Chapter Text
╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮
◺ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ◿
╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯
Shit.
Time was racing. Wooyoung couldn’t move fast enough. His converse, black with loose laces, were shoved onto his feet with haste, his hands fluttering to smooth out the ends of his ripped jeans, trying to tuck stray blonde hairs behind his ear as other strands of ebony peeked into view. He was crouched, one knee pressed against the hardwood floor, his camera bag slung over his shoulder, just barely hanging on as he hastily tried to lace his shoes.
He was fifteen minutes late. Not on purpose, but by sheer, wicked accident. He could already hear the laughing coming from the nearby kitchen, a muffled sound against the rim of a ceramic mug of coffee. Yeosang. His best friend of over a decade, finding everything so hilarious, simply because he wasn’t the one dealing with this situation.
“Woonie,” he says softly. “You’re seriously red. Your ears–”
“Shut up!” Wooyoung groans, brushing a hand through his hair. The locks of blonde and black fell down seamlessly, curling against the edges of his jaw, caressing his skin, messily hanging in a fashion that Wooyoung always seemed to wear. “This is the first time I’ve ever gotten this opportunity, and I’m seriously struggling to even get there!”
“I know, I know. I’ll drive you, you moron. Just calm down. They’ll understand rush hour–”
“It’s not even rush hour! It’s, what? Nine in the morning on a Tuesday?!”
“Alright, alright. Grab your shit, and let’s go. I’ll save my teasing for after you nail this interview.”
“God, I doubt they’re going to hire me now. Everything that could’ve gone wrong, went fucking wrong–” Wooyoung huffs, slowly standing up, adjusting the strap of his camera bag. He taps his pockets, assuring that his phone and wallet were somewhere within his items, glancing at Yeosang, who still wore a smug smirk. He was wearing a cream sweater, the un-styled, yet messy waves of his worn-out perm wove against his skin casually, somehow matching the aesthetic of his outfit without even trying.
“Shit–” Wooyoung curses, tapping his pockets again. “My glasses–”
“Right here,” Yeosang says with a breath, holding the frames delicately. “On the counter, where you left them as you rushed in here like a mad man.”
“My alarm didn’t go off, then I nearly fell in the shower, and my pills spilled all over the fucking floor–” Wooyoung sighs, taking his glasses from Yeosang, unfolding them before carefully sliding them into place. “Thank you. Can we go. . . please?”
“Wow? Saying please now, are we?”
“Save me the teasing, and let’s go,” Wooyoung groans, gesturing towards the front door, watching as Yeosang rolls his eyes, but grabs his car keys anyways.
“Fine, fine. Let’s go, Youngie.”
With that, Yeosang strides out of the apartment, Wooyoung following, closing and locking the door behind them as they leave. The hall echoed with their footsteps, bouncing off vacant walls and mysterious looking posters near the staircase, leaving the thoughts within Wooyoung’s subconscious to somehow find their way to the forefront.
EKKO Studios, a flashy, well-known photography studio in Seoul, was at the heart of Wooyoung’s ever present thoughts. They captured everything. From championship sports games, to elections, to holiday celebrations, to events within the streets, all the way down to celebrity appearances for new movies or dramas alike. Wooyoung had always wanted to work for EKKO Studios, as his dream began as a younger boy, taking polaroid photos candidly of his parents.
Now, without his parents in his life any longer, Wooyoung sought to fulfill that dream, to make his parents proud that he’d still managed to reach the goal he’d set for himself all those years ago. The trek through college wasn’t an easy one, as he had done it nearly completely alone. With good grades, good appearances, and a flawless attendance, he somehow managed to get himself through college without the slightest ounce of a tuition payment, using scholarships to float his way to a degree in Fine Arts. He majored in photography, of course, but to appease the wishes of his mother, he minored in painting, only for her to never see him graduate.
But, that was a story for another time.
Yeosang’s car was at the farthest parking spot within the underground lot, making Wooyoung’s heart race even more. He was now twenty minutes late, to make matters worse. He knew he’d barely have a chance now, as lateness was the last thing an employer would ever seek to hire within anyone. But, he’d just have to hope that his good marks, his previous photography awards, and samples of his work, would speak for themselves. This morning, well, it just wasn’t his morning. And that happened to everyone, right?
Yeosang started the car with a firm twist of the key in the ignition, putting his car in reverse and checking his mirrors before carefully pressing on the gas. Wooyoung took a deep breath, leaning back against the headrest, trying to count the seconds as slowly as he could, almost as if he could slow time down himself. He knew he couldn’t, but it was the thought that counted.
“Relax,” Yeosang mutters, the light casting inwards as the car begins to exit the parking garage. “It’s not like they’re going to dismiss you simply for being late. Just tell them that traffic was bad, or that your car wouldn’t start.”
“I don’t have a car–”
“You know you can always borrow mine.”
“I don’t want to leech off of you, Yeosang,” Wooyoung mutters, rolling his eyes. His camera bag sat on the floor, just between his feet, the folder of his photographs next to it. “I’ve been trying to make wages to give you something for rent. It’s not fair of me to just. . . live for free. I’m almost twenty-five.”
“And?” Yeosang says. “We just graduated from college. This is your first big-world, adult-type job. I don’t expect you to nail everything the first chance you get. The real world fucking sucks, and if I expected you to pay half of the rent, what kind of friend would I be?”
“A realistic one.”
“Funny,” Yeosang mutters, turning the car down another street, the engine rumbling smoothly. “I got offered my job before college was even over, Wooyoung. My job pays well. Way more than well. I can afford how we’re living, and it’s no big deal to me.”
“Yeah, well. . . I feel like I’m a hobbit. I’m mooching off of you, basically living like Harry Potter, under your staircase–”
“You have a bed, and a whole ass bedroom, you buffoon. You’re not Mr. Potter, the last I checked. You help me clean, and sometimes, you order us take out. You take care of my cat while I’m gone with Jongho, and–” Yeosang pauses, turning to glance at Wooyoung. “You help style me. You make sure I don’t look like a bumbling mess around my boyfriend.”
“Jongho could care less about how you dress, and you know it. He’s been weak for you since high school.”
“That may be the case,” Yeosang quips, raising one hand, then one finger. “He’s still a man with interests, one of those things being baggy sweaters and jeans.”
“So. . . do I get a cookie or something for helping you to figure that out, or?”
“Woo,” Yeosang laughs, both hands resting on the steering wheel now. “Point is, you help me out enough. I don’t need anything in return. You’re perfect as you are.”
Wooyoung turns his head, glancing at him. He was smiling, glancing at Wooyoung too, his eyes shifting to glance out of his windshield just then, the car slowing down.
“We’re here. Be easy on yourself. Don’t fumble your words, and just. . . show them who Jung Wooyoung is.”
Wooyoung nods, glancing down, fingers brushing against the holes in his jeans.
“But, what if I don’t know who I am?”
“You know who you are,” Yeosang says softly. “You’re strong. Resilient. The perfect replica of your mother. The spitting image of your father. And, one of the most talented photographers I’ve ever come to know.”
“You don’t know any other photographers–” Wooyoung says with a drawl, but Yeosang laughs, softly punching his shoulder.
“And I don’t want to.” Yeosang leans back, placing the car into park, not letting off of the brake pedal, though. “I’ll be around. Let me know when you’re done.”
“Okay,” Wooyoung says, the faintest smile crossing his lips.
“Knock ‘em dead, kid. I know you will.”
With that, Wooyoung gets out of the car, slinging his bag over his shoulder, shoving the folder between his arm and his side, offering Yeosang a soft wave before he drives off into traffic. Wooyoung takes a deep breath, turning to look at the tall, encompassing building laid just behind him.
The windows were freshly polished, the bricks clean, shimmering in the sun, the metallic gold logo a stark contrast against the modern, yet dark, aesthetics of the building.
EKKO Studios was the epitome of stardom in the photography world, and all Wooyoung could imagine was working for them, even as an assistant of sorts. He’d take anything. Anything at all, even if it merely got him within their lavish doors. Maybe today was the beginning of that.
With quick steps, Wooyoung steps up the few stairs that were in front of the main doors, clutching his bag close, adjusting his glasses, watching the way the light shifted from pure sunlight to subtle, white LEDs, towering over him with large ceilings and black-splattered canvas paintings. Rugs laid near a row of seating that sat before the main desk, two televisions flashing images from recent magazines and press releases, all from iconic photographers that Wooyoung had known, or heard murmurings of, for years.
Slowly, he walks forwards, feeling the gaze of passing employees as they assess everything about him. The converse, the dirty laces, the ripped jeans, the glasses that he’s had assumably for the last ten years. But, Wooyoung kept his gaze forward, watching the way the woman behind the desk shifted her gaze from her computer monitor and towards him, assuming, more than likely, about why he had dared to walk foot into a studio such as this.
“May I help you?” She asks, almost sing-song, too nice, too fake.
“Jung Wooyoung,” he replies. “I have an interview with Mrs. Song.”
She glances down, taking a moment to read over some notes before she smiles, then nods. “Of course. I’ll take you to her office.”
Wooyoung smiles back, polite and quiet, following the woman as she walks out from behind the desk. She was dressed in polished clothes, her makeup clean and neat, her hair pinned up tidily, almost as if she had been the portrait child for this entire company. Wooyoung takes a breath inwards, tapping nervously on the strap of his camera bag, allowing the sound of the woman’s heels to somehow drown out his own thoughts.
They didn’t deny him access, which was a start, but he had no idea where any of this was leading.
“Alright,” the woman says, gesturing towards the approaching elevators. “You’ll enter from here. She’s expecting you, so just step inside, and hit the number ten. That’s the top floor, and her assistant will personally escort you to her doors.”
Wooyoung nods, offering another smile. “Thank you.”
The woman walks away, but Wooyoung can’t help but feel her eyes on his back as he presses the call button, the slightest tremble staking root into his hands. He didn’t know what Mrs. Song would be like, but he’d heard rumors. She was striking. Intimidating. The kind of woman that never had to ask for answers, and somehow pulled the rarest sliver of cander from the most secretive souls. Apparently, she had taken photos at the Olympics, years and years ago, invited by the hosts themselves. It was a high honor, especially with a hand-written invitation, something that Wooyoung could only visualize and never truly expect.
The elevator’s chime brought his attention back to the forefront, his steps leading him inside the marbled elevator, hand reaching for the number ten. His finger presses the button inwards, watching the LEDs just behind it glow subtly, the doors closing with another soft chime.
For a moment, Wooyoung forgot about the whole morning. His shaky hands, his pills scattered all over the floor, the way his irritation nearly reached a boiling point when he could barely find his other converse. But, he takes a moment, brushes his hair back, adjusts his necklace, fiddles with his ring, and before he knows it, the elevator chimes once more. The doors open, revealing a long, lavish hall, and a woman waiting nearby with an iPad in her arm.
“Jung Wooyoung?” She asks, almost prepared to tap something on her iPad.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Wooyoung steps out of the elevator, welcomed by the woman’s warm smile. She turns on her heel, leading Wooyoung towards the grand entrance of Mrs. Song’s polished office space. The walls were darker-toned up here, accents of gold and marble stark against the dark tile and rugs, making it clear that Mrs. Song loved to share her wealth, rather gloat about it, seeking lavish living quarters than something more simple.
The assistant pulls open one of the large, opaque glass doors, standing aside, gesturing inwards. Wooyoung steps inside, clutching his camera bag still, the folder tucked beneath his arms. There stood Mrs. Song, looking effortless in her well-fitted black dress, jewelry an obvious statement piece against her collarbones and fingers, her hair straightened, eyes watching Wooyoung’s every move.
“Jung Wooyoung,” she greets, rounding her desk, a folder in her right hand. “It’s a pleasure. I heard you were a top graduate last month.”
Wooyoung nods, affirming her statement. “Pleasure’s mine. Apologies for being late, it’s been quite the morning for me. I’m just thankful you’re still taking the time to speak to me.”
“Of course. There’s lots to discuss,” she says, a little more polite than Wooyoung expected her to be. She turns slightly, gesturing to the squared black chairs that sat just ahead of her desk. “Please, sit.”
Wooyoung untucks the folder, carefully setting his camera bag down on the floor ahead of his feet as he settles into the chair, watching as Mrs. Song takes her seat at her desk, the leather of her chair shifting slightly as she sits.
“I see you’ve brought some of your work with you?” She asks, almost expectant.
“Yes, I did,” Wooyoung says, steadying his hand before handing over the folder, laden with years of his best work. Silhouettes, landscape, portraits, nature candids; all of it.
Mrs. Song opens the folder, lowering it to her desk as she pulls out the photos on the left side. They weren’t small images, a relative size, big enough to see the clarity, to see the pixels without having to wonder if they were bad quality or simply just blurry. Wooyoung had been proud of every single one of these pictures, earning marks for each and every one within every class he took in college. Mrs. Song, however, wore no expressions on her face as she shifted through the photos, scanning each one.
“Have you ever done something. . . less candid? In the heat of the moment, action-packed, telling a story without the need for a narrative?”
Wooyoung pauses, then he gestures to the side of the folder she hadn’t sifted through yet. “I attended a college soccer match before I graduated, and I took photographs for the team’s senior photos during one of the last home matches.”
She looks up, then she nods, setting the photos down without another word before reaching for the others. She continues to shift through the next stack, the faintest flicker of something passing by her gaze as she lingers on one photo in specific. Wooyoung swallows quietly, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans before Mrs. Song speaks again, glancing up with a blank expression, yet again.
“Listen, Wooyoung,” she sighs, setting the photos carefully back into their designated slots. “These photographs, they’re stellar. I can understand why you received the marks that you had gotten. The resume I was forwarded was excellent, but–” Wooyoung’s heart drops. “I don’t know if we’re the fit for you.”
Wooyoung’s jaw grows slack, everything in his stomach crumbling into a pit that continues to fall, and fall and fall.
“We receive a lot of job offers. Affluent, VIP experiences that I don’t think would cater to you. Appearances are everything, and in what we do, we provide high-quality images without the need for much editing, perfect lighting, and without the factor of embarrassment. That watermark we stamp on every photo is a statement piece, something that automatically sells for over a few thousand won alone.”
“I guess I don’t understand,” Wooyoung mutters, his brows furrowing.
“Look,” she begins again, rising from her seat. “Our aesthetic, everything we stand for that I’ve built from the ground up, doesn’t sit well with the image you provide. Something more local, more artistic; that’s the job you’re geared for.”
Wooyoung couldn’t remove his eyes from her. Did she really just say, that based on his appearances, and his work, that he would belong in a lower-class workshop that got nearly no notoriety?
“I see,” Wooyoung says, reaching for his camera bag.
“You’re incredibly talented, but I just don’t foresee this being a partnership that will survive the current calendar year.”
“Because of my ripped jeans and dirty converse?” Wooyoung asks, reaching for his folder, taking it from her desk. Mrs. Song is taken aback by his statement, raising a brow, her expression almost offended, scandalous.
“I understand you have a reputation to maintain,” Wooyoung begins, turning around, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “I may not fit into it, but you and I both know that you just don’t want me here simply because I wasn’t raised into wealth. I came from a low-income household, and I don’t have parents around to support my dreams anymore. I’m just some lowly college graduate with no real-world experience and dreams stuck to his name.”
“Wooyoung, that’s not at all what I’m saying–”
“But that’s the context of it, isn’t it? Everything you’re trying not to say to seem professional, nice, maybe even gracious?” Wooyoung shrugs. “I’m not stupid, Mrs. Song. I can understand partially, but from where I’m standing, it just seems like you’d rather save the scandal for something else, rather than taking a chance on someone new, someone who is probably unlike everyone else you’ve ever interviewed. It’s not my choice to tell you to hire me or not, and if I were you, after the morning I’ve already had, I wouldn’t either.”
He begins to walk to her door, his hand hovering against the handle.
“For the next person that walks in here after me, don’t judge them based upon how they look. I offer more than you could ever imagine, and you’re throwing it away because all I own are worn converse and ripped denim.”
Mrs. Song is silent. Deathly silent. But Wooyoung doesn’t care.
“Have a good day, Mrs. Song.”
With that, he leaves her office, camera bag slung against his side, folder between his arm and his ribs, but something deeper hurts more than the disappointment lingering in his expression. Maybe it's the pain of knowing he didn’t fulfill his dream, or maybe it’s the realization that he wasn’t going to make his mother proud.
Whatever it was, he didn’t know. And even still, Mrs. Song’s ignorance felt to be the tip of the ice berg, floating in an abyss of rejection that Wooyoung knew he’d have to get used to.
⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅
Traffic blurred by as Wooyoung waited outside of EKKO Studios, his hands in his pockets, eyes cast down towards the concrete, trying to make sense of everything she had said. Yeosang was on his way, so he wouldn’t be here too much longer, but even still, something inside of him had snapped. Something younger, more innocent, something possibly tied to his parents.
They weren’t here anymore, and Wooyoung wasn’t in denial about that. He dealt with it, attended the funerals, sat by and watched people give their condolences as if their words could heal the fractures on his heart.
He was a second-year in college, just barely half way through the entire process when he had gotten the call. The cusp of midnight, in a torrential downpour, highlighted with the scent of alcohol. Ever since then, Wooyoung swore he’d never drive. He hadn’t owned a car, hadn’t gotten his license, and refused to plant himself behind the wheel. He couldn’t trust other people on the road, let alone in the middle of the night, so he walked everywhere. On the rare occasions that Yeosang drove him, it wasn’t ever too far. Down the road, maybe two blocks, or if there was a time crunch, just like this morning. Otherwise, walking was the only way he felt he could clear his mind, leaving him with a series of steps that never seemed to lead to any answers. Just more thoughts, and more heartache.
The honking of nearby cars causes his gaze to rise, just in time to see a passing advertisement for the city’s beloved hockey team. The Seoul Vanguard. Righteous, powerful, and overly dominant in the professional scene, capturing the end of the year trophy consecutively for the last three years. The reason? Their new recruit. The supposed “Golden Child” of hockey.
Wooyoung knew nothing about hockey. Couldn’t care less for it. Nor for whomever this grace from God was.
He watched the advertisement with a shimmer of guilt, or with an array of feelings that didn’t quite make any sense. It was unfamiliar, but he wasn’t completely sure how to articulate it. The appearance of Seoul’s beloved hockey team was a sight that he hadn’t prepared for, and now in watching it, in seeing who he assumed to be the poster child for the entire team, something else brews deeper.
Turning his head away, Wooyoung spots Yeosang’s car, a breath of relief weaving through his lips, as he offers a faint smile the moment Yeosang comes closer into view. The car pulls closer to the curb, slowing to a soft halt as the subtle, audible click of the doors unlocking spurs Wooyoung into reaching for the passenger door’s handle. Settling inside, he rests his bag on the floor, the folder on his lap, shutting the door before pulling his seat belt over his chest. Yeosang glances at him, assuming, likely assessing, before choosing to say nothing at first. He pulls the car back into traffic, smoothly guiding them towards the first traffic light until the red LED causes Yeosang to press on the brake.
“So,” Yeosang begins. “We’re not gonna talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Wooyoung turns away. “It went just as I thought it would.”
“Oh,” Yeosang breathes out. “Well, if it helps any, Seonghwa invited us out tonight.”
“I don’t know that I’m interested.”
“It’s to the hockey arena. I guess Hongjoong has to be there tonight, so he said we could all tag along?”
Wooyoung glances at Yeosang, arching his brow. “Why would I have any interest in shooting sweaty, cocky, hockey players?”
“Well,” Yeosang drawls, “it’d be good to photograph, don’t you think? Action shots of Seoul’s most prized people.”
Have you ever done something. . . less candid? In the heat of the moment, action-packed, telling a story without the need for a narrative?
Wooyoung narrows his brows now, wetting his lips. He supposes he could tag along, though he’s not quite sure if shots like this could offer him a second chance at applying for EKKO Studios, given his speech he gave Mrs. Song before his departure.
“Plus,” Yeosang tacks on, “the golden child will be there. He’s the reason why Hongjoong has to be there in the first place.”
“He’s a manager, is he not?” Wooyoung asks, only for Yeosang to smile just as the traffic light turns green.
“He’s the PR Manager for none other than Choi San himself,” Yeosang explains. “He’s the one that runs San’s social media accounts, schedules his day-to-day, and writes statements in regards to San’s personal life. Anything that San does, or posts, goes straight through Hongjoong.”
“Kinda sounds like he’s an assistant,” Wooyoung mumbles.
“He’s a glorified assistant with a fancy title. That’s what Seonghwa says, anyway.”
“Has Seonghwa met him?” Wooyoung asks, his voice softer, more curious. “San, I mean?”
“Oh, well,” Yeosang sighs. “I don’t really know. He never talks about him. Just talks about how much Hongjoong is always on his phone trying to tell San not to do this or that, to behave and not rebel for once.”
Wooyoung scoffs. “Sounds like one helluva guy.”
“You could put him that way,” Yeosang says with a soft shrug, though his smile never once fades. “Stubborn, playboy-type apparently. Lives in a penthouse on the far side of Seoul. . . he’s got everything handed to him.”
“Lucky him,” Wooyoung says, almost with a sneer, turning his attention back out of the window.
“Who knows, Woonie? This could be good for you. Taking pictures of the nation's most loved hockey team, that’s huge.”
“Yeah, or maybe I’ll make a fool of myself, and that’ll be that.”
Yeosang smiles. “Even still. An experience is an experience. You won’t know what will become of it unless you go.”
Wooyoung nods, but he doesn’t dare look at his friend, knowing all too well that acceptance and endearing kindness might just be blinking back at him.
“Maybe,” Wooyoung confesses. “I guess we’ll just have to see.”