[FIC] hiding monsters in closets
TITLE hiding monsters in closets
FANDOM block b
PAIRING kyung, kyung/zico
SUMMARY park kyung is nonexistent
WORDS 1532
RATING r
You never really made a name for yourself.
Not here, not in the States, and not in New Zealand. All that exists is Woo Jiho, the fucking prodigy of Korean hip-hop, and his right-hand man. Do they know your name? Do they remember what you look like with your baggy clothes and awful haircut? Probably not; his shadow engulfs you until there is nothing left.
You say It's Holke's turn now, make diss tapes in your own bedroom with the tiny microphone set you bought with saved allowance and part-time paychecks, and lock the door to your room and muffle the sound because your parents think you're studying. You told them to get the fuck out of the Korean hip-hop scene like you owned it, and maybe at the time you thought you actually did.
There has never been a Park Kyung; even Holke was a lie you created just to humor yourself at the time. All that ever mattered was Jiho-Nacseo or Zico, a multifacted person with more talent in a hangnail than in your entire being. See, though, Jiho wanted this-so fucking badly, and maybe he deserved and earned that spot at the top. Most looked forward to under Cho PD's group of misfits, all talented to some degree, but when word spread it was Jiho's name off their tongues and lips.
What did you want? The names and numbers of girls you could only dream about fucking, and the right to something all your own. Something so great that even your father (who cried when he found you mixing music) would be proud of. You dropped your studies to pursue this path; it had to have meant something to you.
Type hey, man in the messenger dialogue box, click send in response, and wait for Jiho to reply. Say congrats on the contract when he tells you he was sought even in Japan; when he tells you Cho PD-the father of Korean hip-hop-wanted him; when he messages you to say he's going back to Korea.
Ask him a week later for a favor. Hear him laugh over the phone. This is costing too much money and cell-minutes for you both, but it's been a while since you've actually heard him speak. He sounds different than the elementary school kid you remember being too cool even then. He's been hundred steps ahead of you before you were even walking.
Fly back to Korea from New Zealand; you hated the barrier and the culture whiplash. You wanted to be home, didn't you; just so fucking much that you would have sold your soul to the devil just to be on familiar ground again. Be cast into a group of trainees (all ugly as fuck, you remember thinking; Hanhae-hyung, you ugly-ass motherfucker) and be told you'll have to work hard for what you want.
Watch the trainees come and go. You stay, and the feeling of relief never leaves from where it rests in your joints.
There are five of you: Jiho, Hanhae-hyung, the magnae Minho (or Mino, Jiho would say fondly), you, and this bright-eyed boy who listens to only pop music on his ipod but dances well. You like to swing an around his shoulder, tease him about his awful taste in music, and introduce him to the music you've been playing underground with Jiho for some time now.
Call home to see how your family is doing. Training is harder, and Cho PD-hyung wants you to write music with Jiho. You have some raw talent, kid, he says in the voice you can never take seriously. You recognize the sincerity, though, and keep it tucked to your heart. Jiho sometimes looks at you when you're in the recording studio together, holds his hand on the boniest part of your knee, and tells you in the quiet, I'm glad you're here, Kyungie.
Tell yourself this means nothing, even when Jiho kisses you one night after a session. Your teeth knock together, and it hurts like a bitch when he bites your top lip. It's not romantic, this is Jiho, and you can't help yourself.
I learned this, he says, in Japan, and it takes some time for your heart to stop ringing in your ears to make out the words.
You don't know what to say then, but you don't want to lose the heat of his hands palming your face, neck, and your dick through your jeans either. You return the favor with awkward fervor, inexperience clear as day on your face and in the tension of your fingers, but Jiho only encourages you. He kisses you again later, when you're ready to pass out on the office's couch, and you're too tired to really pay attention when Yukwon stumbles in and then excuses himself seconds after.
Jiho doesn't bring it up again, and you go to the studio when he's not there now.
Block B they call you, and Minho and Hanhae-hyung have been replaced. Jihoon is the new magnae, and his voice is lower than your father's when he speaks. He has potential, and even though Jiho held Minho close to his heart, he has a special affection reserved for Jihoon alone.
Jaehyo-hyung comes soon after, and whatever confidence you had in being the best looking member in the group washes itself away.
Sure, you're great for entertainment and variety, but the camera doesn't love you-not like it loves Pyo Jihoon. Your head shape too long and frame size too small for you to be the face of Block B, and you know who all the girls go doe-eyed over. It's not you, even when you keep telling yourself that you are the visual. Ahn Jaehyo, fresh-faced and bleary-eyed, could still melt a million hearts, and you're just barely igniting a fire within a girl's fantasy.
Jaehyo-hyung you hate, and you're not certain as to why. Jiho likes him, and you both hang with the same crowd. Jiho confides in Jaehyo-hyung now, and you write songs with Jihoon that might feature in a showcase one day. There is nothing ground-breaking, and Cho PD-hyung thinks you might be taxing your creativity. Jiho continues to spit raps at lightning speed, and more and more flak follows Block B even after the debut.
Set your cap low, even lower on your head than Minhyuk-hyung wears his, and mess around with the soundboard. All that comes out are rehashed beats Jiho could spin into gold with a flick of his wrist. Turn to playback, hear your own voice crack through the headphones, and convince yourself that this part was better suited for Taeil-hyung anyway.
You're not useless, Minhyuk-hyung says in a stagnant type of silence where the other party tries to keep quiet the longest. Minhyuk-hyung looks angry, but this could be the placement of his lips or a trick of lights. Stop comparing yourself to him.
It's not that easy, you say, but then after you storm away you remember that Minhyuk-hyung probably understands you better than anyone. Minhyuk-hyung, an add-on to the team, who dances well but isn't the smile representative or dance machine like Kim Yukwon is.
The part you couldn't sing is given to Jaehyo-hyung, a decision made by Jiho. You want to feel shafted, but you're more drained than anything else. You take a smaller rap in the song, following Jiho's and before Jihoon's; it's not a memorable part in the placement, not when sidled between them both. Jonghwan-hyung suggests a night off to do whatever the hell it is you want.
So sit by the Han River, get drunk off your ass, and think of all the girls you promised yourself you'd forget. With every drink you take from the bottle, loosen your footing on the bank, and make split-second decisions about what-ifs and could-have-beens. If you fell in now, what would the rest of the world do in turn? Humor yourself with thoughts of tears and tributes; wash the thoughts away with another swig from the bottle; tell yourself that you still have something left to prove.
Stand up and walk back to the studio where the lights in one office are still on. Make a list of things to tell Jiho when you see him, and shout at him until you're hoarse and can shout no longer. Forget everything you had to say when you find him slumped, sound-asleep, in the swivel chair. Help him up, though you're the drunk one and you're swaying on your feet even then, and walk with him back to the dorm.
You're more trouble than you're worth, you say to him, and his head bobs almost in agreement. You shift the weight of his body again, and his feet drag on the ground with every step.
Your head is pounding and all you want to do is drop him on his ass when he says, very seriously, Thank you for being here, Kyungie.
You stand up straighter, then, and tell yourself that this man is your savior and friend and enemy and everything you need to make it. Tell yourself that you still have something left to prove.
It's Park Kyung's turn now.
for e. I love you like I love Kyung. a love I can't put into words.
a quickwrite. all nothing more than pieces, thoughts, and words. excuse tense-shifts. these are my own feelings, raw and uncensored; I want to keep them this way.
FANDOM block b
PAIRING kyung, kyung/zico
SUMMARY park kyung is nonexistent
WORDS 1532
RATING r
You never really made a name for yourself.
Not here, not in the States, and not in New Zealand. All that exists is Woo Jiho, the fucking prodigy of Korean hip-hop, and his right-hand man. Do they know your name? Do they remember what you look like with your baggy clothes and awful haircut? Probably not; his shadow engulfs you until there is nothing left.
You say It's Holke's turn now, make diss tapes in your own bedroom with the tiny microphone set you bought with saved allowance and part-time paychecks, and lock the door to your room and muffle the sound because your parents think you're studying. You told them to get the fuck out of the Korean hip-hop scene like you owned it, and maybe at the time you thought you actually did.
There has never been a Park Kyung; even Holke was a lie you created just to humor yourself at the time. All that ever mattered was Jiho-Nacseo or Zico, a multifacted person with more talent in a hangnail than in your entire being. See, though, Jiho wanted this-so fucking badly, and maybe he deserved and earned that spot at the top. Most looked forward to under Cho PD's group of misfits, all talented to some degree, but when word spread it was Jiho's name off their tongues and lips.
What did you want? The names and numbers of girls you could only dream about fucking, and the right to something all your own. Something so great that even your father (who cried when he found you mixing music) would be proud of. You dropped your studies to pursue this path; it had to have meant something to you.
Type hey, man in the messenger dialogue box, click send in response, and wait for Jiho to reply. Say congrats on the contract when he tells you he was sought even in Japan; when he tells you Cho PD-the father of Korean hip-hop-wanted him; when he messages you to say he's going back to Korea.
Ask him a week later for a favor. Hear him laugh over the phone. This is costing too much money and cell-minutes for you both, but it's been a while since you've actually heard him speak. He sounds different than the elementary school kid you remember being too cool even then. He's been hundred steps ahead of you before you were even walking.
Fly back to Korea from New Zealand; you hated the barrier and the culture whiplash. You wanted to be home, didn't you; just so fucking much that you would have sold your soul to the devil just to be on familiar ground again. Be cast into a group of trainees (all ugly as fuck, you remember thinking; Hanhae-hyung, you ugly-ass motherfucker) and be told you'll have to work hard for what you want.
Watch the trainees come and go. You stay, and the feeling of relief never leaves from where it rests in your joints.
There are five of you: Jiho, Hanhae-hyung, the magnae Minho (or Mino, Jiho would say fondly), you, and this bright-eyed boy who listens to only pop music on his ipod but dances well. You like to swing an around his shoulder, tease him about his awful taste in music, and introduce him to the music you've been playing underground with Jiho for some time now.
Call home to see how your family is doing. Training is harder, and Cho PD-hyung wants you to write music with Jiho. You have some raw talent, kid, he says in the voice you can never take seriously. You recognize the sincerity, though, and keep it tucked to your heart. Jiho sometimes looks at you when you're in the recording studio together, holds his hand on the boniest part of your knee, and tells you in the quiet, I'm glad you're here, Kyungie.
Tell yourself this means nothing, even when Jiho kisses you one night after a session. Your teeth knock together, and it hurts like a bitch when he bites your top lip. It's not romantic, this is Jiho, and you can't help yourself.
I learned this, he says, in Japan, and it takes some time for your heart to stop ringing in your ears to make out the words.
You don't know what to say then, but you don't want to lose the heat of his hands palming your face, neck, and your dick through your jeans either. You return the favor with awkward fervor, inexperience clear as day on your face and in the tension of your fingers, but Jiho only encourages you. He kisses you again later, when you're ready to pass out on the office's couch, and you're too tired to really pay attention when Yukwon stumbles in and then excuses himself seconds after.
Jiho doesn't bring it up again, and you go to the studio when he's not there now.
Block B they call you, and Minho and Hanhae-hyung have been replaced. Jihoon is the new magnae, and his voice is lower than your father's when he speaks. He has potential, and even though Jiho held Minho close to his heart, he has a special affection reserved for Jihoon alone.
Jaehyo-hyung comes soon after, and whatever confidence you had in being the best looking member in the group washes itself away.
Sure, you're great for entertainment and variety, but the camera doesn't love you-not like it loves Pyo Jihoon. Your head shape too long and frame size too small for you to be the face of Block B, and you know who all the girls go doe-eyed over. It's not you, even when you keep telling yourself that you are the visual. Ahn Jaehyo, fresh-faced and bleary-eyed, could still melt a million hearts, and you're just barely igniting a fire within a girl's fantasy.
Jaehyo-hyung you hate, and you're not certain as to why. Jiho likes him, and you both hang with the same crowd. Jiho confides in Jaehyo-hyung now, and you write songs with Jihoon that might feature in a showcase one day. There is nothing ground-breaking, and Cho PD-hyung thinks you might be taxing your creativity. Jiho continues to spit raps at lightning speed, and more and more flak follows Block B even after the debut.
Set your cap low, even lower on your head than Minhyuk-hyung wears his, and mess around with the soundboard. All that comes out are rehashed beats Jiho could spin into gold with a flick of his wrist. Turn to playback, hear your own voice crack through the headphones, and convince yourself that this part was better suited for Taeil-hyung anyway.
You're not useless, Minhyuk-hyung says in a stagnant type of silence where the other party tries to keep quiet the longest. Minhyuk-hyung looks angry, but this could be the placement of his lips or a trick of lights. Stop comparing yourself to him.
It's not that easy, you say, but then after you storm away you remember that Minhyuk-hyung probably understands you better than anyone. Minhyuk-hyung, an add-on to the team, who dances well but isn't the smile representative or dance machine like Kim Yukwon is.
The part you couldn't sing is given to Jaehyo-hyung, a decision made by Jiho. You want to feel shafted, but you're more drained than anything else. You take a smaller rap in the song, following Jiho's and before Jihoon's; it's not a memorable part in the placement, not when sidled between them both. Jonghwan-hyung suggests a night off to do whatever the hell it is you want.
So sit by the Han River, get drunk off your ass, and think of all the girls you promised yourself you'd forget. With every drink you take from the bottle, loosen your footing on the bank, and make split-second decisions about what-ifs and could-have-beens. If you fell in now, what would the rest of the world do in turn? Humor yourself with thoughts of tears and tributes; wash the thoughts away with another swig from the bottle; tell yourself that you still have something left to prove.
Stand up and walk back to the studio where the lights in one office are still on. Make a list of things to tell Jiho when you see him, and shout at him until you're hoarse and can shout no longer. Forget everything you had to say when you find him slumped, sound-asleep, in the swivel chair. Help him up, though you're the drunk one and you're swaying on your feet even then, and walk with him back to the dorm.
You're more trouble than you're worth, you say to him, and his head bobs almost in agreement. You shift the weight of his body again, and his feet drag on the ground with every step.
Your head is pounding and all you want to do is drop him on his ass when he says, very seriously, Thank you for being here, Kyungie.
You stand up straighter, then, and tell yourself that this man is your savior and friend and enemy and everything you need to make it. Tell yourself that you still have something left to prove.
It's Park Kyung's turn now.
for e. I love you like I love Kyung. a love I can't put into words.
a quickwrite. all nothing more than pieces, thoughts, and words. excuse tense-shifts. these are my own feelings, raw and uncensored; I want to keep them this way.