Starlight

Act I

It’s the second time in three months. He thought it was over, but he is clearly wrong. He doesn’t cry or makes a sound, but he can tell that he isn’t ok. He knows him, after all, he knows him very well.

Minho has tried, he has done his very best, waiting patiently, listening to him whips about someone who, definitively, don't deserve one of his single tears – he only sobs into small puffs of air and stares into the infinite of the room – and stays there, still, as if waiting for the storm to end. Minho sits at his side and hugs him, a long arm wrapping his shoulder and Jinwoo looks at him, startled, blinking at him in surprise; eyes big and gleaming under the pale light. He smiles, but he reads between its lines; sad and heartbroken again, back to the start, only a little better than that day, when Jinwoo’s world felt apart, collapsing, and he was left behind, rip opened, wounds that linger on his heart even after half a year, scars that are so hard to heal and that are in the open, over his skin.

He was there to catch the shattering pieces of him, he has helped him through it, assembling the bits, putting them together; but Jinwoo has never been the same since then; he laughs and he breathes, but there is so much sadness condensed on his edges, his glossy eyes have lost it shine and now they only hold a pool of endless sorrow, but, at least, he has tried and he is in his own way, recovering from what he was to who he wants to be now without him.

It’s so unfair, Minho bites his lips in order to not let it slip what it is pulling on his mind, how he wants to go and find this son of a , smash his fist against his perfect, handsome face until its covered in red and he will be able to respire again, to be Kim Jinwoo, the person that means the most in his life, once more – but he can’t because he has promised and, as much as he loves him, his word is sacred (and he feels terrible bad for keeping his vow to this extend, six months of seeing him been hurt and shallow, walking on glass and bleeding in silence not to trouble his best friend), so he keeps quiet and drinks the threats that he wants to yell at him, for causing Jinwoo’s heart such ache, for been a pain in his back. –

Minho, of course, has tried too, deleting any traces of him on his life, but sometimes it feels impossible, sometimes his name is heard from the TV and there is no way for him to cover it, to ease his feelings. Or right now, with his face waving on the streets, advertising the last drama he is featuring in. And he has attempted to take them down, but there are so many and he is alone fighting against an army – but he has frayed one of the fliers and it was such a satisfaction, to see his cheeks falling apart, to be able to inflict him some damage, even if it was only in some sort of psychological way. – He can’t erase him from Earth and, in times like this, there is only one thing left to do; he turns the TV on and fills the empty space with the statics sounds coming from there while changing the programs, one after another, a blurred succession of unknown faces until he finds it.

Lying on the floor, they enjoy the quietness of another rerun of old dramas – and Jinwoo relaxes a bit, his tense shoulders going low and he breaths in, slowly, and offers to cook. –

There is nothing he wouldn’t do – or aim to – for Jinwoo; he worth it, he loves him that much, he owes him enough to risk his own reputation in order to prevent him from falling under, sliding into tiny ice again. In a way, if he calls him hyung it’s not only because he is older, but because he thinks about him as if family, as his missed, never existent brother – and Minho would kill for them, that much is known by everyone who is close to him (and there is a lot of people, but Kwon Jiyong wasn’t one of them and he is so lucky that Jinwoo has made him swear not to touch him). – They have been roommates for what it feels like forever – but he recounts all the days shared and it’s up to 5 years; since they were matched by destiny to occupy one tiny apartment back to when they started college.

Jinwoo was the one who saved his life first, so he owns him this, scaring the gang that was always beating him up after class. He had put a show in front of them, leather jacket and the coldest stare he could bring to his eyes and, in the most threatening way, as if mimicking “The Godfather”, he had scared them to death, holding a pistol that felt so heavy in such a calm way. They have never bothered Minho again. This was also how Seungri had found him, the daunting kid in the alley, acting as if he was tough and dangerous when he was nothing but a softie.

Lee Seunghyun, best known as Manager Lee or just Seungri was eyeing the scene. As a professional manager, he saw further into Jinwoo, reading his intentions, how he was playing with them, putting a scene for them to see. He was impressed by him, the way he had held the gun, with so much aplomb. He had offered him his target and, after finishing his degree in theatre, he was chosen by his company to join them as an actor – and at Jinwoo’s graduation picture you can actually see Seungri clapping in the back end, all proud of him. – That’s how he started his drama career under Natural High and that’s also another debt that Minho has with him because if he is working with them as a comedian it’s also thanks to Jinwoo.

After they broke up, Kwon Jiyong name had become a taboo between the two men, but sometimes it’s inevitable, unavoidable, just like the placard on the streetlights with his name all over, but they keep it casual when they have no other way to skirt around but to say it – and it burns in Minho’s tongue, tasting like sulphur and rotten food –, but they both work in the same industry and, even if their paths are different, they are peers somehow. And when Jiyong makes the news, Minho knows there is no way to delete it, to make it easy for Jinwoo, his disturbing presence like a ghost, gracing over Jinwoo’s memories and he can’t erase its trails, the marks he has left over his skin.

Even if they only dated for ten months – and it felt a lot more for Minho, like a hell of eternity – it wasn’t a healthy relation; Jiyong off all Jinwoo’s energy, all his love and, in the end, only left an empty shell with his pretty, perfect face, broken and lost and shattered. He didn’t know about all the fights and the screams, all the demanding from his side and all the tears from Jinwoo’s; he only knew that he wasn’t happy, even when he put a mask to shade it, he noticed in the shadows dancing on his eyes, in the way the tip of his lips weren’t curbing up as it used to. It was one thing and a million paper cuts and Jinwoo blew up, far away from his reach. Dark times for a solid friendship that has meant to last forever and that has survived s and loads of crap. But not Jiyong, not all the bull he threw to Jinwoo, all the culpability, how he used his vulnerable, soft and innocent mind to get whatever that was that he wanted.

In the end, he left, without a word only to be back topping all the charts starting in one massive movie production, his name all over Korea and, not long after that, he has had the guts to announce his engagement with some other actress, pretty flowery fairy who would be abandoned soon enough. It was then, right at that moment, when Jinwoo had cried for the first time.

During the following month, he reclosed himself inside his room, cancelling shows and postposing castings and avoiding everyone, even Minho.

It took a while but, eventually, gradually, he was back – and Minho hadn’t had to intimidate or been a menace to him, forcing him to go out and tagging him along everywhere he was (maybe bringing him to the club where his friend Zico was performing wasn’t the smartest idea ever, because he has drowned his weigh on cheap alcohol and he had to drag him back home, listening how great and how much he still loved Jiyong-ssi, and if Minho didn’t hit him it was nearly a miracle). – But he has left the slot, hitting the road with his talent and sweet charms and there is no way that Minho will allow it to happen again.

Act II

He hates it, truly loathes it, but it’s his job – and damn God if he isn’t great at it, even after all the tantrums he throws and all the complaining –, he still despites it very much.

It’s not because he is jealous of them – why should he? He doesn’t have to live under a perfect façade, he can be natural and true to his own self, not like these idols he does choreographies for –, but it’s not his cup of tea having to teach a group of perfect smear faces he can’t even recognize, names that are just letters on his mind, all them looking so much alike, so composed and stiff and, well, perfect from the outside, perfect to been greeted by the public and the fans, but a disaster once you truly meet them.

It’s too early and winter is meddling, the cold air is blueing his skin and the damp, like icicles, is pitching his bones. He feels so tired, so old. But, when the only group under Seven Seasons appear to meet with him, not enough caffeine on their veins and massive black bags under their unfocused eyes, he smiles, relieved to see that they are doing much worse than him.

The truth is that he only pretends to hate it for the sake of it, since there is one group under his training course and a few solo artists, and they are all wonderful people. Block B smudge their smiles at him and he knows them all by heart – and he has picked most of their nicknames – so he smiles back at them, throwing his sport bag on the floor and getting ready to start with six young, exhausted faces telling him to slow down, to let them rest even if only for a minute and he is so nice to let them sit on the parquet, monitoring their lazy, tired gestures and words throw the mirrored wall.

They talk for a while, waiting for Woo Jiho, the leader of the group and main composer and also producer, the one who lives among Seungyoon’s expectations, always putting new ideas and concepts and forcing him to work until dawn with him in all his projects – two workaholic together that also resemble like two drops of rain on the wind; if it wasn’t for all the weird hairstyles Jiho has, even he, who is Kang Seungyoon’s best friend since forever, would mistake them, and most people think that they are lost in time twins.

When the leader makes his grand entrance, heavy eyeliner to make his eyes sharper and dark, he starts dancing in front of them, showing the choreography he has come up for their newly released song “Don’t leave”. It’s a ballad, so it’s easy to follow; slow tempo and smooth cadence, and he beats at the same pace as their meddling voices that melt the winter that sneaks under the closed door. It’s good to work with them; the team have two great dancers who learn the moves in no time and he can rely on them to teach the rest – he knows how much it cost to Taeil, and Jihoon doesn’t do much better, but he has kept their dancing lacking capabilities in mind and has created something suave and simple, yet beautiful and artistic – and Yukwon flusters him with his praises about another great job done, another dance executed perfectly.

He brings them coffee and stays there, looking at them goofing around after practising for an hour on their own, smiles at them and says goodbye. Easy, his job is easy but they pay him well and can go for free to all of Block B’s concerts and Zico’s performances that he wants – he isn’t his biggest fan but he likes to see how he puts all his work and talent and passion together; it’s bright and inspiring.

He is about to leave the building and go to annoy Seungyoon, who is producing something else with someone else that isn’t Jiho – and that’s new – but that, right now, is sleeping – like any normal person would at 8.30 am on a Saturday morning. – He wants to know what is he up to, writing lyrics and arranging music from someone from outside Seven Seasons and its filial company of recruitment, so he taps the passcode and it’s greeted by Thor’s happy barks and a yawning Seungyoon, puffy lips and a disarray of sleepy hair, his eyes solely on a music sheet that has been crossed with black ink so many times it’s hard to decipher its meaning.

“Morning hyung,” he says, knowing perfectly well that Seunghoon is the only person – rather than his mother – who is allowed in by himself. Seunghoon pets the neglected puppy that has been staying with Seungyoon since a few months ago and Thor jumps around, running between his legs and wiping his calves with his excited tail. He sits and observes the younger works, all the papers that have flown on the floor, scattered, and that the dog has bitten into tiny, ripped pieces. With a sigh, he fills the bin with them, hoping that Seungyoon won’t mind.

He makes himself at home, preparing breakfast for two and feeding the poor puppy, which all the skin available as a thank you.

“You should eat and, also, take care of your baby,” he says, sinking on the black leather couch, a plate of kimchi stew steaming on his hand and his chopsticks ready. “He looks as abandoned as he was when you adopted him. It’s sad” ads, but Seungyoon ignores him; instead, he eats it quickly, not leaving for a moment his current work, writing in a rush, tumbling letters succession each other, appearing in front of the white page. He frowns

He has to duress him into having a proper meal and nearly has to carry him to the shower. It’s been three days and it is gross; the house has been impregnated with a sour smell from the Chinese takeaway containers pilled on the corner and others substances less pleasant and complicated to identify – and he doesn’t really want to go near them.

“You haven’t changed your underwear in a week!” he exclaims, eyes tearing in between guffaw and disgust, throwing clean clothes to him “You are so anti-hygienic. One of these days health public service will pay you a visit. It’s revulsive how you lose yourself while working. No wonder no one else but your big clone wants to work with you” he complains, while listening to the shower being , a cascade coming throw the faucet and his friends hums, content.

“And you are obsessed” he replies from the toilet, but he is wrong. Of course, for someone like him he might be, but he is just normal, an average cleaner who doesn’t care much about the mess but a lot about health.

He rummages around Seungyoon’s place and does some bits and chores, but mainly, he glances at what Seungyoon has been working on. He reads some scratched lyrics “how you dear leaving a pretty girl like me behind” and it sounds familiar, like a dejavu the words stick onto his brain and it meaning reverberates in his mind, holding there until it reaches him, streaming like a bang, a bullet to his core.

Act III

The TV chuckles, old and dysfunctional, but neither of them want to change it, too many memories are engraved on its screen; laughs and tears and some other truths that only this ancient monitor has seen; it has been the first one they bought together and they believe it will also be the last one, so it’s Jinwoo’s turn to smash it until the antenna catches the signal again and there they are, back to watch the “Maybe, must be” scene for the nth time, but neither of them complains; in the end Jinwoo is an actor and Minho loves making him giggle with stupid remarks or improving his impersonations – and it’s great to have Jinwoo around, because he laughs so easily and it sounds lovely, echoing throw the walls like a song.

The night falls over them, veiling his eyes and filling them with dreams and hopes and Minho trembles in his bed, unable to sleep or to be at ease. It’s been a while since his word has collapsed and he has fought so much and so hard to keep going, to not sink into despair and hate against everything outside this place that holds his love, to not let him drown in fears or to be ashamed about who he is, but he is also hitting bottom and he can’t take it alone anymore.

A patch of light shimmers over his face, illuminating half of the bed and Jinwoo blinks at him, blinded.

“Minho, I’m ok, you don’t have to worry” he says, softly, as if sleep were taking him and Minho has only scattered his slumber; he feels a throb in his chest and stares at him, but when Jinwoo looks at him, too, his head bows down in shame “What’s wrong?” he wonders, in suspense.

“It’s not you who I am worried about… it’s me” he says and the flick in Jinwoo’s glance is immediate, all surprised, the parted smile turning into a hard line of something he can’t read from this far. But he moves on his bed, making room right next to him, uncovering it, holding blankets that are inviting him to go under. Once Minho is settled there, nestled against Jinwoo, he wraps an arm and brings him closer.

“I’m sorry, Minho-ya. I’m such an awful friend…” but Minho only snuggles, leaving small traces of lips over his neck, Jinwoo’s hands caressing his hair and pressing his head on his shoulder.

It’s always like this between them; whenever they have a problem, they spend the night together trying to solve it, waking up by the warmth of another body entangled on their beds, shared sheets and shared resolutions, smiling big at the morning because, even if the world is about to end, at least they have each other.

“I understand it, hyung” he babbles, his mouth pressed toward his skin and his breath is kind over the crook of his neck, the spot where it fits perfectly as if made by it. “But I haven’t had a gig in ages” and he counts mentally all the time he had until now, helping Jinwoo sorting his problems, trying not to think about his, even if they were bugging on his mind and, with some relieve, curled in bed with his best friend, he let them go; all the worries about his future, if his career is still on or if it’s only a pale memory long forgotten, nearly nothing. “And I don’t know what to do with the rent and the rest,” he says and already he feels better. Even if Jinwoo can not comfort him, his mere presence and the fact that he is here it’s all he needs.

“You are a brilliant comedian!” he exclaims, awestruck, an indignant note at the end of his throat and he can’t help but giggles; Jinwoo has always been his number one fan, his source of support and cheers when he was low in the ground, barely making of it a living – not that now he is doing much better, he has performed as MC for a few variety shows, but none of them was popular enough to keep on going. Even if he has had a slice of fame, it was gone in a flash and now, here he is, unemployed and fantasizing about kissing his friend, thinking of how familiar it feels to be pressed together, his back on his chest and Jinwoo’s cheeks just a breath away from his lips. It would be an accident, of course, and none of them would say a thing after it, but Minho stirs and lets go of his thought, too tired, melting under the soft, warm presence that is Kim Jinwoo, smiling smoothly under his chin.

“But I’m not doing anything at the moment” he complains, half hidden under Jinwoo’s skin and the fresh sheet of the pillow, “and Seungri thinks I’m an annoyance” but Jinwoo refuses immediately his last sentence, taking a hold of his hands, bringing them together, interlaced fingers that are reassuring over his trembling palms, tickling circles slowly on them and his heart misses a beat again.

“It’s ok, Minho, you will find your way. I’m going to be here for you, always, so don’t worry” he promises and it feels alright, his words drowning into his mind “and even if you can’t get a gig or any other MC opportunity, you have so many other talents! Seungri will help you figure up what might be better if you choose to leave the comedic path” and with his thumb, he caresses his cheek, pressing the nail there, leaving a small mark than a moment later the dark makes disappear.

“If you say so…” he gives up, not able to fight him back; maybe he is right after all, maybe Jinwoo knows; this is how it always works – sneaking into each other’s beds and talking in the dark about their inners fears, - but this time he doesn’t feel it, so he cuddles around him instead a little bit more, a little bit longer, legs colliding, knees brushing and his feet slip in between his calves, looking for a warmth that spreads from there until reaching his top.

“You know – You can always join me” he suggests, low voice as if revealing a secret. He could, he thinks, and the idea is already blooming in his mind. It’s not the best but, given the options, it’s the better he can do and Jinwoo seems happy to be able to offer some comforting to him.

Back then, before he started dating Kwon Jiyong, Jinwoo was part of a theatre company; he has been always a great actor, even if refusing to take lead roles, he was praised regardless for his capabilities and the emotions coming from his performances. He has acted mainly for the Seoul Arts Centre, been the ground base of his company. He has acted in more than ten different dramas and then, out of nowhere, he had received an offer to be part of a dance production as the Little Prince, from the homonymous novel by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and, in order to do so he practised with the Korea National Contemporary Dance Company, and it was a huge succeed – and Minho has been in them all, cheering for him, clapping during the intermission too, proud of his accomplishments and he did the most amazing act, dancing like a professional, bones that moved like water on air.

After the breakup – and it wasn’t it at all, Jinwoo was left, abandoned without a word, crying in the mood waiting for someone who wasn’t him to call – he quitted it all; his forging name and reputation, his fellow friends and companions, the stages. It was Kim Jinwoo’s curtain fall and h