinking their every mood, and he has to laugh at himself a little too because he’s starting to sound like the Nova coaches he spends fourteen hours a day with during normal schedules. He still occasionally wonders if someone like Min would have been more suited for this; her collective years of training make her more seasoned than him and she gives off an aura of maturity and wisdom that he’s certain he lacks. But he reminds himself that there’s a reason Hyun Bin picked him, and even if he doesn’t know what that reason is, even if he might never know, it’s his job to justify that decision, regardless of whether or not his deepest darkest thoughts aren’t sure if it was the right one.

He very nearly cries (keyword: nearly) when they show him the team chant Wendy’s come up with, because never in a million years did he think he’d be able to unite a team of strangers like this in such little time, and he’d certainly never expected that anyone would be so enthusiastic about being on a team headed by him of all people. That foreign feeling of pride swells up somewhere in the pit of his chest that’s usually reserved for less pleasant emotions and he does his best to swallow it down so he can lead them in at least three more run-throughs of the routine (this time with handheld mics, because he’s not sure what they’ll get on the night of the actual stage).

That foreign feeling returns on performance night, as he watches from the wings, eyes flickering like anxious flames between the stage itself and the monitors playing above his head. He gets the slightest feeling of deja vu, a flashback of a forgotten few minutes backstage at his own MGAs where he’d stared nervously at the impressive vocal performance of the pretty female singer that had gone before him. He’s just as nervous now, if not more, even though there isn’t nearly as much at stake. For him that is.

He might get on them for those uneven elbows later, or he might forget about them completely, because everything else seems to go so smoothly and so in sync, like the well-oiled unit they’re shaping up to be, and to think a few days ago they’d all been amateur individual performers used to performing on their own and on stages much smaller than this one.

It all seems too good to be true, says the permanently nagging voice at the back of his mind. They still have to make it through the judges’ commentary, through the first round of voting, through whatever the next episode has in store for them, and through whatever the rest of the season will put them through. But for now, as they file off the stage in one big sweaty group, he lets himself be happy and exhilarated and nervous all at once. Even if it’s just for these next few minutes.

[rkrxcky]

can your friends do this? { feb. evals }

NOVA Entertainment February Evaluations SONG/MV: 1:40-2:40  HAT TRICK: 3:27-3:30 ish ((but omg watch the whole thing for thoroUGH AMUSEMENT))

He was prepared for the February evaluations just five days ago. Just five days ago, he’d had it all planned down to the very last fraction of a second (59.35 if he executed everything correctly). It would have been perfect. Probably. It was everything he knew Nova wanted to see out of him, reflected his skills as the versatile variety performer he was, showed him off as moldable and malleable and ready to be shaped into whatever form they needed him in for that perfect money-making debut.

But then he’d allow himself to think about it. He’d allowed himself to think about it too much. He’d stared at his reflection too long in the mirror and let his feet linger still on the shiny scuffed pine floors of an empty practice room too long and suddenly he’d started to question it all. Everything. From the hair on top of his head, growing too long into his eyes, to the fluctuating roundness of his naturally rosé cheeks, to his natural inclination to erase all personal flaws and distinctive markings in the name of making his coaches and trainers and tutors and big shadowy men at the top of it all happy. They wanted to see their strongest skills, to see what made them stand out from their peers, and it was easy to zone in on each and every one of his peers and their defining talents. He could see the sellable individualism in all of them, in Sunny and in Huidong, in Seokjin and in Tyler, in Rome and Min and Jaebum and Hyuna, in every trainee he’d seen come and go since he’d first signed his name after that defining black X. But when he focused that same lens back in on himself, he realized he knew himself as nothing more than an empty shell, as a boy who was almost a man and had no idea of who he really was in the world. Or even within the narrow halls of Nova Entertainment.

Suddenly that biting title, those three words, that simply uttered Nova’s Performing Robot didn’t seem so far off, and that made his chest hurt the same way the thought of losing it all had. Because he could stare back at his reflection in the mirror, could stare into his own dark eyes and not recognize the pair that was staring back at him.

So he threw it out. He discarded it all, the hours he’d spent perfecting a mashup of someone else’s choreographies to songs he didn’t care about.

Then he picked a song. One that made him happy. One that was sung by an artist he’d always admired, whose dance style he’d channeled since he’d first learned dancing was one of his few callings. He stayed up for hours, ignoring the seconds ticking down to his personal new year, ignoring the sun rising on his birthday and the nagging lack of facial hair not prickling his cheeks (because apparently those things didn’t happen overnight like he’d always secretly thought).

He fought with makeshift props and struggled with his own choreography. He pushed back the raging feelings of inadequacy, the persistent thoughts of the fact that maybe he was making a huge mistake, that his own moves spawning from passionate freestyle, that the theatricality of it all, that the sheer spontaneity of his actions would undoubtedly get him kicked out of the company. Because this was his life, but what was the point if he wasn’t living, breathing, like humans were meant to?

And so he found himself in the tiny evaluation room, setting up an empty mic stand in the center of it and a simple black chair at camera left, fully aware of the small video camera staring him down as he did. The only suit he had was wrinkled, but he filled it out a little better than he had when he’d worn it to the wedding, and it was necessary to set the tone of his performance. The deep red tie from Halloween hung untied around his neck and the simple black hat he’d picked up from a costume shop sat propped on his head, tilted just so as to give a hint, but not a full profile, of his eyes.

He took a deep breath before the music started, reminding himself that at least some aspect of this experience was supposed to be fun. And then he dove in.

He started off with a simple turn, quick but slick on crossed feet, his air suave but easy to match the jazzy mood of the naturally smooth vocals. It was sharp enough to remain controlled, but nothing too powerful, so as not to overdo it (or send any accessories flying off of him before they were supposed to). Then he fell into his own choreography, some mixture of R&B and hip-hop and the Broadway style jazz he’d spent so much time researching and adopting into his own style.

Have some of column A, try all of column B I’m in the mood to help you dude

He slid two fingers down the front brim of his hat and posed sharply, once facing the camera with his head bowed and his left hand pointing to the ground and his right flexed by his side, then a second time on the next beat turned to camera left with his fingers gripping his lapels.

You ain’t never had a friend like me

He cheated out slightly, to point a thumb at himself with the hint of a smirk before falling into more complex choreography with a smooth slide to camera right and another turn on the balls of his feet. More hip-hop-influenced moves followed, though always within his more personal style, everything staying, for the most part, rather connected and fluid, as if it was all completely relaxed and effortless, though it was all completely the opposite.

He couldn’t help but subtly mouth some of the lyrics along the way, but only the lyrics he actually understood, considering he still struggled with his English. He mimed a trumpet, the way he’d seen done in the music video, kicked forward slightly like he’d seen done in the few musicals he’d seen, and landed in a crouch, before pushing onto his stomach in a fluid body roll and scorpion-kicking back up onto his feet all within another swift eight count.

He slid again on the next trumpet blast before freezing sharply in anticipation of the next bit.

Can your friends do this?

He let his arms and legs move in a mostly improvised set of fluid popping and locking with a small kick backward, punctuated by a sharp tipping of his hat back over his eyes as he moved toward the chair on the right side of the room.

Can your friends do that?

He stepped up onto the chair with one leg and then onto the chair’s back with the other, letting it fall forward with his weight, and hopping off of it a split second before it hit the ground. He quickly moved back toward the center of the room as the next lyric began.

Can your friends pull this, Out their little hat?

He slid around the mic stand then pulled the hat off his head, letting it travel up his arm and bounce off the inside of his elbow, catching it in his left hand and flipping it upright before he slipped it back onto the crown of his head.

Can your friends go poof?

He reached into the pockets of his blazer and tossed out a small handful of pale blue powdered chalk from both hands in a pose that punctuated the sharp but brief lull in music. Then he glanced up at the camera, tilting his head to relieve the shadow the hat casted over his eyes, and winked, before falling back into step of the choreography he’d painstakingly rushed to complete and perfect.

So don’t you sit their slack-jawed, buggy-eyed I’m here to answer all your midday prayers

He kicked his way down an imaginary line parallel to the camera’s horizontal eyesight, one hand on the brim of his hat and to the beat of the trumpets, before he jogged the last few steps and ended the lyric with a few counts of faster, more modern footwork.

You got me bona fide and certified You got a genie for your chare d'affaires

He flipped the tail of his jacket up behind him before strutting to the mic stand to the song’s beat, lips subconsciously moving to the sounds of the song he recognized, before he executed a subtle body wave against it, a hand caressing the air around it as he’d seen it done in seniors’ performances he’d spent countless hours monitoring.

I got a powerful urge to help you out So what-cha wish? I really wanna know

He fell into a bit of a freestyle after that, tipping the mic stand with his right hand and hopping over it, praying it’d lean back to an upright position on its own and ignoring it when it clattered loudly to the ground behind him instead. He added another spin in an attempt to distract from the flub, this one a little more quick and aggressive, holding onto his hat with one hand as his blazer billowed out around him.

You got a list that’s three miles long, no doubt Well, all you gotta do is rub like so…

He wagged a finger at the camera with another, but considerably more shaken, smirk, before approaching the camera with a rhythmic kick-step.

Oh…

He slid forward on his heels in the last beat of the vocalist’s riffs, as if he might’ve been on wheels, before slipping his hat off and dipping it over the camera lens, turning everything black.

His evaluation was over, and by the speed his heart was pounding in his chest, he could only hope all his hard work had actually paid off.

[rkrxcky]

» the best of it

It’s meant to be their Christmas, even if it is crowded and two days late and everyone’s exhausted and excited and irritable all at once. The plate in front of him is sparse compared to Christmas dinner past, and it’s certainly not his mother’s cooking. He misses her cooking. But he is, surprisingly, starving, after hours of non-stop rehearsal and it’s nice to have a break. It seems they’ve tried to make it festive, and even the coaches have dialed back on monitoring their plates (which doesn’t make much of a difference for Ricky because he always subconsciously monitors his own plates).

He occasionally joins in on the conversations around him, but mostly he stays lost in his own thoughts, all too aware of the company’s CEO sitting not a hundred feet away. He tries his best not to stare, not to spend his whole holiday meal trying to figure out what’s going on in the elusive executive’s head, but he still can’t help but steal a glance every now and again. He’s still more than intimidated by that stony expression, even when it hints at returning an almost imperceptible smile to boisterous staff.

Ricky doesn’t even notice the parallel, doesn’t neutrally self-reflect enough to notice the similarities between the pair of them, the way they hide everything behind a well-rehearsed exterior. Ricky feels like an ant, small and insignificant, smaller and more insignificant than usual even just being in the same room as the CEO. He wonders if Hyun Bin even remembers him from the MGAs or if he really has faded into absolute obscurity.

For a split second it looks like the executive’s gaze might pass over (and right through, no doubt) him, and Ricky has a fleeting moment of panic, immediately switching his own gaze to the untouched piece of sponge cake on his plate and finding himself contemplating if he even has the appetite for it. He debates with himself over it, over how it’ll probably look strange if a boy his age doesn’t touch cake when its within his reach, focuses on that instead of the fact that he very nearly made unwarranted eye contact with the most important man in this building.

He glances up again, but this time around the table he’s at. Sunny and Min and Jaebum were chatting animatedly, like a scene on a Christmas card, and he can’t help but feel a little envious. He hasn’t felt the urge to smile like that in ages. Hyuna’s attacking her own plate of food with unbridled gumption, which prompts him to tentatively carve the corner of his cake slice off with his fork, slipping the small bite in his mouth and trying to swallow back the guilt the taste of sugar on his tongue brings forward. Huidong, seated next to him, catches his gaze, gives him a curious look before Ricky responds with a simple shake of his head. I’m fine, it says.

He’s not. Not really. Because for all he knows, this marks the beginning of his last two weeks at Nova, and the thought makes an appetite fleeting at best. But he tries another bite of cake nonetheless, if just to make sure no one worries about him.

If they are his last two weeks here, at the place that’s been his home for two years, then he has to make the best of it.

[rkrxcky]

» sparks and lights { gayos r.3 }

He’s one of the first to trickle onto the stage for their first venue rehearsal. He holds his breath, carefully treads the smooth shining surface of the stage as if he’s entering a holy place.

He wonders if this is what drowning feels like.

The space is vast and incredibly intimidating, even when the seats are empty and the lights are up. He feels so small, smaller than years as a trainee at Nova has made him feel, smaller than dancing on foreign stages behind his company sunbaes, smaller than standing up on the MGAs stage waiting to hear his fate in front of hundreds of thousands of people. He wonders if he’s shrinking, finally preparing to implode into the black hole he’s felt like for weeks. It feels like he is.

He tries imagining the seats filled, the cameras rolling, the stage lit by sparks and lights and fire, shaking with hundreds of dancing feet and the booming bass of speakers. It’s overwhelming and it’s terrifying and it’s everything he’s ever wanted and it might be the only taste of his dream that he’ll ever get.

He’s decided he’ll make the best of it. He has to. He has to show that he’s grateful for the opportunities he’s had, that he still has two feet to dance on, that he’s going to perform on the biggest stage of the year and his mother is still alive to see it. But it doesn’t make the reality that in a week and a half everything’s going to be over. Just like that.

It’s a mixture of regret and exhilaration and nerves and excitement and devastation that chokes him up this time. He barely even registers the sounds of footsteps and squeaking sneakers and excited chatter behind him as the other trainees fill the stage. He’s too busy trying to breathe under the crushing pressure of anticipation, the anticipation of the experience of a lifetime, the anticipation of the inevitable mark of his ultimate failure.

He suddenly feels a presence close by, right next to him, and he turns his head to see Min. His own vision is blurred with the physical manifestation of his feelings, but she doesn’t say anything about that fact. She smiles softly, and it reminds him of the way his mother smiles at him when she’s encouraging him to keep his head up. She reaches over and curls a hand around his and it helps him remember how to breathe again.

A tear escapes, but he thinks it might be a happy one and he decides now isn’t the time to grieve. Not when he has the biggest stage of his life to look forward to.

[rkrxcky]

>> two or midnight { special gayos solo }

It hits him like a brick wall.

His name isn’t called, his name isn’t on anything, his name doesn’t mean anything to anyone anymore and maybe getting hit with a brick wall would hurt less.

He should’ve danced harder. He should’ve danced harder and sung louder and rapped better. He should’ve sweat more. He should’ve slept less. He should’ve eaten less. Or more. About that he’s still not very sure. He should’ve been born taller and better looking and smarter and more naturally talented. Maybe if he did, maybe if he was, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have been forgotten. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have slipped through the cracks. Maybe someone would pat him on the shoulder and tell him he’s made visible improvements to his acting or his dancing or his stupid failed English homework. Maybe he wouldn’t be so mediocre in some areas and so utterly useless in others. Maybe the people he put trust in to stay wouldn’t have left. Maybe he would’ve debuted by now. Maybe he would’ve been a famous actor in a popular drama or a blockbuster film by now. Maybe he would already have gotten his first massive paycheck, and maybe he would have bought his father’s shop back with it. Maybe he would pay for his brother’s entire Ivy League education. Maybe he would be able to fly around the world to find the cure for his mother. Maybe he’d smile more. Maybe people would remember him.

But nobody remembered him. He wasn’t anyone to anyone anymore. He was starting to wonder if maybe he’d slipped into invisibility, which would only be better than obscurity because it’d be slightly less humiliating.

Sure, he’ll dance on the Gayo stage and he’ll be thrilled about it and it’ll go down in his short history as the best day of his life. He can pretend the stage is for him, make believe for a split second that someday it might be. But then it’ll end and his contract will end and everything will end and he’ll be left with nothing but the end.

He dances through the rest of the night’s rehearsal with all his might, though he has to go numb for such an act to be possible. It means half of his mind is shut off, barred by the brick wall they threw at him because what else is he going to do with it. It means he has trouble hiding the fact that he feels on the verge of shriveling up and imploding into nothing. It means that he trips up in the third eight-count and overcorrects his turn in the fifth and gets scolded again for being a failure. It means that the look on his coach’s face makes him nauseous and choked up all at once because it’s the same disappointed look they’ve been giving him for months and why did he have to turn out to be such a failure and why is he only realizing it now.

They wrap up at one or two or midnight, he’s not sure because the display on his phone screen, the one he started carrying with him again so he could text Sohee and pretend that he didn’t think she was planning on leaving him too, it’s already blurred. He thinks maybe the brick wall has traveled to his chest and built up in his lungs, and he all but sprints out of the building and he’s already halfway home before he realizes he walked when he’s used to taking the bus and he’s sure the sidewalk is stretching in front of him.

Of course they’d pick Huidong. Huidong’s great. Huidong’s amazing. Huidong is unrivaled in his talent, even though he hasn’t been around anywhere near as long as Ricky has. And Hyuna. Hyuna who’s just as talented and good-looking and the new company favorite and what a joke it is to think he’d ever considered himself close to that.

They’re having auditions to replace him—no, that implies that he was ever important. They’re having auditions to fill the spot he’ll vacate when they shed him like dead weight and all he’ll have to show for his lifelong dream is two faceless stages and a bit part in a drama and what if his mom dies what if she dies tomorrow what if she dies tonight what if he spent the last two years of her life miles away where he couldn’t see her face or hear her voice or hug her tight and never let go? What if he spent the last two years of her life miles away like a horrible son and has nothing to show for it but two faceless stages and a bit part in a drama and a humiliating end to it all?

He fumbles over the code to his apartment, because he still has trouble remembering it, because he almost hadn’t want to at the time, when his landlord handed it to him on a slip of paper with a smile, a permanent reminder that Byunghun had left him totally and utterly alone. Fruit Loop nips playfully at his heels and Coal perks up from his spot in the window seat but he ignores them both and makes a beeline for the bathroom because he’s sure he’s going to throw up.

Several moments of standing over the sink and ignoring the fact that he can feel his reflection hanging over him like a rain cloud reveals that he’s not actually going to throw up, which is good, because putting on kilograms so his arms don’t look like twigs in those strikingly pale tank tops has been enough of a task as it is, and chucking it all into his sink would be another painful reminder of how much of a waste all his efforts seem to be.

His stomach doesn’t settle though, and neither do the bricks, and his hands feel like they’re shaking and it’s then that he realizes he hasn’t anything but a protein bar since his scheduled dinner time but he has no intentions of putting anything else in his stomach until breakfast.

He knocks the toilet seat down with an unsteady hand and sit on its flat surface because he can feel the bricks expanding and cutting off his air supply and filling his head like cotton and if he sits, maybe they’ll settle down and the world won’t start spinning around him. It always feels like he’s slowly dying when this happens and he starts to shut out all the things that make him wish he was. It means blocking out certain faces and names as they pop up, nearly everyone he knows when it comes down to it. Fruit Loop scrabbles into the bathroom, careful on the tile, and stands to rest tiny paws on his shins in the way that normally gets him plenty of unbridled lap time. But Ricky’s fingers are too busy unlocking his phone, dialing the one number he knows won’t send him further into his crippling black hole.

He puts the receiver up to his ear and blinks back blurred vision and his heart almost literally leaps into his throat when it’s a woman’s voice on the other end instead of his father’s like he’d expected.

“Eo-eomma?”

“Changhyun-ah~”

He can’t believe it, it can’t be real, maybe he really has died, maybe he finally succeeded at that because it was the only thing he was destined to succeed at. It takes a few moments to sink in that it’s reality and that for the first time in months, in perhaps a year, that he’s actually heard her voice in real time and all that escapes him is a small choked sob.

“Eomma…”

“What’s wrong, Changhyun?” Her voice is so calm and soothing and, besides being a little tired, is just as he remembered it and it’s enough to draw fighting tears from his eyes.

“Eomma. I miss you. I miss you so much. I love you. I’m sorry,” the words fall out of him as unbridled and unstoppable as his tears and the bricks are crumbling a little but that doesn’t make it any less difficult to breathe. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything. Appa was right, I’m not—I’m not good enough, I should never have—I should be there with you. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry—“

“Shhh, Changhyun, you have nothing to be sorry for. I miss you too. And I love you more than life itself—“

“Don’t say that. Please.”

“Don’t worry about Eomma, little one.”

“I’m sorry—“

“Hush, my son. I don’t like to hear you cry like this.”

“I’m not crying,” he lies weakly through a hoarse voice, sniffing and taking in a shaky breath. It’s such a blatant lie and in the moment, shrouded in the sound of his mother’s voice and the reassuring that that she’s still alive, she’s almost there in the room with him, it’s so absurd it’s funny. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he lets out a real genuine laugh, a small quiet chuckle that he hears returned from the other end and in some cruel ironic twist he also feels genuinely happy.

“Are you going to be okay, little one? Do I need to come down there and rescue you from that tall frowny man in his big shiny office?”

He laughs again, sniffs, wipes lingering tears from his the apples of his cheeks.

“No, I’ll…that’s okay. You don’t have to. You might scare him away.”

“Good. He could use a little scaring.”

“Eomma, I’m…I’m going to be on TV again. At the Gayo Daejuns. We’re dancing with MYNAME.”

“That’s my boy. No more talk of this not being good enough, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

He hesitates, because she’s asking him to do the impossible. But if anyone’s capable of making the impossible possible, it’s her.

“I promise.”

“Good boy. Now tell me all about your day. Are there any cute girls there at your big fancy company? How is little Sohee—“

“Eomma…” It comes out playful, embarrassed, as if he’s a normal teenage boy talking to his normal mother about things that are perfectly normal, and for a little while it almost feels like they are.

They talk until she falls asleep. Or until she does. Whichever comes first.

He wakes up the next morning with a little less dread weighing him down than usual.

The bricks have subsided. For now.