Chapter Text
The backstage of the MBC Gayo Daejejeon isn't a backstage. It's a colourful, shrieking, perfume-soaked nightmare zoo.
Lee Chan, a twenty-three-year-old rising star of cinema (or, as his latest Netflix drama’s marketing calls him, ‘The Nation’s Younger Brother’), feels his left eye twitch in a rhythmic, threatening pattern. He’s been on set for eighteen hours straight, has ingested nothing but iced teas and a single protein bar that tasted like despair, and now he’s supposed to navigate this sea of sequins and synchronised greeting rituals.
“Breathe, Chan-ah,” murmurs Seungcheol, his manager and human shield, guiding him through a clump of fresh-faced idols bowing so deeply and rapidly they look like malfunctioning drinking birds. “In and out. Think of your paycheck.”
“My paycheck is currently being spent on the therapy this will require,” the actor mutters, but he plasters on the Professional Smile™. It’s a good one – polite, slightly shy, dimpled. It’s won him awards and brand deals. It makes his cheeks ache from the muscle strain.
Everywhere he looks, there’s a blinding flash of someone’s smile or someone’s outfit. A group is practising a complicated handshake in the middle of the corridor. A bunch of them are waiting to film dance challenge videos in an aesthetic corner. Someone is wailing vocal scales behind a curtain. Two actors he recognises from historical dramas are having an intensely quiet conversation while holding matching tiny fans.
Seungcheol expertly manoeuvres him past a rolling rack of feathery costumes that looks like it murdered several exotic birds. “You’re just here for the opening VCR shoot and the finale bow. In and out. Two hours, max.”
“Two hours in hell is still hell,” Chan points out, but he’s already straightening his spine, shifting into Professional Mode. Exhaustion is a physical weight in his bones, but he knows how to carry it. He’s an actor.
They’re cutting through a slightly less chaotic hallway, aiming for the designated ‘Actor Waiting Area’ (which Chan suspects is just a broom closet with a star stuck to the door), when a familiar, brightly melodic voice slices through the general din. The door to Practice Room 3 is ajar. Inside, he catches a glimpse of mirrored walls, water bottles, and two figures. One is Lee Seokmin, the musical actor, beaming as always.
The other is Boo Seungkwan. Chan knows of him, of course. Who doesn’t? Golden vocalist and one of the country’s top solo K-pop idols, variety show genius, a voice that can apparently make angels weep. He sees him on TV, laughing effortlessly, hitting impossible notes. He’s never thought much about him at all – until now, that is.
Seungkwan is mid-rant, his back to the door. “…no, but seriously, who does that? A leading role in a Park Hyunsik sunbae drama, a Netflix original, and a historical film, all before your first anniversary? Please.” He takes a sip of water.
He delivers the verdict like he’s commenting on the weather, not dismantling someone’s career. “That actor kid? Lee Chan? Total nepo baby. Rides his family’s coattails straight to the top. Bankrolled by some chaebol uncle, obviously. Pretty face, zero depth. All the emotional range of a teaspoon. I bet his best performance is convincing people he earned it.”
The words hit the air, crisp, clear, and devastatingly casual. Chan stops dead. His expensive sneaker squeaks on the linoleum. The world narrows to the slice of the room, to the back of Seungkwan’s perfectly styled head – a man he hasn’t properly met, much less interacted with, before now. Nepotism baby. Pretty face. Zero depth. A teaspoon.
He feels the heat rush to his face, then drain away completely, leaving him cold. The practised smile is gone, replaced by something blank and stunned. Just who does this man think he is, talking about someone like that? Does winning a few daesangs give automatic luxury to dismiss someone’s entire career? Is there some celebrity culture he missed during his social etiquette training?
Seungcheol, a step ahead, realises he’s lost his charge. He turns, takes one look at the younger’s face – the wide eyes, the tight line of his mouth – and follows his gaze into the practice room. His own expression crumples into a wince of sheer oh, for god’s sake.
Inside, Seokmin’s laugh is nervous. “Kwan-ah, come on, you haven’t even seen his-”
“I don’t need to see it!” Seungkwan declares, waving a hand. “It’s all in the eyes. Empty. Like a very handsome, very expensive doll – dressed to fit whatever role he is handed. Who knows if he even needs to audition for them or not?”
Seungcheol gently but firmly takes Chan’s elbow. “Walk,” he hisses under his breath. “Do not engage. This is a canon event. Just walk.”
The actor lets himself be pulled away, his body moving on autopilot. The words echo in his skull, on a loop. Teaspoon. Teaspoon. Do they all think he does not audition? Teaspoon. Is that the rumour? Teaspoon.
Five minutes later, he is still vibrating with a quiet, lethal fury. He’s in a corner, pretending to check his phone, when a harried-looking coordinator with a headset and a wild look in her eyes descends upon him. “Lee Chan-ssi! Perfect! Come, come!”
Before he can protest, she’s hooking her arm through his and towing him across the hallway. He sees where they’re headed, and his stomach drops. Practice Room 3. The door is now fully open. Seungkwan and Seokmin are stepping out, chatting. Seungkwan is laughing at something, his whole face alight with it. He looks… vibrant. Annoyingly so.
The coordinator beams, a master of forced social engineering. “Ah! Boo Seungkwan-ssi! Look who I found! Lee Chan-ssi! You two are two of our brightest stars this year. You must know each other!”
Time slows down.
The singer’s laughter dies. His expressive eyes sweep over Chan, and the transformation is instant. The vibrant, laughing idol vanishes, replaced by a polished professional. His smile reappears, but it’s a different model – smaller, tighter, not quite reaching the sharp intelligence in his eyes. It’s a museum-piece smile: beautiful, cold, and behind glass.
Chan feels his own Professional Smile™ click into place, muscles moving on command. It’s probably just as icy.
“An honour,” the vocalist says, his voice a perfect blend of honey and venom. He extends a hand. “I see your face everywhere. On billboards, in subways, even on my coffee cup this morning. It’s... pervasive. Congratulations on the saturation.” The subtext I’ve seen your face everywhere, and I’m sick of it hangs in the air, thick enough to choke on.
The younger takes the hand. The grip is firm, brief, and utterly devoid of warmth. “The feeling is mutual,” he replies, his voice polished to a sharp point. “I hear your voice in every coffee shop, department store, and waiting room elevator. A true soundtrack to mindless consumption. Impressive reach.” The subtext Your music is commercial elevator muzak is delivered with a slight, polite tilt of his head.
Their eyes lock. It’s less a meeting of gazes and more a silent, furious clash of titans in a too-small hallway. Sparks practically fly. Seokmin looks between them, his own smile becoming strained. The coordinator claps, oblivious to the nuclear winter she’s just initiated. “Great! Just great! See, we’re all friends here!”
They release each other’s hands as if burned. Seungkwan gives a tiny, stiff nod. Chan returns it.
As the coordinator flutters away, the actor turns on his heel. He hears, just barely, Seokmin’s appalled whisper-hiss, “Kwan-ah, what is wrong with you?” and Seungkwan’s defensive hissed back, “What? He looks like he’s judging my soul!”
Chan walks away, the phantom feel of that handshake lingering. The humiliation burns hotter than anger. It’s not just the insult; it’s the source. Boo Seungkwan isn’t some bitter, failed competitor. He’s the industry’s darling – the one whose talent is so undeniable, whose charm is so certified, that his disdain carries the weight of a judicial ruling. A critic you can’t dismiss. And he’d dismissed Chan in three sentences.
His internal monologue is a scream. Overrated singer with an ego the size of the Olympic stadium. Pretty voice, no humanity. A decorative canary with nothing but a vocal range.
He finds sanctuary – or the closest thing to it – in a temporary green room labelled ‘GUESTS’. He’s alone for precisely forty-five seconds. The door bursts open. It’s Kim Mingyu, fellow actor, human golden retriever, and Chan’s personal chaos agent.
“Dude!” the taller announces, throwing himself into the chair beside Chan. “I just saw. You met Boo Seungkwan! The Boo Seungkwan!”
“Unfortunately,” the younger grinds out, picking at the label of a water bottle.
“He’s even tinier in person! And kind of… sparkly.” Mingyu’s eyes go dreamy. “And his voice, Chan-ah! When he was talking to that PD-nim earlier, it was like listening to a Disney prince-”
“He’s an ass,” the junior actor interrupts, voice flat.
“What? No! He’s a sweetheart! Everyone says so!”
“Everyone is wrong.” Chan finally rips the label off. “He’s a judgmental, talking parakeet who thinks his perch in the vocal booth is a moral high ground. A god complex wrapped in a designer sweater.”
Mingyu huffs, pushing his carefully styled hair back – despite knowing his hairstylist will probably scold him for it. “You’re taking his opinion as gospel!” he points out bluntly. “Since when does Lee Chan care what a singer thinks about his acting? Unless you, I don't know, respect his opinion?”
“There is nothing to respect,” the younger cuts him off, practically seething. “Let’s not pretend like that delusional know-it-all knows the first thing about acting.”
The older man blinks, then a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. “Oh my god. You like him.”
Chan chokes on air. “I what??!!!”
“You like him! You’re all red and flustered! You only get this dramatic about things you secretly think are cute!”
Chan’s last thread of patience snaps. He doesn’t even think. He just chucks the half-crushed water bottle at Mingyu’s head.
The older catches it easily, cackling. “Violence! A sure sign of a crush! I’m telling Hansol!”
“DO NOT TELL HANSOL!”
Thirty minutes later, the opening VCR is shot (Chan smiles, he nods, he exudes youthful charm despite wanting to nap on the cold floor). He’s hiding in a stairwell for a moment of peace, phone pressed to his ear. “…and he has the audacity to look me in the eye and say ‘congratulations’ like it’s an insult!”
He is pacing, two steps up, two steps down. “A teaspoon, Sol! He said I have the emotional range of a teaspoon! Who even says that? What does that even mean? How does a teaspoon even fit? It’s a shitty analogy to start with.”
On the other end, his director best friend, Chwe Hansol, is making a sound. It’s a wheezing, gasping sound.
It takes the younger one a second to realise it’s laughter. Terminal, breathless laughter. That one particular one – between a dolphin, seal and walrus. The irritation bubbles up inside him at a dangerously high level. “It’s not funny!”
“It’s… It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,” Hansol manages to get out. “Boo Seungkwan? The guy from that show where they screamed at each other while cooking? He declared you emotionally shallow? The irony is so beautiful it hurts.”
“I hate him.”
“You’ve met him once.”
“It was enough. He’s the personification of everything this industry rewards with a wink – performative wit, packaged vulnerability, a voice trained to sound soulful on command. All flash and no foundation. Just- polished exterior covering hollow space. All flashy vocals and sassy comments and… and sparkles.”
Hansol’s laughter subsides into amused hiccups. “Chan. My sweet, dramatic summer child. You’ve described him in more detail in five minutes than you’ve ever described any of your co-stars. You’ve memorised his insult. You’re obsessed.”
“I am NOT obsessed! I am justifiably offended!”
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. I’m putting money on you two being best friends in a month.”
“I’d rather kiss a wasp.”
“Noted. Send me a pic when it happens.” Hansol hangs up, still chuckling.
Chan leans his forehead against the cool concrete wall of the stairwell. The words still echo. Pretty face. No depth. He scowls at his faint reflection in the fire alarm glass. Fine. If Boo Seungkwan wants a war of pretty, shallow faces, he’ll give him one. He’s an actor, after all. He can play this role perfectly.
He just has to remember: it’s all pretend. Even the simmering, acidic desire to prove Boo Seungkwan wrong, to wipe that superior smile off his pretty, dismissive face... that was just part of the character motivation now. Wasn’t it?