Ship/Member: Jeonghan, gen Major Tags: Implied eating disorder, body image issues Additional Tags: idolverse Permission to remix: Yes
***
“Just be yourself,” Jeonghan advises when Mingyu seeks him out early in the morning before a solo schedule, nervous about appearing alone. “What more could they ask for?”
“A lot, I think,” Mingyu grumbles. His hair sticks out to one side and his eyes are swollen from sleep, but Jeonghan thinks he still looks good enough for the cover of a magazine.
“Don’t think so much about yourself,” Jeonghan teases, poking him in the cheek. “You’re more than enough just as you are!”
He means it, and Mingyu leaves a little less shaky than before.
In the silence, Jeonghan watches frost form on his window, the orange glow of sunrise outside. He stays in bed until the afternoon.
—
The idol industry is, inherently, built on comparison.
At eighteen Jeonghan was made to stand in many lines, usually hovering somewhere near the end. He was bad at dancing, bad at singing, bad at talking, bad at composing, bad at acting, and everyone could see based on where he stood. The only time he ever got moved to the front was when they were assessed for appearance. Good-looking, someone would say. We can make something out of that face.
At the front of the line, Jeonghan could feel all eyes fall on him. He stared at his shoes until someone moved Vernon or Mingyu ahead of him, and then he finally dared to look up.
In the mirror on the other side of the room, he found that he still looked the same as he always had.
—
“It must be nice,” Seungkwan says out of the blue, drawing Jeonghan’s attention from his tray of unappetizing airplane food, “to be so naturally thin.”
Jeonghan pokes his spoon at the soggy rice. “Seungkwannie, it’s only the cameras that make you worry about it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m always on camera, aren’t I?” Seungkwan purses his lips and stabs his plastic fork into a slimy cube of chicken. “And unlike you, I have to worry about it.”
It’s possibly Jeonghan’s least favorite part of the job. He sees the members every day, he knows what they look like, and yet the cameras lie and a million people comment and then later the members pull up photos and complain about nonexistent flaws that need to be dieted or exercised or injected away.
“The cameras lie, you know,” Jeonghan sighs, taking his fruit cup and depositing it on Seungkwan’s tray. “It’s all a distortion.”
Seungkwan doesn’t seem convinced, but he eats the fruit.
When the flight attendant comes by, Jeonghan smiles as he hands her his tray, still heavy with soggy rice and uneaten chicken. The flight attendant blushes, and ducks away.
Jeonghan leans back. His empty body feels light, free.
—
An idol is nothing more than a hollow figure of gold or silver, or perhaps a rough image hewn from stone.
Jeonghan steps onto his pedestal and smiles for the camera. The set lights blind his vision. The shadows carve his body into shards.
—
“You look so good with long hair,” Seungcheol says into a hot microphone, twirling a strand of Jeonghan’s hair between his fingers.
Jeonghan pinches a clump between his pointer finger and thumb. When they write articles about him in the future, if they do at all, it will be about one of two things: he was maniacal on Going Seventeen, and he looked so pretty when they debuted.
He twists around to look at Seungcheol. “Grow your hair out with me,” he teases. “We’ll match.”
Seungcheol laughs. So Jeonghan laughs, too.
The camera crew moves away. Jeonghan deflates, and pushes Seungcheol’s hand away.
—
The truth is, no idol is ever good enough. If they were, what would be the point? The idol exists for the pursuit of perfection, but it always remains just out of reach.
—
On a team, every person must contribute something to the whole. Jihoon contributes songs, Soonyoung contributes choreography, and Jeonghan contributes nice cheekbones. The funny thing is, he doesn’t even have a corner on that.
His whole career, he supposes, has been defined by what he’s not. Jeonghan is not Vernon, charismatic and impressive, effortlessly handsome. He is not Mingyu, tall and earnest and ridiculous and statuesque. He is not Jun, lithe and ethereal, matching talent with a flat six-pack. He is not Joshua, with big doe eyes and a placid smile mean for music videos, once skinny but now muscular, carrying the weight of the team with ease. He is not, and he is not, and he is not, on and on down the line.
But then—what he is?
—
YOON JEONGHAN YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING YOON JEONGHAN YOU ARE AN ANGEL YOON JEONGHAN YOU SAVED ME YOON JEONGHAN YOU—
Jeonghan forms a heart with his hands and points at a fan holding up a sign with his name on it, even though in the undulating crowd it is too blurry for him to see clearly.
A camera catches his movement. He turns, looks into its glass eye, and winks.
The screams of the crowd rattle his bones.
—
The truth is, you will never live up to the image of yourself.
Jeonghan surveys each photo of himself published in a magazine feature until he no longer remembers what he looks like in the mirror.
[FILL] hollow
Major Tags: Implied eating disorder, body image issues
Additional Tags: idolverse
Permission to remix: Yes
***
“Just be yourself,” Jeonghan advises when Mingyu seeks him out early in the morning before a solo schedule, nervous about appearing alone. “What more could they ask for?”
“A lot, I think,” Mingyu grumbles. His hair sticks out to one side and his eyes are swollen from sleep, but Jeonghan thinks he still looks good enough for the cover of a magazine.
“Don’t think so much about yourself,” Jeonghan teases, poking him in the cheek. “You’re more than enough just as you are!”
He means it, and Mingyu leaves a little less shaky than before.
In the silence, Jeonghan watches frost form on his window, the orange glow of sunrise outside. He stays in bed until the afternoon.
—
The idol industry is, inherently, built on comparison.
At eighteen Jeonghan was made to stand in many lines, usually hovering somewhere near the end. He was bad at dancing, bad at singing, bad at talking, bad at composing, bad at acting, and everyone could see based on where he stood. The only time he ever got moved to the front was when they were assessed for appearance. Good-looking, someone would say. We can make something out of that face.
At the front of the line, Jeonghan could feel all eyes fall on him. He stared at his shoes until someone moved Vernon or Mingyu ahead of him, and then he finally dared to look up.
In the mirror on the other side of the room, he found that he still looked the same as he always had.
—
“It must be nice,” Seungkwan says out of the blue, drawing Jeonghan’s attention from his tray of unappetizing airplane food, “to be so naturally thin.”
Jeonghan pokes his spoon at the soggy rice. “Seungkwannie, it’s only the cameras that make you worry about it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m always on camera, aren’t I?” Seungkwan purses his lips and stabs his plastic fork into a slimy cube of chicken. “And unlike you, I have to worry about it.”
It’s possibly Jeonghan’s least favorite part of the job. He sees the members every day, he knows what they look like, and yet the cameras lie and a million people comment and then later the members pull up photos and complain about nonexistent flaws that need to be dieted or exercised or injected away.
“The cameras lie, you know,” Jeonghan sighs, taking his fruit cup and depositing it on Seungkwan’s tray. “It’s all a distortion.”
Seungkwan doesn’t seem convinced, but he eats the fruit.
When the flight attendant comes by, Jeonghan smiles as he hands her his tray, still heavy with soggy rice and uneaten chicken. The flight attendant blushes, and ducks away.
Jeonghan leans back. His empty body feels light, free.
—
An idol is nothing more than a hollow figure of gold or silver, or perhaps a rough image hewn from stone.
Jeonghan steps onto his pedestal and smiles for the camera. The set lights blind his vision. The shadows carve his body into shards.
—
“You look so good with long hair,” Seungcheol says into a hot microphone, twirling a strand of Jeonghan’s hair between his fingers.
Jeonghan pinches a clump between his pointer finger and thumb. When they write articles about him in the future, if they do at all, it will be about one of two things: he was maniacal on Going Seventeen, and he looked so pretty when they debuted.
He twists around to look at Seungcheol. “Grow your hair out with me,” he teases. “We’ll match.”
Seungcheol laughs. So Jeonghan laughs, too.
The camera crew moves away. Jeonghan deflates, and pushes Seungcheol’s hand away.
—
The truth is, no idol is ever good enough. If they were, what would be the point? The idol exists for the pursuit of perfection, but it always remains just out of reach.
—
On a team, every person must contribute something to the whole. Jihoon contributes songs, Soonyoung contributes choreography, and Jeonghan contributes nice cheekbones. The funny thing is, he doesn’t even have a corner on that.
His whole career, he supposes, has been defined by what he’s not. Jeonghan is not Vernon, charismatic and impressive, effortlessly handsome. He is not Mingyu, tall and earnest and ridiculous and statuesque. He is not Jun, lithe and ethereal, matching talent with a flat six-pack. He is not Joshua, with big doe eyes and a placid smile mean for music videos, once skinny but now muscular, carrying the weight of the team with ease. He is not, and he is not, and he is not, on and on down the line.
But then—what he is?
—
YOON JEONGHAN YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING
YOON JEONGHAN YOU ARE AN ANGEL
YOON JEONGHAN YOU SAVED ME
YOON JEONGHAN YOU—
Jeonghan forms a heart with his hands and points at a fan holding up a sign with his name on it, even though in the undulating crowd it is too blurry for him to see clearly.
A camera catches his movement. He turns, looks into its glass eye, and winks.
The screams of the crowd rattle his bones.
—
The truth is, you will never live up to the image of yourself.
Jeonghan surveys each photo of himself published in a magazine feature until he no longer remembers what he looks like in the mirror.