The Script

He deletes everything again and frowns, sighing. He types one line, two, before giving up; he is not make out for this and he will fail his last assignment. He should resign, change his major but he has fought so hard to get to where he is now, has improved and, besides, acting is all he wants to do in his life, since the first time he read Shakespeare and Sophocles, he wanted to resurrect the spirit of the characters, be one with Hamlet, Oedipus, King Lear. And he has left everything behind – a comfortable life in an island, a plausible work as a fisherman or as a sailor. But he has given it up to purchase his dream to become an actor.

And now he is stuck in the middle, more than halfway through college, staring at a blank page and the tilting cursor attached to the last word, his mind casting away all the plots that plop up and that are too similar to already existing dramas he has watched. He needs to sprout a new idea for his script, refreshing and original – at least way better than all the ones he already buried down, erased from his computer. He needs help – scratch that, Jinwoo needs a miracle.

On top of the pressure to finish his assignment, he needs to do a rehearsal for the college play; he is the main character by merits and has to do well – but he is so worried about his script, he stumbles on stage, stutters the words that he knows by heart, he is so anxious he is sure that, on the grand opening, he will throw up in front of all the spectators (he has nightmares about it, the shadow of his failing scrip follows him).

He closes the book and sighs, defeated. He has been in the library for hours and nothing. Not a single book that will aid him with his problem – though he has avidly read one about the importance of the weather in Shakespeare’s works that will come handy for his exam about Theater on the XV century. He has scored perfect grades on all his other classes – Classical Dance, Vocalization, Interpretation, Scenery, Characters Characterization, Literature… but Scripting is his bitterness, his sore chest. And he needs to pass this course if he wants to graduate.

It doesn’t need to be perfect, he doesn’t need a good score, just good enough to get over it, but nothing comes to mind and he diverges his attention back to the play because it brings him some solace, some joy – the only spark igniting right now, the only place where he feels rooted, alive.

He is cast for the role of Artemis because this year girls are scarce and he doesn’t flinch when it was offered to him. A challenge, an opportunity to shine, portraying a woman and, so far, he has done very well, has owned praises from colleges and professors. And he rehears even after the official rehearsal is done, staying behind the scenes longer, working hard on his role, practicing until exhaustion – after all, acting is his passion.

Seungyoon hasn’t stopped talking about Jinwoo and, honestly, Minho is a bit feed up – nobody can be as perfect as the man Seungyoon is so meticulously describing. But he nods and smiles and ignores his friend, sitting on his assigned seat next to him and waits for the play to begin. Minho isn’t a fan of theater but Seungyoon has been so adamantly persistent on bringing him along, he has given up and contented his friend.

The lights turn off and silence falls upon the audience when the curtains open and the actors show up.

Artemis, Goddess of ity and haunting, is the fairest of them all, Minho notices, following her across the stage. Her voice is clean, crystaline that sounds like glass and bells ringing when she laughs. And her hands hold with precision her arc and hunts down Orion for trying to force her, fro braking the laws of Artemis. She is impressive and talented and Minho gives a standing ovation when the curtain call, mesmerized.

“Did you like my hyung’s play?” Seungyoon asks, excitedly.

“The play was very good. Artemis was superb, I got the chills,” he confesses, cheeks burning red and Seungyoon smiles, shamelessly, at it, scheming something.

“That’s my hyung,” he winks, dragging him out to introduce them.

Minho believes that love is love and it doesn’t know about borders or limits. It’s love and that’s all, so when Artemis turns out to be played by a boy, he doesn’t flinch and gets smitten all the same – considering that Jinwoo is beautiful, too, pale skin and bright, starry eyes that gleam as if fireflies lingered inside of them. He is inspiring, he makes Minho wants to paint – he longs for his pencil, to sketch the beauty in front of him and his heart trembles when he praises his acting skills.

“Incredible, you are going to be a super-star!” he assures a blushing Jinwoo, who brushes it off gently, shyly, dismissing his own merits and talents much to Minho’s dismal.

“I’m just average,” he explains, pink shaded and Minho shakes his head, gladden with Jinwoo’s lack of confidence. “I’m struggling on my last assignment so you can imagine how good I am,” he murmurs, half-joking, half sincere and totally deprecating himself.

“Hyung,” Seungyoon says all lippy, an idea blooming on his pretty, curly head. He has noticed the way Minho is charmed by Jinwoo – how he is trying his best to impress him, immersed solely in Jinwoo, openly ignoring his friend, - “you are still stuck with your script?” he throws the bait and, in no time, Minho has bitten it, offering himself to help.

“After all,” he says, gently, “I’m a tutor. Can I call you hyung too?” and Jinwoo nods, accepting this turn of events, not believing in his luck, that he will be able to finish his project with the aid of Song Minho – the boy Seungyoon has been talking about for so long; his photographer buddy and classmate and bubbly friend.

He sits in the library and waits for Minho. He has a document open with half-written plot he isn’t confident about – but he needed to show something to Minho so he wrote it over night, staying awake until small hours. It is silly, he is aware off, it’s not going to impact anyone, but he hopes it can be used as a beginning.

Minho is late, Jinwoo checks his phone and closes yet another book. He has been studying to kill time and randomly typing more on his scrip – words that turned into sentences that were quickly removed because they made no-sense at all. By the time Minho arrives, Jinwoo has managed to finish his plot though he is dying to burn it down – it’s plain and unsavory, it takes after all the dramas he has watched before.

“Let me catch my breath,” Minho exhales, sitting next to him. He smells like flowers and sunshine and his hands, falling on the keyboard, look sturdy, diligent – he likes that he looks professional, despite the tardiness.

It takes a minute for Minho to shake his head, reading Jinwoo’s lines.

“Are you comfortable? Maybe you will read it better somewhere more dim?” Jinwoo cuts off his reading, all trembling in anticipated fear. How cute, Minho smiles at Jinwoo, reassuringly because he can feel his nervous, how he wants to skip the subject, how he will talk about anything but what they have in hand – Seungyoon has told him that Jinwoo isn’t the chatty type but, so far, he has been in charge of all the conversation, talking about the weather, the cafeteria he likes and so on but his project. He has built a bubble to get refuge, to stay in and ignore his script out of pressure and anxiety and Minho has to pinch it, blow it down in order to help him because, honestly, Jinwoo is all handsome and nice and polite, but his writing is poor and weak.

“Jinwoo hyung… This is not very impressive,” he manages to say, glancing at him. Jinwoo looks so broken and neglected, Minho feels like tugging him in a hug, yell at his professor for giving him such a terrible assignment that makes him look so small and worried. “But it’s a start!” he adds, trying to play it down. “Maybe not the brightest idea, but it’s something and we can go somewhere from here. Or begin again, whatever you feel more easy about,” he offers but Jinwoo heaves, staring at the screen, tears about to fall down and he rubs his eyes, tiredly.

“I won’t make it, it’s useless. You will only lose your time trying to help me,” he mumbles, smashing the deleting key. Minho looks at him awestruck – he seems so down, so ready to give up even when it’s their first attempt and Rome wasn’t build in a day, he wants to tell him, wants to gladden him .

“Look, if you hang it up, you’ll never graduate and all your striving will go to waste. You are too good to give up,” he encourages, smiling at him, shimmering light on his effulgence personality – he only needs a bit of a boost, inspiration and support and Minho can give it to him, can be his aider.

"I took post-production as a backup plan, in case my acting wasn't skilled enough, so I could still work behind the scene, but I at this," Jinwoo heaves, blinking at the empty screen, fingers gently tapping over the keyboard, fidgeting nervously, worriedly and he looks plain sad, ready to quick all he has dream for.

"But you are great! You will be a top star, hyung!" Minho is sure of it, has been mesmerized watching him performing but Jinwoo needs to trust more in himself and his qualities, that are many as he has observed so far – he is a skilled actor able to perform as a woman and nobody would notice, he is nice and kind and self-deprecating, but, over all, Minho thinks that Jinwoo is wonderful, despite that maybe he hasn’t born to be a screen-writer but he only needs to pass an assignment, not to produce a whole film on his own, so he can do it with a little push-up, he is sure.

"A top star? Isn't that the one you put on the Christmas tree?" he says, half-mumbling, half-joking and totally embarrassed, with soft shades of rose coloring his cheeks. Minho claps at it, because it makes sense in his mind – because Jinwoo gleams like a shooting star in the night sky.

"Exactly! You will be in every household’s TV!" he promises, turning his words into a praising. It's not that Jinwoo isn't good with words, it is that he is blocked. And Minho knows a thing or two about it, about lack of creativity, so he is confident on help Jinwoo: he has been there before, has been stuck mid-painting, amidst critics of his art, has lost his inspiration and his willing heart – but now, staring at Jinwoo, all he wants to do is to paint his beauty, put him on a frame where it will always remain ethereal, graceful, immutable.

By the time they are done with the first draft, the sunset is already gone and the sky is navy, peppered with stars and Minho looks at Jinwoo, who is way too beautiful and precious to walk alone in the dark, that has to be accompanied home. Perhaps Minho is being a bit too protective, but it’s the way he feels about Jinwoo – and he feels like painting him in the air, under the shades of the twilight, soft and smooth and elegant.

“Thank you for your help,” Jinwoo says, reaching for the bus stop. Minho smiles; from now on, he will catch this bus as well even when he lives ten minutes walking from the campus, he will trade to bus just to stay five more seconds under Jinwoo’s grace.

“It’s nothing. Let’s meet tomorrow, same place?” he suggests, but Jinwoo declines.

“Tomorrow I have a morning shift, do you mind coming to Mujabee, the students’ coffee shop?” he says instead and Minho agrees – Mujabee is fine, he likes it. And he will go to the moon for Jinwoo if asked, so he accepts and waits with Jinwoo for the bus to show up.

It’s cramped this late with workers going back home. Jinwoo is pressed between Minho and the window, his hand swirling, fingers around the hanger, swaying around. With a steady hand, Minho keeps him balanced, firmly on the ground, since he is much taller and boarder than Jinwoo, who is all skin and bones and feels like feathers when he bumps against him when the bus takes a turn and Minho holds him, liking the way he feels in between his arms, soft, graceful. Jinwoo smiles apologetically at him and Minho holds him closer, keeps him protected between his chest and the window, keeps him safe.

Jinwoo gets off two stops after Minho’s, but Minho decides to walk him home nevertheless– it’s for his safety, nobody should walk alone.

Jinwoo giggles.

“I should be the one doing that since I’m older,” he pouts and Minho’s heart skips a few beats, enraptured by how deliciously cute he looks with his lips pushed out.

“You are beautiful,” and Jinwoo blushes under the night, painting with soft pink the moonbeams falling upon him. “Maybe it’s a bit too sudden,” he says, muttering his courage, breathing in, inhaling all the air before asking him out,” but would you like to go on a date with me, hyung?” he finally asks. Everything breaks apart after it. Jinwoo’s mood, light and bubbly, smashes, his face turning sour, biting his lips with terror.

“Minho… I don’t think it’s a good idea. I have no time left to play around, I must focus on my studies. And so do you,” he tries to say in between scattered words, stumbling, teetering.

Minho looks down before running out of Jinwoo’s sight – out of his reach. What was he expecting? Jinwoo has been very kind rejecting him, polite and tender and Minho’s eyes are flooded with tears that he wipes away, rubbing. He should have kept it all to himself, now nothing will be the same, Jinwoo will be cautious and awkward and they won’t be able to work in peace – and Jinwoo’s project is what matters the most, more than his sentiments and emotions, more than his selfishness to keep Jinwoo to himself.

Minho is so nice and caring, has been doing his best to help him, but, even when Jinwoo feels bad for rejecting him openly, sternly, knows that it’s for the best. Not that he doesn’t like him: he is cute and make things easy, and he can talk with him about any matter, he has the sensation. But he needs to focus and dating would be a distraction and he can’t afford that, not when he is so near the end of his degree. So Jinwoo turns him off and hopes that Minho’s feelings aren’t hurt enough to the point to stop helping – and he wants to slap himself for being so selfish but has been so diligent, working so hard to achieve his place, he can’t fail now and any aid is more than welcome. Besides, Minho’s emotions couldn’t be that deep, since they barely know each other, so Jinwoo inhales and let go his worries, mumbling Minho’s name before sleep, tasting it against his pillow. He can pretend that nothing happened anyway – he is good at faking, he is studying to be an actor, this will be easy-peasy, a piece of cake.

Minho comes late again, with his heart drumming, reviewing the events from last night, wondering if Jinwoo would be there, waiting, or if he was so disgusted by his confession than he won’t want to be near him but, when he guts to open the door and peek around, when he sees Jinwoo waving at him, smiling as if nothing transpired between them, as if all was on his mind, he rushes in, beaming.

It’s his second Americano and Jinwoo is fuming, looking at his text infuriated – he hasn’t improved it a bit despite all the tips and tricks that Minho has shared with him; he is too obstinate, stubborn that anything he writes isn’t good enough than he can’t produce something to match his exigencies.

“Don’t over-think this much, hyung” he offers, deleting a whole scene from Jinwoo’s script. It is better than yesterday, he can see how much effort he has put into it, but it’s too heavy, too burdensome now – a blood-thirst murderer that slashes office workers out of spite (and it would be great if it wasn’t so detailed, gore and creepy; it gives Minho the chills). “Let the words float freely,” he says, gently massaging his shoulders. He has been tense with jitter and angst, waiting for an approval that is out of sight. “You can feel the stress you pour in it while writing, hyung, and it tastes nothing like you. You need to let go of all your references and find your own world, something that matters to you, that speaks to you, not a free-lance copy of Agatha Christie novels” he advises, finally, and Jinwoo heaves, rubbing his temples. “You still have time. I’m sure you’ll come up with a fine idea that will leave them gaping,” he assures and Jinwoo manages to give him a half-grin.

“I wish to have half your confidence in me,” Jinwoo sighs, re-reading his work, noticing that Minho has a point – he remembers catching a bit of “Appointment with Death” on TV while on a break from writing, and, honestly, he has always been a fan of Christie’s plays and novels (he is dying to play Inspector Poirot one day, among many other characters). He tells Minho, he explains that he takes references from great writers and his favorite dramas, that this is probably the reason why he can’t come up with something new and original.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be new, it has to be good. Maybe try with something from your personal experience?” he suggests and Jinwoo gives it a go – just to fail again.

It’s been a week already but Jinwoo can't come up with something original – his mind is floated with poor plots and predictable twists that Minho kindly discharges whenever he offers his script for him to analyse. He is devoted to it to the core, he is risking too much and he is regretting the very moment when he decided to take that course – but, alas, it was a necessity and there is always one subject to be loathed in every career; it happens that this is his arch-enemy.

He is becoming obsessed with it – he has nightmares about a writing-machine stamping him against the ground, the keys smashing his bones until they are turned into a mashed pulp of blood. And he is so tired, he has been scolded for being late to rehearsal twice. And he can’t allow it to continue, he needs to get rid of that annoying assignment as soon as possible – he no longer cares about quality, he wants to finish it and never have to worry again about it.

“You are exhausted,” Minho discerns, looking at the purple circles under his dim eyes. He has been living out of caffeine and pressure and he, honestly, can keep touch with reality any longer. He needs a miracle to happen or else he might collapse, might give up totally on his dream to be an actor. “Look, go home, have a week worth of sleep. You look macabre right now, Hyung, you are even killing my vibes,” he jokes just to see Jinwoo smile, but he is so grimaced, nothing can bright him.

“I need to do it, Minho, though I’m thankful for your concerns and your help, surely,” he dismisses Minho’s preoccupations regarding him with a fine gesture of his hand and focuses again on his laptop, fingers quickly typing random dialogues that come from the depth parts of his incongruous, swirling mind and perpetual headache. But nothing good appears on the screen and Jinwoo’s head dangles dangerously, at the edge.

“Hyung, let’s go home, all right?” he says, tenderly, getting up from his chair and helping Jinwoo to do the same. Jinwoo swallows his counter-argument and follows, too worn to fight, too conscience of the place he is in – he doesn’t want to make a scene in the library, he needs the books and the peace and solace.

Minho drags him out and, under the sun, his skin is paler than before – thinner, wrinkled on the corner of his mouth out of continuously pouting, his lips chapped, gnawed. Minho holds him during the ride on the bus and lets him sleep on his shoulder, his bag on his feet and his head picturing the taste of his broken lips, his hands on his frame, pressing him against his body, to keep him safe from the bumping road and any other harm that might happen to him – and Minho wants to fight his fears, to write the script for him since it means too much, since it’s eating him alive, draining him, leaving nothing but a skeleton, an empty shell of Jinwoo. He carries him up the stairs and kicks the door of his apartment open. As he has collected between shared words and quick conversations while working together, he knows that he lives alone at the moment – that he had shared the flat before but his room-mate had graduated last year. He lays him in his bed and leaves his laptop on the desk, a scribbled note with instructions, with a plan to help him. And, as silently as he has come in, he goes out and waits at home.

Jinwoo calls him four hours later, with a pounding headache and dreamy eyes.

“Are you asking me out in a date?” he is joking, but he hits core.

Minho has realised what Jinwoo needs – a source of inspiration that isn’t books and films; and fresh air, going out to get some sun on his skin, time to heal.

“Well, it’s my art exhibition and I thought you might want to go, visit?” he asks, not really convinced about Jinwoo’s reaction. He has been so consumed that he might refuse – and it triggers memories that Minho has been fighting back.

“When?” Jinwoo thinks that, perhaps, Minho is right and that he needs a change of scenario, a new horizon, and maybe this is his shoot.

Minho jumps, delighted, when Jinwoo agrees.

Jinwoo looks great with something different than his usual hoodie – though Jinwoo always looks perfect to Minho.

He shows him around the art gallery where he and his colleges are exhibiting their works, explains some to an uncultured Jinwoo, who looks at the paintings hanging with surprised glances and a wondering expression and Minho finds it very soft and cute.

“I really lack knowledge about art,” Jinwoo confesses, “but I never been much interested about painting or sculpts, I have to admit. You are great, Minho,” he praises, when they finally reaches the aisle where Minho’s paintings stand, a colourful stream of canvas with eyes and hands and odd-looking bodies.

“I hope you can find your inspiration here,” he says, showing him another of his works. Jinwoo giggles at it.

“I never needed inspiration,” he tilts his head, looking straight at the figure, trying to decipher its meaning. “You know, what inspiration would I need to understand that Ophelia drowned herself due to a conflicted heart?” he wonders, laughing.

“I got inspiration by Marc Chagall’s pieces, and Van Gogh, too. The Impressionists. Maybe you can add Munch to the list,”he explains, shrugging, “but, who is Ophelia?” he asks which makes Jinwoo crack up.

“Haven’t you heard of Hamlet? Shakespeare, the greatest play-writer of all the times?”he retorts, feign shock.

“I bet you don’t know a thing about my artists,” he bugs, pouting.

“I’m sorry to disappoint but I learned about them back in school,” he proclaims, delighted and Minho claps, happily, joining Jinwoo’s excitement. “I can see some resemblance, though I can only remember “The Sunflowers” at the moment. But the colours you use are vibrant and vigorous. I quite like it,” he smiles and Minho is elated hearing that he likes his art-work.

“I try to plasm the world through another lenses, through shades that are different to enhance that we are different, that we all have different visions but, in the end, we are all the same: humans,” Minho explains, offering an inside from his mind. Jinwoo nods, impressed, analysing another painting with new eyes. “I think that art has no restrictions, that it allows you to express yourself in unique ways. You can plasm your feelings as you want them to be represented, nobody can tell you off,” he explains, “this is why I find painting so therapeutic, relaxing. Not this,” he says, pointing at the exhibition, “painting for the gallery was a nightmare, but professor Kwon Jiyong wanted the final project to be this,” he sighs and Jinwoo raises his brow.

“You have one of the National Treasures as your teacher?” he is bewildered, shocked, and Minho can only nod.

The painting that is captivating Jinwoo is one of an eye under the shape of a lip – plumply, marshmallow, sweet, - he traces it with his fingers, lingering them over the canvas, feeling the texture of the gauche under his tips. He halts mid-way and turns around.

“Thank you, Minho, thank you very much!” he yells, while running back home and Minho can’t be mad because he has done that before, understands the meaning – he has been lightened by an idea and he can’t wait to read what has come to his mind out of the blue, all of a sudden.

Jinwoo feels his fingers itching, his mind spinning, words spiraling inside his head, dying to be typed down. He scribbles a first sketch on the bus, just to suffuse the chaos of his mind. He writes several pages and he hasn’t run out of letters, still have more to be said.

It takes two days to finish – two days of Jinwoo disappearing from the world, only showing up to go to class and Minho misses the time spent together that is coming to an end now.

So far Jinwoo has written comedy, thriller and copy-paste half the argument from several dramas and books, so Minho is very excited to read his new plot, his new script.

For once, he has arrived before Jinwoo. He grins upon seeing him arriving. He sits and reveal a bunch of papers.

“Did you print it?” Minho takes them to examine, to read carefully. He is done ten minutes later, grinning wider. “This is so good! I knew you had it on you!” he praises, patting his shoulders, half-hugging him.

“It was all thanks to you!” he proclaims, joyfully. “You and your wonderful art!” Jinwoo continues, his eyes twinkling with happiness and Minho wants to find out what aspect of his canvas has been of such help because what he has just read and his art little have in common – the script Jinwoo has is a masterpiece.

“It reminds me a little of “Parasite”,” Minho comments, “since it is also a social criticism,” he adds and Jinwoo nods.

“I thought about it, I remembered your impersonation. It was terrible,” he goofs and Minho does it for Jinwoo only, to hear his beautiful laughter reverberating through Mujabee. “Do you think Kim Soro will like it?” he queries, insure.

“What? Kim Soro? The actor? What does him has to do with your scrip?” Minho wonders, surprised upon hearing the name of one of the most famous actors of the country.

“He is the one grading it,” Jinwoo says as if nothing – and Minho has a flash-back.

“And you were stupefied when I said that Kwon Jiyong was my teacher,” he crack up and Jinwoo soon follows. “But, yes, I think he will be very pleased with your work.”

Jinwoo submit his assignment four days after and waits for the results to be out. He has been tweak it with Minho but now it’s over. Finals falls upon them like rain and Jinwoo is soaked by the time he is done with them all. Now, it’s just a matter of waiting.

Minho calls every day to ask about the grades – he calls to heard Jinwoo, but it’s a nice excuse and Jinwoo finds it lovable, finds Minho charming and adorable and kind and he owes him.

Kim Soro wants to have a chat with Jinwoo, he has summoned him to his office and Jinwoo is jitter, full of nerves.

“We will like to shoot your scrip, turn it into a short shorts,” his professor says, holding his hand in a congratulatory manner and Jinwoo can’t believe it.” Your project was really interesting and surprising, we enjoyed it. And, as you know, the three best one has the opportunity to be filmed. We only need your consent. Of course, you will be the director, with my aid, obviously,” he smiles at him fatherly and Jinwoo agrees, his nightmare script blooming, becoming real. He runs back home with a 10 mark on his grades and immediately calls Minho.

“I did it! I did it and it’s all thanks to you!” he cries over the phone.

“Oh, hyung, I’m so happy!” Minho joins the celebration. “We need to go out! This needs to paint the town red!”

“My treat,” Jinwoo promises, “and, this time, it’s an official date. If you want to. If you still like me,” he says hurriedly, cheeks pink. At the other end he can hear Minho’s chocking up, squealing.

“Of course I like you, silly hyung! And of course I want to date you, go out every day with you,” Minho assures, smiling as big as his lips stretch.

“Then we go out today and tomorrow and the day after, and after that,” Jinwoo says, grinning, giggling happily. The exams are over and he is free to share with Minho all the moments he hasn't before with no worries, no projects to be submitted, just them, together, getting to know each other with the summer ahead and all the time in the world.