Chapter 5

"Attention!" called the assistant director, "You have five minutes remaining for make-up and styling! Make your final touch-ups and make your way to Set B, please!"

"Gamsahamida!" echoed multiple different voices, including Han's.

"Aigo!" exclaimed Han's make-up artist, frustrated. The woman reached behind her, rummaging in a big, colorful box stacked with tiny bottles, jars, and brushes. "Han Jisung-shi, your eyes are so puffy," she scolded, dabbing a cool, fresh-smelling cream at the crests of his cheeks and under his eyes. "Make sure you cleanse your face thoroughly after you are done filming today, and please try to get more rest!" She sighed and rested her hands on her hips, looking down at him. "I'm a make-up artist, not a magician."

Han smiled weakly at her teasing. He knew she meant well. "Yes, I'll try." he promised, bowing politely. He glanced in the mirror, admiring the artist's work. Even with his insomniatic dark circles, she had done well to make his natural features appear sharp and striking. He leaned close to the glass, pretending to examine his eye line, but secretly he allowed his gaze to wander through the reflection, spreading over the other members all getting prepped and latching lastly on to Minho, who was standing in the distance with the wardrobe team. Two team members seemed to be arguing over him, holding up several different shirts and jackets.

"Look at this," Han could just barely make out the first one say, "It looks like it's swallowing him!"

The other said, "Lee Know-shi, you have lost too much weight since your last fitting. Let's try this other one—"

Han chewed his lip self-consciously. Had Minho lost weight because of him? Because of what happened…? Minho had barely even looked at Han, much less spoken to him, ever since the dance studio. The only thing holding Han together was the fact that their rehearsal and recording schedules had ticked up dramatically approaching this moment, the first day of their music video recording month. Everyone was so busy there were not many opportunities for them to interact directly, and starting today the expectation to work under pressure was going to do anything but decrease. They had to film four music videos in three weeks—a grueling and unforgiving schedule. Every single day they had to be on set early for styling and makeup, run repetition after repetition of their demanding dance routines, return home and rehearse any areas that needed fixing or review, crash into bed, then wake up and do the whole process again the next day. Each new day required new wardrobe, new sets, new staging that they had to adapt to. Every time the director yelled, "Cut!" they had to quickly reset and run the choreography again, trying frantically to not show how winded and tired they were each take. Other than the exhaustive schedule they had to maintain while on tour, everyone agreed filming music videos had to be one of the hardest parts of being a kpop idol.

"Alright Stray Kids," Chan's voice carried over the room, drawing Han away from the mirror to look at their leader. "This is the first video for our comeback," Chan said proudly, "This is where we get to remind everyone what Stray Kids are made of!" Many of the young men—and even some of the makeup and style team—whooped and clapped in agreement. Chan gave them all a wide, admiring smile. "We have practiced hard, so you deserve to make this moment great. Let's do it well! Fighting!"

All the Stray Kids enthusiastically echoed, "Fighting!" and began shuffling their way towards the set. Han kept his eyes cast downward, trying to focus only on the music video. This was his life, his job, his only ambition: to make Stray Kids the best performance group in the industry—maybe even in the world. He had to make every moment count.

Together they stretched and warmed-up, nursing their exhausted muscles. Chan quickly ran them through a few trouble spots in the routine, and then with a polite nod to the director, they began. Being such a successful kpop group already, the expectation level was high for their performance. The fewer times the director called for "Cut!", the better. They tackled the intro section easily and started to wear into the first verse which featured Changbin's rap. Han admired how his friend commanded the space whenever he sang, how clearly and effectively he delivered his lyrics. When the director called a successful wrap on verse one, everyone celebrated Changbin, clapping and patting him on the back.

"Okay," the assistant called, reading over her clipboard. "We'll go ahead and jump to Verse two, now. We'll save the chorus section for after lunch when you boys are fresh and recharged," she called. Han took a breath, bracing himself against his nerves. This would be his feature.

"Alright," Chan nodded, gesturing for the group to follow his lead. "Set up for verse two!"

Each of the men took their positions starting from what would have been the end of the chorus. Han's steps were difficult for this track—it required him to do a high jump right over Seungmin's crouched body, after which the unison choreography was written to directly match his rhythmic delivery. The tricky part was landing his jump just right to stay in tempo with the music and deliver his down beat clearly.

Han took his place at the back of the group, while the camera operator brought the lens into close focus. "On mark—!" the director called, "Cue action!"

Han stepped forward, delivering into the camera lens, trying to sing to his own reflection as if it was another person. The bodies of the other members moved around him in perfect synchronicity, and at just the right moment he watched Seungmin drop down into a crouch. Now!

"Cut!"

Shit.

"Who is the rapper here for verse two?" the director called, looking down at his review screen, rewatching the last take.

Han raised his hand. "Han Jisung, sir."

The director looked up from his screen. "Ah… okay. Han, let's try that again. We need more aggression from you on the entrance."

"Yes, sir!" Han said, jogging back to his opening position. The other members reset their marks as well.

"On mark—! Cue Action!"

This time Han spit his lyrics as aggressively as he could, leaning right into the lens as it pulled away from him, drawing him forward. Again, the jump was near, he watched Seungmin crouch, and he leapt—

"Cut!"

Han let out a frustrated groan, feeling ashamed for wasting his teammates energy. He could feel their eyes burning into the back of him. "Not bad, not bad, but Han—" the director clicked on the screen, scrubbing forward and backward on the video clip. "The jump looks messy. You can't break eye contact when you go for it, understand? We want to follow your eye line through the shot."

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. Let's reset. On mark! And—cue action!"

He made the jump but missed the down beat.

"Cut!" "On mark!" "Action!"

He got tongue tied in his lyrics.

"Cut!" "On mark." "Action!"

He landed hard on his ankle, nearly rolling it.

"Cut!"

"On Mark!"

"Cut!"

"Cue action!"

"Cut, cut, cut!"

"Reset!"

"Cut!"

"Let's run that again—"

By their tenth reset, the team was exhausted, panting, and dragging. Han was so angry with himself he wanted to scream, but the more upset he became, the worse he performed. Finally, after so many run-throughs and resets, the assistant finally raised her hand.

"Sir, we need to stop," she said quietly to the director. "They're going to sweat through their make-up. They look sloppy."

The director sighed, clearly displeased. He gave a dismissive wave, and the assistant turned to address the group. "Alright gentleman, that last take wasn't bad but it's not clean. Take ten minutes, cool down, visit the styling team to have your looks touched up, and be back ready to hit this. We don't want to delay filming this after lunch or it will put everything else behind schedule."

The Stray Kids members each bowed, thanking the directors and film team. Han caught Chan looking at him with an expression resembling a mix of both annoyance and worry. He knew Chan was frustrated with him. They all had to be. After such a smooth run through of Changbin's verse that morning, his feature was dissolving rapidly into an utter mess. He was usually such a confident performer, but something about this shoot had him unusually anxious.

Feeling the panic creeping through his limbs, Han walked off the set, desperate to find a quiet place to calm down. He ducked into a random hallway that was unoccupied and sat against the wall, hanging his head in his hands. His leg was bouncing uncontrollably, unable to contain the nervous energy coursing inside him like fire.

Calm down, he commanded himself. Just breathe. He ran over the lyrics and movements in his mind, picking apart every syllable, every beat. He squeezed his head in his hands, hoping the pressure would somehow keep his thoughts in order. His leg kept bouncing.

Just focus! You can't let down the team!

"Hey—"

Han looked up, blinking into the awful florescent lighting as his eyes came into focus.

It was Minho.

Han stared at him for a moment before dropping his head again. He did not know what to say. Minho was the last person he expected to come looking for him, and still even days later he did not know how to talk to Minho after what had happened. He still felt stunned. Shocked. Guilty. He still could not process what had happened between them, and now on top of it he could not focus on the goddamn task at hand. What was wrong with him?

"Hey," Minho said again, shuffling over to stand over Han. He kicked Han's shoe gently. "Come on, get up."

Han did not respond. He sat still squeezing his head with his hands, his leg still bouncing. Minho kicked his shoe again.

"Jisung-ah," he said more forcefully. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and stand up!"

Hot anger suddenly pooled in the pit of Han's stomach. Sorry for himself? He wasn't feeling sorry for himself! He felt sorry for the team, maybe, but he did not need reminding of his inadequacies. He pushed himself off the floor, fists clenched.

"Good," Minho nodded, gazing at him. "Now say your lines."

Han raked over Minho's appearance. Now that he was up close, he could see the wardrobe team was right. Minho looked paler and more sinewy than before. His collarbone stood out prominently above the deep open 'V' of his shirt. But—even thinned down as he was, he was still beautiful. His sharp jawline had been contoured perfectly, and the style team had given him a dark, stunning eye look. Han's anger started to fizzle down as he looked at Minho, and instead it was replaced by a deep, aching regret.

"Say your lines, Jisung-ah." Minho commanded.

Han swallowed. He could tell what Minho was trying to do. It was what Minho always did when someone on the team was struggling. He was always there to pick them back up. With his eyes lowered, Han ran through his lyrics half-heartedly. He didn't make any mistakes through it, but it was slow.

"Do it again. Louder."

Han took a deeper breath and cleared his throat. He spoke through the rap louder this time and more up to tempo.

"Again."

Han ran the lyrics again, settling into his rhythm more comfortably, the way he had practiced it at the studio.

"Again!"

This time Han looked directly at Minho, spitting out his frustration and anger at himself into the lyrics as he said each word. Minho's face was blank, but he nodded approvingly.

"Show me the moves—Set, and five, six, seven, eight—"

Han walked through his choreography, including his jump over an invisible Seungmin, finishing the section without a major error.

"Now again, while you sing."

As Han started again, Minho performed the movements with Han in unison, carefully measuring his footfalls and angles. This time, he had feedback.

"Here, when you land," he demonstrated, "You need to turn your hips inward more to control your balance. And check your heel placement here. It needs to look sharp." He performed the move once, for Han to observe. "Now, try again."

Han began again, going through the motions until just after the jump, where Minho stopped him. "There! See! Look at your alignment."

Without warning, Minho reached forward as if to help guide where Han's body should be, but at the last moment he recoiled. Han saw the discomfort in his face. He was scared to touch him.

"You need to turn your hips and torso more," Minho said warily. He pointed out the direction he was indicating. Han felt embarrassed and sorry for him. He could not imagine how scared Minho must have felt to reveal his secret. What would happen if Han had reacted poorly? If he had lashed out in disgust and alarm? What would happen to Stray Kids if Han exposed him…?

He wished he could tell Minho that he was not mad at him. He wanted to tell him that he was not repulsed by him. More than anything, though, Han wished he could tell Minho that he was sorry. He was sorry that he did not realize Minho's feelings... sorry that he must have made his life so much more difficult by playing along and flirting, not ever realizing what it meant for Minho. He wanted to apologize for ever causing him pain.

But he could not do that now. They were on set and had too few minutes and too many witnesses. Finally absorbing Minho's instructions, Han obediently tilted his body inward. "Like this?" he asked.

Minho grimaced. "Don't just move your shoulders—"

Han twisted his hips inward as well. It felt unnatural.

"No, no, that's too far—"

"Here?"

"No—it's more like—"

Han rubbed his face in exasperation. They were running out of time.

"Ugh, just show me, Linoring."

Minho's face softened at hearing Han's nickname for him. Leaning down cautiously, he reached his hand out again. "Is it okay if I…?"

"Yes." Han groaned, anxious that they would get called back to set and he still wouldn't know what to do. Finally, having received consent, Minho grasped Han's hips on either side and tilted them. Han did not expect to react as strongly as he did. Nervous flutters tickled his insides, and his chest felt instantly too warm. Minho's hands were gone just as quickly as they came, leaving Han feeling strangely empty. It was like he was momentarily wrapped up in a cozy blanket, and then someone had come along and ripped it off of him without warning. Minho did not seem to notice, as he was instead now leaning down to examine Han's ankle. Han gazed at the back of Minho's head in front of him. He could smell the clean, woody scent of his cologne. The flutters moved from his stomach to his head, making him feel dizzy. He almost felt like he was shaking himself out of a drunken haze when Minho stepped back and spoke to him again.

"There, see how that feels?" Minho mirrored the positioning to demonstrate the movement difference. "If you land with your hips and torso here, then you can easily shift your bodyweight into the next move here."

Han followed his motions mechanically, but internally he still felt fuzzy. Minho, however, stayed very professional. "Okay – that looks good. Do it again." Han obeyed.

"Again."

"And again."

"Good, one more time."

With each repetition, Han felt the haze fading away into a cool, steely clarity. He repeated the section one final time while Minho observed. As he finished, Minho gave him a proud grin. "Flawless," he said, clapping, "Good job, Hannie."

Han smiled back, and once again he felt heat rising his chest and neck. What is going on?

"Hey—!" The door to the hall swung open. Chan's head popped through, his expression concerned. His eyes swept from Minho to Han and then back to Minho. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, Channie, it's good." Minho glanced nervously from Han to Chan. "Just reviewing the moves a bit."

"Good," Chan said curtly, "Because we're wanted back on set." He gave a curious look to Han. "You ready?"

Han looked quickly back at Minho, who gave him a small smile. "Yeah," Han said. "I'm ready."

"Great. Let's go."

As Chan disappeared back through the door, Minho sidled up next to Han, hands in his pockets. "You can do this," he said quietly, bumping Han's arm lightly with his elbow. "Go off out there. I know you can."

He walked out the door following Chan, leaving Han alone in the hallway. Somehow, Han felt like he had been buzzed with a bolt of electricity. Every goosebump and every hair felt charged and stinging. His dull anxiety was now warming into sharp adrenaline. Yes, he thought, I can do this.