summary: It's not easy going to work every day and realizing that the success you achieve is not your own. (A glimpse into the lives of the behind-the-scenes crew at BigHit.)

a/n: it's been a few months and the first thing I upload is an obscure story that's not even about the bts members. why am I like this.

do I know anything about these jobs? nope. can I make them sound sad anyway? hell yeah.

mostly based off a conversation I had with a friend.

behind studio doors

part one: makeup artists and their world of lies

You fall in love with brushes. Long strokes and powdered cheeks and tender dabs of bristles beneath your fingers that you turn into stage-worthy appearances—swift movements and all. Your hands are steady as you outline the gentle slope of eyes, years of discipline and practice in even breathing creased along the lines of your palms. You do good work with your hands, you concentrate hard when you work, and you can almost, almost, allow yourself to forget when you're tracing the contours of sharp cheekbones and planting blooming roses on pale skin.

What you're doing—it's manipulation. It's plastic smiles and picture-perfect faces and sweet lip-gloss kisses. It's deceiving a whole concert hall filled with fans; flashing lights shining on glimmering skin, cheers echoing off the walls for an illusion that you've helped to create using artificial products. Pretty, pretty lies.

A smudge of concealer to cover up the flaws. A touch of eyeliner to redirect the attention away from imperfect curves. Fading eyeshadow and sparkling lipstick and a hint of facial powder to hide the ugly blotches of jealousy spilling from your fingertips.

While you're busy transforming the boys into mannequin-models, it's hard not to compare the imperfections on your own skin to the smooth makeup covered layers of theirs. You're just an average sight: a blurred face in the background of Bangtan Bomb videos, a walking contradiction to your job.

On the other side of the mirror holds your finished product. You take a step back to admire what you've done this time, gold and silver highlights on soft skin and gentle greys that give way to a smoky blue, and when you decide that it's good enough, you send the idol off with a pat on the shoulder. He joins the others in the hallway, a group of seven paintings you helped to frame, ready to display in a gallery.

As they take the stage, you wonder if it's too late to unlearn the art of disillusioning yourself.

.

part two: choreographers on a lonely, lonely stage

You're one of the first people to hear the new songs. You close your eyes and tune out your other senses to listen to the beat, feel the rhythm; imagine a stage, silhouettes under the spotlight. In your mind, you can see where each person stands, how one movement flows into the next.

And it takes days, weeks, months for you to transfer what you've envisioned in your mind into words and then actions for the members of Bangtan to learn. It takes days, weeks, months for them to perfect the dances, difficulty increasing with each one, and then—

You watch your students win their first Daesang.

You watch your students win their first Daesang from the small television screen in your living room and there is something like pride swelling up in your chest when they walk onto the stage to accept the award, something like remorse mixed with a sting of underappreciation. It cuts you open and leaves you vulnerable on this night a little more than any other night, little jagged pieces of glass syllables caught in your throat, piercing your heart.

They've been aiming for this award since the beginning of their debut. A hopeful, just out-of-reach dream shared by seven boys. You know this because you can see it every day during their practice sessions, a lingering motivation behind every one of their sharp turns and each drop of sweat they shed. So you nod and give pointers and push them hard, harder, until they are just one fluid movement closer to obtaining their goal, one jump closer to standing on the big stage.

And now, finally, the time has come and they're all crying on national television because sometimes hard work does pay off and you're crying, too, because underneath your harsh critics and painful fifteen hour long practices, you've always just wanted them to be happy.

But they're not the only ones who have persevered through all the tough times. You think back to late nights at the studio, the only light of the entire building still on at four in the morning, adjusting choreography after choreography to fit the roles of seven different people with seven different strengths. Composing new dance moves from scratch and intertwining them together so that they are each unique but unified all the same.

When Namjoon speaks into the microphone for the whole world to hear, voice shaking from the tears pooling up in his eyes, you applaud for them in the quietness of your empty home. You clap and clap and clap until—oh. They're walking down the steps and it's all over already.

The audience is still cheering but you can't bring yourself to celebrate anymore because—

—because your name wasn't mentioned on the list. You weren't part of the acceptance speech.

It's fine, you think. There are a lot of staff working at BigHit Entertainment and there's no way they can list everyone's name in such a short time. The important thing is that you know they appreciate the work you do for them. The important thing is that you yourself are satisfied with what you've created.

But who's there to pat you on the back? Who's there to tell you that you've done a good job?

And maybe you'd like to be acknowledged a little bit. Just this once. Are you really asking for that much?

You reach over to pour yourself a glass of wine. The liquid burns down your throat and with clumsy fingers, you text the boys a message that reads, Congratulations!

You take another drink and tell yourself that what you're feeling right now—it's silly. Petty. Immature jealousy.

Kind of saddening, you realize, as you gulp down more alcohol.

But you'll get over it. You always do.

There are more dances to work on, after all.

.

part three: backup dancers and the disposal of individuality

You are taught to be no one and you breathe in your new loss of identity as easy as popping your body to the sounds blasting out from the speakers. You are only a fraction of the group; a single, nameless being within a large entity that doesn't belong to you, will never belong to you. Ordinary and unremarkable and superfluous. Replaceable.

You're okay with it.

You're okay with it, you repeat to yourself like a mantra. Maybe if you say it enough you'll eventually start to believe the words.

They dress you up in black from head to toe, a mask covering your face so that the only visible part of your body are your eyes. You're set off past the dark red curtains with a final remainder to stay as part of the group, follow the lead of the Bangtan members, don't step out of line and don't stand out more than the main idols.

Music blares from the speakers and you watch from the sidelines as the seven boys begin their performance. And you've practiced with them before but it's never been like this—never on an actual stage, lights reflecting off flashy, expensive uniforms. Never in front of a real audience.

There's a pause in the song, a slight dip in the vocals, and that's your cue. With twenty other anonymous faces, you jump into position in the background. You fill up the gaps because that's your job: to make the show look fuller, to add more bodies into the picture without really being there at all.

And the fans love it. You can hear the screams over the rush of adrenaline pumping throughout your body and they chant along to the lyrics as if this is the only chance they'll get to they share the things they want to say from deep within them with the world. It's a sea of glittering lights out there in front of you and you can only imagine what it would be like to experience all of this as the people to which those precious cheers are directed.

Because that's the truth, you know. You dance and practice spin after spin just as much as anyone else on the team but ultimately, the applause and requests for an encore aren't for you.

You thought your love for dancing would be enough, that just standing on the stage would be worth it even if you aren't recognized for your talents. Even if the success you've worked so hard for is not your own.

You are taught to be no one. The feeling of individuality has been heavily supressed within you until you are able to embody this faceless identity that has been packaged up and handed to you, wrapped prettily around a ribbon of lies. But maybe there are times when you want to be something—someone—too.

When it's all over, you receive tired compliments and friendly pats on the back from fellow teammates for a job well done. You force yourself to smile; your cheeks ache and so do all your other muscles and you try your best to sound genuine when you say, "Thank you for giving me this opportunity to work with you."

As you walk away from the concert hall, you think that maybe it's your heart that aches most of all.

.

part four: trainee instructors

You are the echoing sound of a single bullet fired by a gunshot at the beginning of a fight in an action movie. You are the revving of engines in preparation for a car race around a circular track. You are the flicker of change from red to green of traffic lights at a busy intersection, the first blotch of ink that hits the paper of an essay that will take you all night to write.

You are the start; the gateway to the idol world for many aspiring young souls.

There are more than a dozen faces staring at you, looking for leadership and direction. Rare glimmers of hope in their eyes and a buzzing kind of energy skirting along the surface of their skin. When you greet them, it's with a neutral expression, and you wonder why you took on a career of crushing the starlit wishes of countless dreamers.

For now, you lead them into a small dorm filled with bunkbeds that they'll have to share for the next few years. You leave them there to unpack their suitcases and walk as far away as possible before you're forced to hear the inevitable chatter of excitement about chasing after fleeting aspirations.

During mealtimes, you watch friendships unfold in the dining room: warm pats on the shoulder around a table of food, exchanging stories about themselves to one another. It should be a sight that makes you smile but all you can see is the future, where bonds are torn apart by your hands and only a handful remain at the table, too exhausted from training to even speak. Empty beds and sore throats and regretful hearts.

In the upcoming years, there will be goodbyes. You'll tell some of them that they have talent, passion, and you wish it didn't have to end like this, how you wish it could be different, but—they're going to be sent home. You'll watch them collect their belongings and watch them hold back tears as they walk away from friends and hopes, because what you're really saying to them is: we can't accept you. There are better people. You're not good enough.

As you listen to the present laughter coming from the blissfully unaware boys in the dining room, you think about tomorrow, when the real training will begin. And you can only hope that, someday, they'll be able to forgive you for what you're about to put them through.

.

part five: vocal instructors with no microphone

Singing is not easy. That's always the first lesson you try to convey to all your students. It's not something anyone can do and it's more than learning to autotune your voice into an unrecognizable sound.

There are so many factors that go into producing just a single sound, a little hum with thousands of meanings behind it. Breath control, vibratos, pitch, timbre—singing is an artform that requires the performer to adapt with every new song.

Bangtan has seven members. You make sure to let them know early on that they need to acknowledge each person's voice, their different singing styles, and figure out how to harmonize with each other even if they're not all singing at the same parts. Under your instruction, they learn to let go of anything that could hinder their progress; embarrassment in doing silly vocal exercises is welcome if it means growth in their skills.

You get them to practice over and over again to draw the air out of their lungs, hit that high note, exchange their feelings for lyrics. Give the audience a glimpse of your heart, you tell them, share a piece of your soul. Let the notes come naturally, from a place within you that's screaming to be heard.

Singing provides an alternative for you to expose the secrets that you would otherwise never reveal to anyone. It's storytelling with the moral hidden between verses in a way that communicates with people all over the world.

It's your job to teach these boys to express their voices.

You wonder if, somewhere along the way, you've lost yours.

.

part six: equipment managers on the sidelines

In its empty state, even someone like you can leave behind marks on the smooth surface of the concert hall's stage. You wonder if this is what it feels like to be the first set of footprints on a clean sheet of snow in winter, an indent in creased into a perfectly flat sheet of paper.

Soon, your footprints will be covered up by the tracks of seven others, all with more glamour and dazzle that will undoubtedly outshine yours.

At the control panel off to the side of the stage, you run through a series of tests for the lighting and sound in the room, moving spotlights to follow imaginary figures to the beat of various songs. It will still be hours before the members of Bangtan arrive and within the time provided to you, all equipment must be in their respective places, ready to go for the big performance tonight.

You walk across the stage countless times, fixing up little glitches here and there. You walk across the stage countless times and somehow, it's like you're not standing on the stage at all.

Three hours before the time of the concert, you go through a practice session with Bangtan. Music blasts from the speakers and your crew is busy running around backstage, moving spotlights and adding visual effects when appropriate. Sometime between testing the audio and watching the seven boys refresh their choreography and closing the curtains for a successful trial run, you realize that the idols are glowing. Exhilarated and completely in their element.

Two hours until doors open for the concert, and you can already hear the excited chatter of fans outside the entrance. There are names being mentioned—Rap Monster, Jin, Suga, J-hope, Jimin, V, Jungkook—and that's how good they are at their jobs, you mentally take note. That's how good of a performance they're able to give, so talented that people are willing to arrive hours in advance just to be the first to get inside the room.

One hour before the concert and the reality of it all finally settles in. All the equipment has been prepared and you move to stay on standby at your station.

In the end, the stage you've worked so hard to set up is not yours to stand on.

a/n: none of the people working these jobs get nearly enough recognition in the kpop fandom. forget the idols and fans for a moment, it's those behind the scenes that make it all happen. all those blurred faces in bangtan bombs matter.

(also I'm aware that this is really choppy but it's been sitting in my drafts for too long and I couldn't be bothered to edit it anymore.)