NOW PLAYING: Intro of CD 3 – Just U.

“Are you disappointed because someone’s been hiding something from you, or are you disappointed because it’s Jihoon who was hiding something from you?”

Woojin, for all the confusion and betrayal crammed in him right now, musters the energy to glare at Sejeong. “Aren’t those two the same things? You’re supposed to be better at this comforting… talking things out than I am.”

He ducks when she throws a tissue case at him. It hits the wall behind him, and lands on the ground without a sound. “There’s a difference between them, you know.” When she doesn’t carry on with an explanation, he glares harder. Woojin’s glare doesn’t mean , though; she laughs it off and smiles like his glare is incapable of striking fear into the hearts of others. “I don’t know, Woojin. I’ve known you for years, and this isn’t the first time someone hid information from you. This is the first time I’ve seen you this upset, though.” She shoots a pointed look at the tub of strawberry ice cream Woojin holds closely to his chest;  his shirt is a little wet, stained from the melted freezer ice that coats the packaging. Feeling a possible cold incoming from the melted ice, Woojin sets off to place the tub on the counter, sparing it one last mournful look before parting. “You make a perfect picture of a heartbroken teen from a 90s movie.” Sejeong snickers.

The comparison is enough to get Woojin’s face to shift from annoyance into something resembling perturb. An odd feeling flickers across his chest, and his cheeks begin to burn a muted red. “I am not heartbroken,” he protests, but the words feel strange on his tongue. Like he’s telling a lie, but he isn’t—he can’t be. There’s nothing to be heartbroken over. So, a friend he thought he could trust turned out to have been hiding important information away from him. So, Jihoon was the one who didn’t tell him anything about something that would’ve been helpful to know since day one. So, Woojin is more than a little betrayed, and a whole lot of hurt.

That’s not heartbreak. It’s anything but.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Sejeong says, rolling her eyes. Obviously, she’s unimpressed. “How the hell am I supposed to help you when you can’t even figure out what you’re feeling?”

“I can figure out what I’m feeling!” Woojin doesn’t miss a second when responding, barely letting her words sink in before the words kick and punch out of his lips with no sort of hesitation.

Sejeong’s shoulders flinch at the raise of volume, but before Woojin can apologize, she waves him off; her eyes are brighter now, glowing with something not completely unlike anticipation, and she watches him ardently.

“I’m… I’m frustrated. I’m disappointed, and I feel like he never took me seriously when we were friends because he could just keep something like that from me the entire time!” He crescendos, and Woojin wants to scream his frustrations on top of a rooftop—but he can’t. Ranting should suffice for now. “I was honest with him the entire time—Sejeong, I don’t think I’d ever lied to him, and I know that technically, he didn’t lie to me… but… it still hurts, you know,” he breaks off, voice low enough to be mistaken for a whisper; “but do you know the worst part?”

“What was it?” Sejeong prods, gentle. Her eyes are kinder now—softer around the edges. Her hand, cold to the touch, rests on the back of Woojin’s curled palms. When Woojin doesn’t move to push her away, she takes it as the confirmation needed to use her fingers to softly uncurl his palms, and intertwines one of his hands with hers. Woojin doesn’t make a single movement on his own, staying limp and letting Sejeong move his hands as she sees fit.

“I was the one who let him,” Woojin says; “if I hadn’t let my guard down, this wouldn’t… it wouldn’t be as bad as it is right now. Was I stupid for letting him in?”

Sejeong squeezes his hand tightly. Woojin winces. “Now you’re just being silly,” she admonishes, and Woojin has to force himself not to look hurt. “Woojin,” she starts off, smiling at him in a way that makes him feel like he’s a kid again. “Just because he hid something from you, doesn’t mean that any of this was your fault to begin with. It was Jihoon’s own choice to keep that information to himself—you’re not stupid for letting your guard down. You didn’t expect him to have that kind of secret, and now that you know what he’s been hiding you feel hurt. Alright. That’s human.

“But you’re taking all of this like you should’ve seen it coming from the start. Like… like you should’ve closed yourself from him from the very beginning,” Sejeong says, and Woojin hates how correct she is on the matter. A part of him wishes she was wrong on something just so he could say something out of spite, but—he can’t trust himself to find words. “I don’t think I can agree with that. Life is all about experiences, you know. The good, the bad—you’ll never be able to grow if everything you go through is what you’re used to. So, you feel frustrated. You feel betrayed. It’s a new feeling, isn’t it? You’ll grow from this, won’t you?”

Wordlessly, Woojin nods, mouth feeling dry.

“Don’t get so hung up over what could’ve been. Don’t blame yourself for not closing yourself off from the beginning. Don’t…” Sejeong pauses, “don’t be too hard on yourself, Woojin.”

“I’m not too hard on myself,” he tries to sound convincing, but it means jack if Woojin can’t even find himself believing what he’s saying.

Sejeong doesn’t say anything, but when her gentle smile is replaced by a frown, that’s all Woojin needs to know she doesn’t believe him, either.

“I can’t believe I apologized to him,” Woojin says, breaking the momentary silence. “I know he’s… he might hate me now, for going through his things, but was I an idiot for apologizing when I was the one who got fooled the entire time?”

“Because the both of you did something wrong?” Sejeong offers dryly, raising a brow. Woojin bites back a curse. Trust her to play the role of the devil’s advocate, even if she’s supposed to be his only comfort (the ice cream tastes terrible) at his time of crisis. “Nothing is black and white, you know,” she says gently, “when a conflict happens, there must’ve been something going on from both sides.”

Woojin mulls over her words. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget the betrayal that shone so brightly in Jihoon’s eyes, but he doesn’t think he can get over the fact that Jihoon just hid away important information from Woojin so easily over the course of the past few months, either.

“How about you head back early today?” she suggests, and unclasps her hand from his, folding her hands together on her lap. “Get some sleep. Watch a movie.”

“No,” he rejects the idea immediately, shaking his head. “I need to do something to get myself busy. Anything. Do you have any errands I could run?” He doesn’t feel like eating ice cream and moping anymore. What Woojin wants—needs—is a way to get his mind away from the matter at hand. Something to get Jihoon off his head.

“I guess you could help me in the kitchen,” Sejeong sighs, but doesn’t sound all that reluctant. “But only for an hour. After that, you’re going home and resting, alright?”

“Why can’t I stay longer than an hour?”

“Because it’s almost dinnertime and maybe I care about your wellbeing more than yourself? Don’t think me and your mom haven’t noticed your lack of sleep,” she warns, and Woojin bites back a sheepish smile. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. You should at least try to fix your sleep schedule. You’re young.”

“Stop saying that.”

“What? You’re young?”

Woojin nods. “Yeah. You say it like I’m a teenager and you’re thirty.”

Sejeong swats at his head. It’s a good thing Woojin has fast reflexes. “Thirty is not old, you punk!” she exclaims, and Woojin laughs, maybe for the first time since the beginning of their conversation. “Alright, if you’re staying, might as well make yourself useful. Come on, go clean those dishes.” She gestures at the dirty plates on the sink, and Woojin wastes no time in mounting over towards the pile.

For the next hour, he only thinks about messy plates, what a waste the leftover food make, and customers who eat alone, but manage to order more than three meals. At least the thought of Jihoon and the weight of Woojin’s decision never really sinks in, then.

NOW PLAYING: Track 1 of CD 3 — Concentric.

The screen of his phone shows the clock striking two in the morning, thirteen minutes past the mark. But Woojin can’t find it in himself to go to sleep; the only thing he’s found himself able to do is closing his eyes in a sad imitation of sleeping, although the thoughts that occupy his head, settling themselves comfortably in every nook and cranny, taunt him still.

“I hate the world,” he proclaims, even though the only person who can hear him saying that is himself. Woojin doesn’t know if he really means it, or if it’s another one of the sliver of thoughts that he only finds himself thinking, never really executing. The line separating them tends to blur when it’s well past midnight.

Woojin kicks away his blankets, and regrets his decision after the cold nips and bites at the uncovered skin of his belly. Holding back a whine, he props himself up into a sitting position with his elbows; once the blood rushes back down from his head, he rises from his mattress, and makes his way with small, shaky steps towards his computer. The cushion of the seat greets him warmly, and he stretches his legs underneath the table without any sort of grace, turning on the electronic device almost immediately afterwards.

His computer blinks to life. Woojin blinks when the artificial light proves itself too bright and hurts his eyes.

Logging onto his KakaoTalk on PC, Woojin’s mouth drops into a round ‘o’ when he sees the notification of a new message. Considering he’d fallen asleep after bidding good night to Guanlin, it was probably Guanlin’s own reply to his message.

When the notification pops up next to Jihoon’s name, however, Woojin has to rub his sleeve against his eyes to make sure he isn’t making this up. Projecting his feelings into reality, something along those lines. The notification doesn’t disappear, so Woojin pinches the inside of his elbow.

All that comes from that is a sharp sting that leaves him cursing under his breath, and what’s shown on the screen stays the same. Woojin’s not coming up with this, then.

Jihoon
[11:08PM] woojin, can we talk?
[11:08PM] if you’re still awake.

Woojin’s fingers shake as he types down his response, but he forces himself to calm down. He’s late replying to Jihoon’s message by multiple hours; it isn’t as if Jihoon would still be awake at this time.

Me
[02:15AM] hello

A short ‘hello’ might not be the reply Jihoon would be waiting for, but Woojin’s not about to take his tail between his legs for someone he hasn’t completely forgiven. He understands the weight of the situation better after an hour of cleaning dishes and a few more hours of reading through Yahoo! Answers posts regarding broken trust and snooping through other people’s stuff. He did something wrong, and Woojin would be the first person to admit it—but he still wants his answers, too. Staying in the dark and having to come up with barely based conclusions isn’t something he’d actually do.

Woojin almost jumps out of his skin when his computer rings with a Katalk!, signalling Jihoon’s response. It might be a Sunday, but if Jihoon had self preservation skills better than what Woojin has to call his, he should be in bed by now instead of staying awake and responding to the messages of someone you’re supposed to be having conflict with. Still, he eagerly clicks for the response, and scans his eyes through the lines of text.

Jihoon
[02:16AM] oh, you’re still awake?
[02:16AM] but anyway i think i have a few things to say.
[02:17AM] can you call right now?

Me
[02:17AM] audio or video

Jihoon
[02:18AM] video sounds better.

Me
[02:18AM] wait

In the drawer that comes connected to his desk, Woojin finds his headphones, and plugs it into his computer. The headphones are a shade of neon red, a secondhand one he’d gotten from a garage sale two years ago, and maybe they’re tacky, but they work. Besides, the microphone is good, and Woojin’s chest feels a little lighter now that he knows he won’t have to shout his words just to get his point across. (Besides, it isn’t as if Jihoon of all people would insult the design of his headphones—his taste is even worse.)

Me
[02:20AM] i can video call now

The time it takes for Jihoon to send Woojin the request to video call stretches like the longest three minutes of Woojin’s life. But when the request pops up in his screen, he barely hesitates to accept it, and a few seconds later, Woojin’s mouth dries at the sight of Jihoon in a miniature window on his screen; he looks small, dressed in a yellow sweater too big for him and practically hanging over his form, but what catches Woojin’s attention the most is the weariness sketched all over Jihoon’s visage.

“Hi,” Jihoon is the first to say something, the smallest of smiles pulling his lips.

Woojin wants to greet Jihoon back just the way a regular person would, but his attention finds itself drawn towards one thing in particular, and he ends up blurting out: “Your hair’s a mess.” He’s not wrong, though: Jihoon’s hair is sticking out in all directions, resembling a bedhead, but somehow, worse.

At the sudden admittance, Jihoon quirks his head to the side, mouth drawing open with slow, languid movements. Like he’s about to say oh, but he never does. “Is it?” he wonders, voice small. “Never noticed.”

“Messier than usual,” Woojin corrects hastily, because now that he thinks about it, Jihoon’s hair has never exactly been tidy, either. “What did you want to talk about?” he doesn’t let himself second guess when changing the subject, because this is the reason why Jihoon even asked him to call in the first place; they’re not here to talk about Jihoon’s hair, or to stare each other silently in some kind of lost wonder.

“Ah,” Jihoon voices, and runs a hand through his hair. Somehow, it gets messier, and Woojin gets the image of Jihoon deep in thought, unknowingly running a hand through his hair and messing it up every few seconds. The plausibility of it having happened isn’t as low as Woojin might guess. “I wanted to apologize,” the words come out in a rush, and Woojin blinks once, twice, and thrice before the weight of the words really crash through his head.

“You… you wanted to what?” he asks weakly, not because he isn’t glad that they won’t have to face Monday with torturous, awkward silence, but because he’d never have expected Jihoon to be the first one to come forward with an apology. Post his discussion (like hell he’s going to call it a heart to heart) with Sejeong, Woojin already began to figure out his plan to apologize to Jihoon, to make sure a single mistake wouldn’t it be all that it’d take to ruin their fragile friendship, but without making himself seem like too much of a pushover. And he’d been ready to do that—apologize and everything—but with the way things are appearing, his plan just looks like a waste of time and unnecessary emotional exhaust.

“I’m sorry I shooed you away,” he starts, and looks at anywhere but Woojin; “all you wanted were answers. I mean. After you left, I got some time to think, and I still think it was ty and uncalled for of you to look through my stuff like that.” Woojin, at least, has the decency to look ashamed. “But it wasn’t mature of me to just… to just do that.” He doesn’t need to specify what he means for Woojin to understand, and for that, Jihoon’s grateful grin doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Look, Woojin: I’m just a ing mess,” he says bluntly, and holds up a hand when Woojin opens his mouth to object. “Don’t even try to deny it. If you knew the truth, you’d feel the same way.” He bites on his lower lip, hesitating, but ends up blurting out: “Maybe even worse.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jihoon smiles at that, but the smile holds no humor behind it. Only something bitter and tired, and Woojin would be lying if he said this would be the first time he’s seen Jihoon like this; yet it doesn’t revolt him, and on the off-chance that this is Jihoon showing him who he is, none of the usual veneer in place, Woojin just wants to know more. But, only if Jihoon would let him. He’s not about to dig through Jihoon’s privacy for the second time, especially for his own indulgence.

“Then tell me the truth,” Woojin lets slip, doesn’t think twice when he says the first response that comes in mind. Then it finally registers that what he’s just said is bold as it is stupid, and Woojin clamps a hand over his mouth, in disbelief over his own words—though too late to take it back, because Jihoon doesn’t blanch from the suggestion. And in the stead of the trepidation Woojin expected is thoughtful humming from Jihoon’s part, eyes closed in something that doesn’t stray from consideration.

“If that’s what you want.”

The hand falls from his lips, and Woojin barely stutters out a coherent, “what?”

Jihoon shrugs. The movement looks bigger than it is because of the size of his clothing. “You wanted the truth. I’ve been keeping this to myself for a long time, and I…” He takes a deep breath. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it to someone I can trust.”

Someone I can trust. Those aren’t even the only words that Jihoon had said, but they’re the ones that really leave an impression on Woojin, who doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the words said, maybe even when he’s old, senile, and stuck living in a house upon a hill with ten other cats. It’s not just because of the words said, but this is the first time someone has explicitly told Woojin about their trust in him. And it’s something that transcends the line of casual friendship, something fragile and almost too delicate for Woojin’s rough and clumsy hands to carry, but he’d be damned if he were to turn down Jihoon’s tentative trust—maybe he’d even regret it in the days to come.

“Yeah. Okay,” Woojin says, breathless. “You can tell me the truth. I won’t let a word slip to anyone else.”

“Even Guanlin?” Jihoon doesn’t speak with malice; only amusement, and a little bit of teasing, but Woojin chooses to take his question seriously.

“Even Guanlin,” he assures firmly, nodding his head in rapid succession.

Jihoon laughs. The sound of it is soft, and if voices could be held, Woojin would’ve cradled Jihoon’s laughter to his chest.

“I don’t want to take too long, though,” his sentence is cut off by a yawn, and Jihoon chuckles sheepishly. “It’s getting late. And you’re usually asleep at this time,” he points out, almost accusing, even when all he does is pin Woojin with a careful stare.

A childish part of him wants to retort with you’re usually sleeping now too, but that’s not true. Jihoon’s sleeping pattern is even worse than Woojin’s, most likely, considering the nature of his job that requires him to spend most hours of the night converting his sketches into something more digital. Theatre isn’t a place for the weak-willed, because everyone has their part and has their own fair share of working hard, and both Woojin and Jihoon can attest to that.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Woojin says frankly. He watches as Jihoon’s eyes widen a fraction with surprise.

“Me too,” he admits, quiet enough for the word to come out as soft as a whisper through Woojin’s headphones. “I’m not the best at starting stories. I’ll just get to the point of it: I have stage fright. I’ve had it for the past few years now—Woojin, please don’t pity me. I don’t need your pity,” the last part breaks the flow of the story, but Jihoon’s quick at catching the change in Woojin’s expression, and he’s quick to call him out too.”I’ve had enough of pity. I’m sick of it.”

“Sorry,” Woojin apologizes, and offers up a guilty smile. “But… what happened? I saw the pictures and you’ve always looked,” he stops, thinking of the correct way to put it into words, “at home on stage.”

“Well,” Jihoon considers Woojin’s words, “I was.” Was. “Can’t really feel at home where you embarrassed yourself in front of hundreds of people, though.”

“Oh.” Really? Oh? That’s the best you can think of? Woojin scolds himself. Externally, however, he’s somehow able to maintain a straight face. “What happened?”

Jihoon’s eyes cloud over, wistful, and Woojin knows that while Jihoon is there, his thoughts are in a place that isn’t his bedroom, stuck in a time years before now. “The day before opening night for my last show, I made a mistake during practice. It was just a line, but it was the first time I made a mistake.” He laughs, a monosyllabic sound. “Everyone told me it was just one time—that I’d do better tomorrow—but on opening night, during the most important scene, I forgot my lines.” Woojin winces at that; now that he’s an actor himself, he knows the panicked confusion that comes when he misses a line on a scene. “I improvised, and it was only for a short part, so the others were able to catch up. I was scolded, and I… I took it to heart. I shouldn’t have, but I did, and on the last day, I kept screwing up my lines during the entire second act. The faces of the crowd…” he breaks off, and clamps his mouth shut, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Jihoon lifts his feet from the ground and onto his chair, and hugs his knees closely to his chest.

He has never seen Jihoon look so vulnerable.

“I quit theatre, the day after,” he says this so casually, as if he were talking about the weather; the ease Jihoon uses to say this, like this is a story he’s told repeatedly, does nothing but make Woojin’s heart clench. “I know I should’ve just… I should’ve it up, try again, do all that. But I couldn’t. Just the thought of having to go up on the stage again made me anxious—I couldn’t do it anymore.”

And then, Jihoon asks: “Do you know how it feels to have something you’ve worked so ing hard for, something you’ve been involved in for as long as you can remember—to have all that just torn down like it was nothing?”

No, Woojin wants to say, I don’t.

But he keeps his mouth shut, and waits for Jihoon to carry on. He doesn’t force Jihoon to rush; it’s a Sunday, and as far as he knows, they’ve got all night.

“Sometimes I hate myself for it,” Jihoon says, raw and honest, “because I can’t help but think, if I’d been stronger, then maybe I wouldn’t be so scared of something I used to love.”

“But it’s not like you can just force yourself to be brave!” Woojin blurts out, interrupting Jihoon, and judging by Jihoon’s shock induced stupor, he hadn’t expected Woojin to say anything. “If people could make themselves feel only what they want to feel, then what would be the point?”

“You know,” Jihoon begins, evidently amused, “some people would disagree with that statement.”

“People will continue to disagree on a lot of things,” Woojin says; “being human, you’re not supposed to be perfect. You’re going to feel things you wish you didn’t. You’re going to make mistakes. You’re going to experience bad things.” Sejeong is going to be so proud of him for referencing her. “There’s no need to get so hung up over it—everyone has different limits.”

Jihoon mulls over Woojin’s statement, and nods in a movement soft enough to almost be imperceptible. “A pep talk isn’t going to make all the negative emotions just disappear, but I’ll keep your words in mind, Woojin. Thank you,” he says, and adds: “I’m not just saying this out of thanks. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome.” Because Woojin doesn’t know if prodding further into the subject is allowed, he asks, cautiously, “but if you said you quit theatre, how are you in the costume department now?”

At least, Jihoon’s face brightens, hard lines softening into something kinder. More open, perhaps. “I decided to start over in high school. I love theatre—it’s practically a part of me. An extension of my body, and although I still can’t find it in me to go on stage again, there’s nothing wrong with doing my part behind the curtains.”

“Honestly, I don’t know if I could do something like that if I were you,” Woojin says, meaning every word. “It’d just hurt me, you know? To be so close, but at the same time, so far from something that I used to enjoy. I mean, and this is probably a analogy, but if I had an injury and had to stop dancing, signing myself up to be the dance club’s manager would just be self-inflicted pain.” Woojin doesn’t want to even begin imagining what he would do if he were in a position like Jihoon’s. Even having the smallest idea of the equivalent of Jihoon’s experience happening to him to what he’s most passionate about, drills fear into himself. Having to sit in the sidelines while the people around you do what you can only wish you could still do…

Jihoon snorts. “Who says it doesn’t hurt? It just hurts less than having to stay away completely from theatre, but—it’s still not easy, you know, for me to see everyone practice and doing what I wish I could do, and only being able to help the team by making costumes.”

“You’re not only helping,” Woojin says, aghast, “what you’re doing is actually one of the reasons why the production would even work in the first place.”

“I’m touched,” Jihoon sounds like he means it, despite the sarcastic context the words could be taken out of; “I really am, but it’s… It’s still different than actually being a part of the performing team.”

A suggestion appears in Woojin’s head, and he shoves away any second doubts he might have before saying: “Why don’t you give it another try, then?” It might be outrageous, but Woojin can hear the love Jihoon has for the arts. For performing, even when Jihoon’s forced himself to retire as an actor. It might be a long shot, but Woojin is sure he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if he hadn’t, at least, given Jihoon something to ponder over.

Jihoon’s face clouds. “It’s not that easy, Woojin,” is all he says, unlocking his knees from his chest, putting his feet back on the ground. “I think I’ll have to go to sleep, now. It’s late. I’m planning to sleep in tomorrow,” he declares, like Woojin wouldn’t notice the sudden change of subject. It’s hard to feel guilty when you’re only trying to get someone you care about to get over their fear, however.

“Okay,” Woojin says, and after seeing nearly an hour has passed since the beginning of their call, he repeats (and this time with more surprise), “okay.”

In spite of himself, Jihoon shakes his head, a smile that Woojin hopes is fond stored on his lips. “Good night, Woojin.”

Woojin returns Jihoon’s smile with a grin, wide and sleepy. “Good night, Jihoon.”

This time, sleep claims him within seconds of Woojin snuggling himself underneath his (now retrieved from the floor) blankets, eyes drawn to a close almost immediately after climbing atop his bed. He dreams of standing on a wide expanse of a stage, a crowd as big as the ones in professional shows, and Jihoon standing next to him, their hands intertwined as their backs bend in sync for a curtain call bow.

NOW PLAYING: Track 2 of CD 3 — The Name of Life.

“Come on, please?”

“What’s the point of this, Woojin?”

“There’s no specific point to it! I just think it’ll be cool. Come on, Jihoon,” Woojin whines, attempting to convince the thoroughly unconvinced Jihoon to the best of his ability. He slaps on a pout just to go the extra mile, because Jihoon’s pouts tend to work on him and there should be a chance of it equally happening the other way around, but the cringe stated plainly on Jihoon’s expression says otherwise. Woojin’s shoulders sag, face falling into a scowl. “Man, you’re relentless.”

Jihoon gives a cough at that, and if Woojin didn’t know any better, he’d assume Jihoon were holding back a laugh. “I’ll do it if you manage to give an argument that isn’t just, ‘it’ll be cool’,” he imitates, fingers creating air quotes. Woojin wants to punch the condescending smirk on Jihoon’s lips.

Woojin huffs, and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Fine. Here’s the main reason why I want you to do this.” He pauses, in a deep breath, and exhales, “I need help with my blocking.”

“Huh…?” Jihoon tilts his head, and scratches his head in confusion. “I’ve seen your blocking during practice, though. It seems alright to me.”

“Yeah. Seems,” Woojin emphasizes, and uncrosses his arms, swinging them idly by his side. “Come on, you’ve got to help me. Just this once.”

Instead of easily complying to Woojin’s request, Jihoon prompts: “Then why don’t we do it off the stage? There’s no need for me to help you with blocking on stage. We can work on it on the floor and you could apply the knowledge—”

Woojin shakes his head, stubborn to the very end. “I’d prefer to do it on stage. Nothing better than instant application, right?”

“No one said that,” Jihoon accuses, glancing at Woojin with brows raised in a poor imitation of an unimpressed Seongwoo. “Woojin…”

The truth is close to spilling from Woojin’s lips, because he’s never been good at shielding his real intentions, has never had the necessary skill to be manipulative. But Woojin bites down on his tongue, and ignores the pain; he can’t say the truth, at least not yet, because all that’ll do is scare Jihoon away and that’s the last thing he needs. It takes a special kind of person to tell Jihoon the truth of Woojin trying—not just wanting—to help him get rid of his stage fright, and Woojin has never considered himself as special.

“Please?” Woojin tries, one more time, and puts all the pleading he can muster into the one word. Jihoon softens, frown turning into a straight line and shoulders losing their tension, and Woojin has to kick away the need to smile—got him.

“Fine,” Jihoon says, grudgingly, but climbs onto the stage where Woojin is already standing, a grin nowhere short of being triumphant spread across his mouth. “Which scene did you want to work on?”

Woojin pretends he hasn’t been thinking about this for the entirety of the day. Pretends he hasn’t attempted to hatch a plan, one that might be slow and has a higher possibility of failing than working, since the morning after he’d uncovered the truth. In a way, some of his thanks should be credited to Jihoon himself, because he wouldn’t be able to look so convincing at acting like he’d been caught unawares by the question had it not been for Jihoon giving him a few tips on acting in general.

“Uh…” he drones, much to Jihoon’s obvious annoyance; “let’s try out the scene where Kenickie confronts Rizzo?”

Jihoon stares at him blankly. Woojin’s quick to add, trying his best not to stutter, “you know, the one where she’s supposedly knocked up?”

“... You want me to be the Rizzo to your Kenickie?”

Woojin tries not to shrink underneath Jihoon’s pinning stare. Trying to stand his ground to that is, unsurprisingly, difficult; Jihoon’s eyes have always been intense, though that’s a fact most tend to overlook until they’re faced with them. (It’s easy to think why people would forget about that, though. Jihoon doesn’t look like he’d be capable of even hurting a fly, and for some, it’d be difficult to process the truth that Jihoon is a lot more dangerous than he lets on—call Woojin crazy, but that’s the thing he likes the most about Jihoon. That he’s more than capable at throwing people off guard, never failing to prove himself to be full of surprises.)

“You’d look pretty as a girl?” is his pathetic attempt at flattering Jihoon, who doesn’t even do so much as blink. “I just… you know…” Woojin wrings his hands together, and pointedly looks away from Jihoon, making the perfect image of a guilty party.

He resists the urge to start whistling to compensate for the tense silence, but only barely.

At last, Jihoon grumbles, grumpy faced: “I don’t even want to know what goes through your head.”

Technically, you’re the one who’s going through my head right now, Woojin nearly blurts, before realizing it might sound compromising if taken in another context. And so, he wisely shuts up, and opts for an open mouthed grin that shows his rows of teeth.

“You mind if I use my phone?” Woojin’s positive Jihoon’s only asking that out of courtesy, and it wouldn’t have mattered even if Woojin did mind, considering Jihoon’s already taking out his handphone as he asks the rhetorical question. “I don’t remember Rizzo’s lines,” he explains, eyes trained on the screen as he accesses what Woojin figures would be the script document, available in the group chat.

“Go ahead,” Woojin says, smiling at Jihoon even if Jihoon doesn’t catch it in time.

One forced stage practice isn’t going to magically cure Jihoon of his stage fright, and Woojin knows that much; he is not an expert in trauma, and he doesn’t have a speck of interest in pursuing a field of study that goes in depth about it—but he knows enough. Woojin knows enough to be realistic about the ordeal, that his little project to help Jihoon regain the confidence he’d lost could take months, years, and might even crash and burn; not working at all. But the least he could do is try and give it his all. After everything Jihoon has done for him, going above and beyond the bare necessities of his supposed job description, Woojin’s not just going to sit down and not do his part in doing something that might help Jihoon, too.

That’s the very minimum he could do, as both a person and a friend.

NOW PLAYING: Track 3 of CD 3 — A Town With An Ocean View.

There aren’t a lot of things that can make Guanlin nervous, because Guanlin has nerves of steel. (Or at least, that’s what he likes saying. It makes him sound tougher than he is, but to his credit, he almost always looks tough—of course, it’s all the result of being a little emotionally stunted, but at least it makes him look cool to the people who barely know him.)

But when Seongwoo asks him to come to the theatre during lunch because they’ve got things to talk about (or, in Seongwoo’s own words, come drop by during lunch, my little future star!) a lurching feeling makes itself at home in his chest, and even as Guanlin has one feet inside the theatre, the other following shortly after, he feels like death is on his tail.

It’s strange. A little while back, he wouldn’t have considered being called like this to be anything of importance, but now, just having this kind of invite makes him feel like he’s willingly coming to his death. He’d like to say he doesn’t know why, but he does: there has, after all, been a notable change in his behavior during practice. Whether it’s a step in the right direction or if he’s regressing, however, is another matter entirely.

“Guanlin!” Seongwoo greets, jovial as ever. Though he’s wearing one of his signature carefree grins, it doesn’t do much to soothe Guanlin’s nerves. “Come take a seat.”

Without further word, Guanlin sits across Seongwoo, and fights the urge to flinch underneath his assessing glance. He bravely keeps his chin up, never succumbing to the growing need to look down. There shouldn’t be anything for him to be afraid of. He’s worked hard, and Dongho himself has even said that Guanlin has improved—there’s no reason for him to be terrified. No reason for Guanlin to feel smaller in his own skin, no reason for Guanlin to assume the worst. He just needs to calm down, take in the situation calmly, and listen to what Seongwoo has to say without conjuring the image of the situation turning bad.

So, Guanlin takes a deep breath, musters all his courage, focuses on having the warmth of it ease out his nerves, and calms the down.

Seongwoo smiles, knowingly, like he knows the very thought of what’s going through Guanlin’s head. He doesn’t know to take that as a good thing, or if it’s something Guanlin should be afraid of. Figures—no matter how many anecdotes of the man Seongwoo has now heard from Dongho, it wouldn’t budge the fact Seongwoo remains unpredictable.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” His voice doesn’t tremble, nor does it betray his inner conflict. That’s a good enough starting point.

Seongwoo, obviously, sees through him. “You don’t need to be so nervous,” he says, and Guanlin’s eyes widen. “Relax. I’m not here to yell at you. I don’t yell.”

Guanlin begs to differ, remembering the time Seongwoo lost his temper on someone who kept forgetting their lines (he’ll never forget the look of embarrassment and anguish on the person’s face, but at the same time, he’s just glad he’s never been on the receiving side of Seongwoo’s wrath), but having an argument with someone who’s bound to stay stubborn until the bitter end doesn’t sound very appealing. And that’s the reason why he shuts his mouth, and waits for Seongwoo to go on.

“How are things?”

Guanlin blinks. Once, twice, thrice.

“Um… sorry, what?”

That certainly isn’t what he was expecting.

“I said,” Seongwoo begins, a little impatient; “how are things?”

Guanlin tries not to look too perplexed; not too difficult, considering he’s heard from multiple people that he has the ability to look dead inside without even trying. Still, though: Seongwoo has never been one for formalities—why now?

“They’re alright…?” It’s him talking about his own feelings, but he can’t help sounding confused; what was supposed to be a statement ends up being more of a question, and judging by Seongwoo’s growing grin, it must’ve amused him. “I don’t see the point of asking this,” he deadpans, keeping his face blank after managing to wipe away the questioning look.

“Your grades are slipping,” Seongwoo points out bluntly, and Guanlin has it in him to say he’s not even surprised by the other’s lack of tact anymore, “are you sure you’re fine?”

Since when did you care, Guanlin so badly wants to say; but this is still Seongwoo, and he’s still the one who runs most of the things behind the show. And being cut from the production halfway doesn’t sound appealing, especially after all the effort (his own sweat and maybe a few drops of tears) he’d put into his role. “I can take care of myself,” he says instead, nodding resolutely. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Wasn’t worried,” Seongwoo bats away the suggestion almost as soon as it was raised. Guanlin scoffs to hide a smile—just as he’d expected. “Has Dongho been teaching you a lot?”

Considering Dongho has his own life outside Seongwoo’s production, and he isn’t even officially getting paid for coaching Guanlin, he doesn’t have the opportunity to study under the older’s tutelage every single day. However, Dongho attempts to at least make it into practice twice a week, and whenever Dongho is around, Guanlin knows better than anyone not to waste even a second of his time. “He has,” Guanlin affirms; “you could see from the results, though.” After a second, he adds, “I guess.”

“You guess,” Seongwoo echoes, shaking his head. “You’re right, though. You’ve improved, Guanlin.” Guanlin gapes openly at that, all composure lost; this is the first time he’s received an outright compliment from Seongwoo, instead of having them be backhanded or even reluctant. “By leaps and bounds, I have to say,” he adds on, and noticing the awestruck Guanlin, laughs quietly to himself. “I mean—you’re finally living up to the potential I saw in you. I was right in making the call to Dongho, but then again, when am I not?”

Even the usual Seongwoo-ness of the last statement doesn’t outweigh Guanlin’s honest shock, and he doesn’t bother to dignify or collect himself when he stutters, “I… I—”

“Now, don’t go over the moon just yet,” Seongwoo’s quick to interject, but he never loses his proud smile. “You’ve still got ways to go, but I am liking what I’ve seen so far. You’re going to be a good lead, Guanlin—you’re already a good lead. If you keep it up, you might even give a younger me a run for his money.”

Is this real life? Did someone slip something in Seongwoo’s coffee? The first you’ve improved, Guanlin was already generous, and now for him to receive a praise as big as Seongwoo comparing him to a younger him—in Seongwoo’s language, that might just be the biggest praise he has to offer. Guanlin doesn’t know how to process that, doesn’t know if he should be bending his back to the point it hurts by thanking Seongwoo, doesn’t know if it would be wiser of him to stay quiet, red-cheeked and stunned to the point of losing his carefully kept wits.

“Thank you,” he says, and Guanlin’s surprised his voice comes out at all. But, he clenches his jaw, and meets Seongwoo’s eyes head on, even if all he wants to do is mouth all the compliments Seongwoo has said to him over and over again. “I know you don’t just give out compliments easily,” he articulates, and doesn’t flinch underneath Seongwoo’s unblinking eyes, “so… this is a big deal. For me. Maybe for you too,” he blunders, and he’s unable to stop himself from reddening once he realizes what he’s just said. “I’m not trying to dictate what you feel or anything, I’m just…”

He should probably clam up now.

“Take your time,” Seongwoo assures, and Guanlin prides himself for not jerking away when Seongwoo’s hand finds itself in Guanlin’s hair, ruffling it and leaving it out of place by the time he’s done. “It’s not everyday someone gets a compliment from me. Bask in it, soak it up—”

This is the point where Guanlin tunes him out, but it doesn’t change the fact he’s still floored over the given compliments. (Compliments. Plural!)

His hard work and hours of self introspection are paying off, after all.

NOW PLAYING: Track 4 of CD 3 — Summer Rain.

Jihoon doesn’t look pleased at all, tricked into wearing a shirt and jogging pants instead of his usual uniform get-up, and he’s glaring at Woojin with the ferocity of someone who’d just been outsmarted by someone who’s not supposed to be as cunning as he is. Woojin wants to take a picture of it, but he knows a movement would just get Jihoon to snatch his phone away from him in a quick move; then Jihoon would either throw the phone away or keep it for himself, because he’s petty, and Woojin hates how even pettiness doesn’t look terrible on Jihoon.

“Woojin,” he begins slowly, and Woojin cowers when he realizes Jihoon’s voice is dropping closely to a growl, “I’ve gone on with your schemes for too long.”

Could it be that Jihoon has finally figured out his plan—

“First of all, you’ve started getting me to work on blocking with you on stage for the past two months!” He holds up two fingers, sticking them in the air where everyone else can see. (They’re the only ones in the room, though.) “I thought that was just one of your one-time ploys, but you decided to stick with it. Fine, I went with it, because I thought it wouldn’t do much harm, right?” Woojin slowly backs away from the fuming Jihoon, holding both of his hands in front of his chest in an attempt to ward the evil Jihoon away. “So I thought, that’s it! That’s the end! But now you’re even trying to get me to learn the choreography?” Jihoon flails his limbs. Woojin bites his tongue to restrain a wave of laughter. “Are you conducting your revenge on me, or something? I’ve already said sorry!”

(For someone so smart, Woojin learns that Jihoon can be unexpectedly ignorant at matters like these. But then again, that ignorance is exactly what’s keeping Woojin three steps away from the death he’s practically promised if Jihoon were to find out about the true nature of Woojin’s intentions. He doesn’t strike Woojin as the type who would appreciate the help.)

“Or something!” Woojin rushes, and ducks in time when Jihoon reaches out to to grind Woojin’s head with his knuckles. “Come on, Jihoon, just this once,” he pleads, and runs across the room when Jihoon lunges.

A few months ago, Woojin would’ve gaped at the sight of Jihoon losing his composure. But he’s no stranger to that by now, and the sight of a fuming Jihoon is now almost regular occurrence. “Please? Just one dance number? I just feel like it’d be fun to have you be able to do the dance number that Guanlin and I can do—”

“Guanlin?” Jihoon halts his steps, and looks at the stands accusingly. “Is he somewhere there? Did he set up all this?”

Woojin wheezes, and doubles over in a fit of chuckles. “You know he wouldn’t dare to do something that’d annoy you,” he says between breaths. “He probably likes you more than he likes me,” Woojin muses, straightening back to his usual posture after getting over the initial rush of amusement. “Come on—it’s just Grease Lightning, and that’s it.”

Jihoon doesn’t hesitate: “No.”

But Woojin refuses to back down. “Please?”

“I said, no.”

“Jihoon—”

“Don’t try to give me the puppy eyes, they won’t work on me,” Jihoon huffs, and turns the other way. Fortunately, Woojin’s as stubborn as he is, and he knows how to hit it where it hurts. (Or, triggers. Whatever.)

“Huh,” Woojin draws the word out, and when Jihoon’s shoulders tense up, he knows he’s got his attention; “I guess you don’t have to, I mean… I was expecting too much of you. I should’ve known you would’ve forgotten how to dance by now, sorry,” he says, and swallows down his laughter when he notices Jihoon clenching his fists. “You can forget I ever even asked.”

Jihoon whirls around to face him, and he pins Woojin with the most heated, competitive glare he can summon. “I did not forget how to dance,” he objects immediately, and stalks over towards Woojin, who has already moved back by one step. “Fine, teach me. How hard could it be?”

“Famous last words,” Woojin says sagely, trying to come up with as many smart- comments as he can as a way to distract himself from their close proximity. A fired up Jihoon, it appears, doesn’t understand the concept of personal space—exhibit A, their noses nearly touching in this moment, eyes close enough for Woojin to pick up the combative glint in Jihoon’s orbs.

“I’ll learn the choreography in no time,” Jihoon vows, and Woojin doesn’t doubt it.

As it turns out, Woojin wasn’t wrong in his choice to have faith in Jihoon. Though his movements, stiff and a little springy, do enough to make it obvious he hasn’t danced in a long while, he manages to pick up the dance moves with fervor, and what he lacks in flow he makes up with passion; even if Woojin doesn’t know whether the passion stems from Jihoon’s long lost love for dancing or if it’s just him determined to make Woojin eat his words.

Forty minutes after Woojin began to teach Jihoon the moves, the both of them are sprawled on the floor of the stage, sweat clinging to their skin and drenching their clothes. Fortunately, the room has air fresheners, and that might be the only thing keeping the theatre from smelling like adolescent perspiration.

“Told you,” Jihoon bites out, sounding triumphant and proud even if he’s sweating at least three more times than Woojin. He is wearing a proud smile on his lips.

Woojin laughs, and finds it in him to say: “I’ve never doubted you.”

The words cause silence to ensue; Jihoon’s not smiling anymore, looking at Woojin with an unreadable expression. Woojin hopes it’s nothing bad, and thinks, maybe he should’ve said something less personal. But he doesn’t have too much time to mope over things said and done, because Jihoon says, in a quiet that’s nearly muted, “I know.”

“I’m going to change,” Jihoon suddenly announces, pushing himself up from his sitting position with his palms. He stretches his arms together once he’s standing up, making a face when the bones make a sound. “I’ll see you later,” he says, bidding goodbye. Woojin’s eyes stay rooted on him as he leaves, and even after he can’t see Jihoon’s retreating back anymore, he watches the space left behind.

Maybe that’s why he practically leaps in his seat when he feels someone placing their hands on his shoulders, just barely stopping himself from screaming.

“Calm down,” a familiar voice says, and Woojin relaxes, almost instantly, after he figures out who the voice belongs to—it’s just Seongwoo, who must’ve come in at some point. Woojin stands up and turns on his heels; finds himself face to face with a particularly entertained Ong Seongwoo. “So, you and Jihoon?”

Against his own will, Woojin flushes. “Why does everyone think—”

“I was just going to ask if you practiced with him,” Seongwoo interposes, and Woojin, realizing his mistake, wants nothing more than to be consumed by the ground. On an occasion that’s notably rare, Seongwoo doesn’t prod for more information on Woojin’s slip-up. “You found out, didn’t you?”

Woojin gulps, but he’s not shocked—he’d expected Seongwoo to know about Jihoon’s background, because Seongwoo has been around for a little while. If someone knew about a student’s background, it’d be him. “Yeah,” Woojin mutters, and adds, “what about it?”

Seongwoo’s eyes turn calculative. “Huh,” he says; “I’m surprised Jihoon hasn’t caught on to what you’re doing.”

“You mean,” Woojin stumbles, right after he fights the urge to choke on air, “you knew?”

Seongwoo’s face morphs into the look of someone offended, and Woojin realizes he’d probably worded that in a way it’d rub off wrong on someone else. He opens his mouth, ready to apologize, but Seongwoo beats him first. “I know everything that goes on in here,” he says indignantly; “it’s my realm, you know,” he adds dryly.

The only thing Woojin can do is smile sheepishly and hope the older won’t hold his previous comment against him. With only a few weeks to go until the production, he doesn’t need to make an enemy out of Seongwoo. “You never said anything.”

“At first, I wasn’t going to,” Seongwoo admits, “but I had to let you know, Woojin, he’s going to find out soon if you’re not careful. I mean, could you be more obvious?” he scoffs, but Woojin doesn’t pick up any genuine spite.

Woojin knows. “Yeah,” he whispers; “I know that. Jihoon… knowing him, he’s probably already suspicious now.”

“You’re aware of the risks, aren’t you?”

You know he’s more than capable of pushing you away for good, don’t you?

“I know what I signed up for when I started,” Woojin says. “I didn’t go in blind.”

Seongwoo smiles with teeth. “Then I’m no longer morally obligated to try and stop you,” he states; “not that I think you would’ve stopped.”

Woojin returns the smile, and throws his focus away from the pressure rising in his throat. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I wouldn’t have. Someone has to do it.”

“And you think the person is you?”

“I think it’s anyone who was willing to try. Anyone could’ve tried to help Jihoon, because… because if you knew the truth, wouldn’t it be easy to see how he’s suffering?” He points out, and Seongwoo’s smile freezes. Woojin doesn’t want to point any fingers. But at the same time, Seongwoo has known this longer than Woojin has, and he hasn’t done anything to help Jihoon free himself from his fright—the jab, while uncharacteristic, is satisfying to deliver.

“I’m not saying I’m the right person for the job. Hell, I don’t even know half of the things I’m doing—but if I’m at least trying, I think that’s better than sitting around and doing nothing.”

NOW PLAYING: Track 5 of CD 3 — The Name of Life.

Seongwoo wouldn’t consider himself to be someone who takes the words of others to heart.

It might very well be self-centered of him, but Seongwoo doesn’t trust the opinions of those who aren’t: himself, Hwang Minhyun (boyfriend privileges, but the data states that Minhyun is almost always right, even when it’s on matters that prove Seongwoo wrong), or his own reflection. He doesn’t take advice from students, and makes it a habit to laugh in the face of someone who tries to put him in his place—he doesn’t even take Dongho too seriously, and Dongho is among the short list of those he respects.

That’s why it comes as a staggering surprise when Seongwoo’s head replays Woojin’s words continuously, like a broken record he’s thrown at the wall half a dozen times but keep playing anyway. I think that’s better than sitting around and doing nothing, in the span of a little over twenty-four hours, has become Seongwoo’s least favourite sentence.

Since when did he start taking other people’s words seriously? Seongwoo wants, more than anything, to go back to the days when Woojin was nothing more than a little runt forced to be a part of his production with a little more speck of potential than some of the kids he’d known longer. At least then he only saw Woojin as yet another student to guide, but never as someone he’d actually be taking advice from.

But things have changed, because now he can’t look at Jihoon without breaking eye contact after less than two seconds (which is mortifying, because Seongwoo is used to having the last word—or rather stare, in this context), the guilt always finding a way to twist the generally peaceful thoughts kept in his head into something more hateful; into something more accusing, never failing to point a finger at him for being a guilty party when all Seongwoo was—has been—trying to do is to let Jihoon be able to dig himself out of the hole he’d placed himself in.

“Not everyone can be like you, Seongwoo,” were the words of advice left by Minhyun when Seongwoo confided in him the night before, and the words weigh heavily on his mind; they  put things into another perspective. Seongwoo has been expecting Jihoon to be able to get himself out of his fear of the stage, just being there and waiting while Jihoon battled with his longing for the stage and his simultaneous fear—just standing still and doing nothing, all because Seongwoo knows that if he were in Jihoon’s position, the longing would be able to triumph easily.

Up until Woojin and Minhyun pointed out otherwise, that was the only possibility he ever even considered.

He’d never thought he could be wrong on his approach, but maybe, he should’ve done something instead of waiting for a day that might never even come.

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” he calls out to the crowd, and waits until the people in the theatre—actors and backstage crew alike, not to mention the new addition of orchestra members who’d begun to practice with them as the days counted closer and closer until opening night—stopped doing whatever they were in the middle of, voices quieting down to a hush. “There’s something I’d like to see.”

Confused murmurs begin to break out in the crowd, and in the corner of his eyes, he notices Minhyun looking at him knowingly. (Of course, leave it to Hwang Minhyun to read him like an open book.)

“Woojin, could you run some lines from the fourth scene?”

At the sudden request, Seongwoo can see Woojin look around him, almost dazed, the perfect picture of confusion. “But Hyungseob’s not here—”

“You can do it with Jihoon instead.”

The room was quiet before, but now, the room erupts with frenzied whispers of questions and speculations; he can see it in everyone’s eyes. Confusion, the most evident emotion—but in Woojin’s, who’s looking at him with eyes bulged wide, the only hint Seongwoo picks up on is respect.

Seongwoo should’ve done this years ago; he’s late, and he shouldn’t be the receiving end of Woojin’s respect—it’s not something he deserves. Seongwoo looks away, and chooses to behave as if he isn’t mentally tormented by the sudden reappearance of his conscience.

Though people continue to talk, he can see Jihoon clearly, making out the outline of his form standing still; not having budged an inch since Seongwoo’s announcement, despite Woojin attempting to get him back into commission by poking his shoulder. “Jihoon, come on, this isn’t the right time to shut down,” he can hear Woojin saying, and Jihoon finally moves, breaking free of whatever was keeping him frozen. Still, even though he follows Woojin to the stage, his movements are blocky, and he takes his time.

That’s alright. Seongwoo won’t rush him.

Woojin is the one who gets on stage first, never hesitating. But he doesn’t move towards the center, and waits for Jihoon, who hasn’t taken the first step to climb up from the ground. Smiling gently, he outstretches a hand for Jihoon to take. “It’s alright,” Woojin says, still offering his hand even if Jihoon’s are clenched at his side. “Come on, Jihoon. You can do it,” he encourages, and something must’ve passed silently between the both of them—Jihoon latching his eyes onto Woojin, the two of them sharing a look undecipherable to the ones who can only watch from a distance, Seongwoo included—because a few seconds later, Jihoon takes Woojin’s hand, and goes up the stage.

Seongwoo doesn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until his chest starts to constrict.

To a person who isn’t used to seeing Jihoon having an expression on his face that isn’t contempt, bemusement, or just… no emotion at all, being able to see the raw fear that paints itself across his visage must be something new; even Jihoon, who keeps a mask most meticulously out of all of them, is human too—sometimes, there are occasions that arise where he becomes unable to control what shows on his face, just like everybody else.

There, Seongwoo thinks. He’s sent the ball rolling—now all that’s left of him to do is stay still and watch what happens next.

“Are you ready?” Woojin asks, and the only reason Seongwoo knows what he’s saying is because he can read their lips from where he’s sitting. Without a word, Jihoon gives a terse nod, and that’s all the cue Woojin needs to begin.

Jihoon stumbles over his line, the first few times. Seongwoo doesn’t feel disappointed, or any other negative emotion he would’ve felt had Jihoon been anyone else. He’s trying to be more understanding, to do what he wasn’t able to do before he had the idea knocked into his head; for Jihoon, being forced into a situation like this can’t be easy, even if Seongwoo’s only trying to help. The crowd, now silent as they watch, doesn’t help. Multiple times, he catches Jihoon’s eyes darting towards the audience, even if all he really needs to do is to have faith in himself, and focus on the only other person on stage—Woojin.

As the scene progresses, however, he can see the shift in Jihoon’s stance. The way he stops hunching over himself when he realizes the crowd isn’t there to boo him, or to judge him needlessly; that all they’re doing is watching, focusing on the performance of someone who hasn’t stood on stage as an actor for years now. Seongwoo has to put a lid on his emotions with all the self-control he never knew he had to stop himself from yelling in excitement when Jihoon’s performance regains some life, instead of having him stutter over his lines and delivering them a beat or two later than the cue that Seongwoo knows he has memorized.

It’s nothing as grand as any of the performances Jihoon delivered in the past, but it’s a start, and as far as starts go, things could be much worse.

The audience erupts with cheers when the two of them finish the scene. Someone in the audience shouts, “you go Jihoon!” and the attention makes the still emotionally vulnerable Jihoon to blush, ears as red as his flushed cheeks. That, apparently, is all it takes for everyone else to begin shouting their own words of encouragement; Seongwoo doesn’t know if it’s possible for a human being to get any redder.

“I told you, you could do it!” is Woojin’s own brand of encouragement, and out of everything else the others have said, even if Seongwoo isn’t standing closely to them both, he notices how those words seem to be the ones that strike the deepest impression in Jihoon, leaving him to look at Woojin with a gradual grin building on his lips.

Ah, young love.

“Good job, Jihoon,” Seongwoo says, after everyone else has calmed down and he can say what he wants to say without having to raise his voice. “You’re hired.”

Jihoon stares at Seongwoo like he’s grown a second head. “Um, what?”

“I said,” Seongwoo starts off, trying to sound exasperated even when all he feels right now is pride and a little bit of relief knowing his actions hadn’t done anything to deepen Jihoon’s fear of the stage, “you’re hired. Congratulations, you’re now the understudy for Doody.”

Once more, the kids begin to talk, but Seongwoo doesn’t pay them any mind; all he zeroes in on is the way Jihoon’s face shows his surprise, clear as day, and he staggers backward at the sudden announcement. Woojin has to be the one to steady him so he doesn’t fall, resting a hand on Jihoon’s back just as his knees begin to wobble.

“We’ve only got a while to go until opening night, so don’t slack off when learning your lines,” he says, as if he doesn’t know Jihoon probably would’ve memorized most of the musical by heart at this point. In a lower voice, he adds, “good to have you back, Jihoon.”

(Minhyun’s looking at him with unconcealed pride, and Seongwoo responds to it with a greasy wink when everyone else has looked away. The pride falls, and Minhyun’s face morphs into fond irritation.

Seongwoo beams.)

NOW PLAYING: Track 6 of CD 3 — You Can Become A Hero.

“Oi, pass the cider.”

“It’s right next to you, .”

“Come on, hyung, let’s not fight—”

Guanlin, sitting in the space left between Woojin and Jihoon, does a valiant attempt at playing mediator for two parties who do a great job pretending to maintain a great deal animosity where there’s no such thing (or at least, not anymore). He reaches to take the aforementioned can of Chilsung, even though it’s clos