Ship/Member: Mingyu/Minghao Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: UnREAL AU; ambiguous relationships; bickering and mild power play Permission to remix: Yes
***
“I think you’re too smart to be on a show like this,” Minghao says, breaking the silence. Most of the crew has made themselves scarce, and the only reason Mingyu is still here is because old habits die hard.
“A show ‘like this’?” Mingyu echoes, tired.
It’s not an uncommon sentiment, but it gets old after the first time you’ve heard it. What’s a smart boy like you doing producing a dating show? His friends are on the film festival circuit. Emmy-bound. Cannes. Tiny little events you’ve never even heard of, racking up awards just to rub shoulders and be closer to someone of some sort of proximity to someone who knows someone.
The easy answer is that he’s damn good at it. The real answer is a lot less simple, but nothing ever is, is it?
He leans over to look at Minghao, on the opposite end of the room, where his eyes are still locked on the screens. One of the girls is doing her one-on-one while the others rush past her in a flurry of sequins and satin.
He’s already forgotten what the hell their date theme is supposed to be tonight, and he’s itching to be out on the set rather than sitting in mission control. But supervisors supervise, and if Jeonghan intervenes any more, it’ll be a costly blow to his sanity.
At least Joshua isn’t on set anymore.
“And yet, here we both are.” Mingyu gestures between them before reaching for his coffee. Minghao lets out a short laugh, flipping to the next page in his notebook.
“I’m just saying, you’re smart. You’ve been here, what? Four years? You could be supervising on a different project. See the world.”
The air pot in the PCR is empty, and they still have a few more hours of filming for the evening. He’s already forgotten the name of the runner since Heuning Kai’s been promoted to PA—and doing a piss poor job of it. Watching him fumble with the contestants Mingyu had handpicked for him is painful.
“Some of us have to rely on regular work for a living. Not a trust fund.”
“Right.” The backrest of Minghao’s chair squeaks as he leans back from the table, two legs off the ground. “Or your inheritance.”
Mingyu’s head snaps up, body turned fully forward. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not the only one who runs intel on new coworkers.”
“It’s not an inheritance.”
“Your parents live in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in all of Korea.” Mingyu scowls. It’s not not wrong. He examines Minghao from the corner of his eye, watching him watch the screens. Watching his hand glide across a page as he takes notes, so clearly out of his element here.
Mingyu thumbs through the searches he’d done before Minghao had formally arrived on set. Before he’d screamed into a pillow in his hotel room and helped himself to the mini-bar. His Instagram. The blog he’d kept through university, and the director commentary on YouTube.
Sure, the network had bid on him, but no one gives unless they’re getting.
“Network intervention aside, was it your mom or your ex that was a fan of the show?”
There’s enough distance between Minghao’s last project (a short doc on repression and art) and where he is now (watching a has-been female idol wrestle with an Olympic archer for a shot at a date with some soccer player) that it’s one or both.
Minghao’s hand stills. “My mom.”
“And when was the last time you’ve spoken to her?”
Hesitation. And then, “Some time.”
Mingyu reads between the lines. “That last story took you too far away from home, huh?”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Produce me,” Minghao says sharply, snapping his notebook shut. His chair rolls as he stands, circling the table to retrieve the worn leather laptop bag that dangles from the old broken tripod everyone uses as a rack. “I fell for that shit once, and I’m not doing it again.”
“So be real with me, sajang-nim.”
Minghao’s arm drops, eyes already rolling before facing him head on. Watching the professional veneer come down changes his body language, his stance. There’s an edge to his voice when he speaks again.
“You know I didn’t take this job because of you.”
Mingyu barks out a laugh, turning his attention from the screens to give it to Minghao fully. “Oh, I know. There are easier ways to upset me, and you’ve always been creative.”
Minghao’s expression darkens at the reminder. They’d done so well at keeping the shared past under wraps that Mingyu dragging it out into the open, even when they’re alone, is a betrayal.
As they both know from two rounds of eliminations so far, the past cannot stay buried. Better to drag it to light now rather than let someone dig it up later.
On screen, the ex-idol bests the archer. The camera pulls in on her triumphant face, the dark glee in her eyes. She’s thrown her fear of shattering her reputation to the wind. Mingyu makes a mental note to move her on the board. Character arc aside, it disqualifies her from what they call ‘a wifey’.
“You’re the one who went above Jeonghan’s head to tell Seungcheol about what he and Joshua are doing on this set,” Minghao says carefully, turning over each word like a smooth stone.
Each word already lined up to be thrown in his direction.
“I’m sorry that your brilliant plan backfired and didn’t go your way, but when you’re in my control room—yes, Mingyu, my room, I’m showrunner, not you—we are not…”
One of the walkies blips, and they both jump. A sharp reminder of where they are now. How their lives have reconverged.
Minghao’s hands twist around the leather straps, reddened face visible even in the din. “You’re nothing to me. Do you understand?”
Then the mask returns, and Minghao’s professional persona slips right back into place.
Mingyu clears his throat and turns back in his chair. He reaches for the walkie, catching something near Camera 3. It’ll be smart to capture it for the B-roll.
[FILL] anything close can cut through bone
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: UnREAL AU; ambiguous relationships; bickering and mild power play
Permission to remix: Yes
***
“I think you’re too smart to be on a show like this,” Minghao says, breaking the silence. Most of the crew has made themselves scarce, and the only reason Mingyu is still here is because old habits die hard.
“A show ‘like this’?” Mingyu echoes, tired.
It’s not an uncommon sentiment, but it gets old after the first time you’ve heard it. What’s a smart boy like you doing producing a dating show? His friends are on the film festival circuit. Emmy-bound. Cannes. Tiny little events you’ve never even heard of, racking up awards just to rub shoulders and be closer to someone of some sort of proximity to someone who knows someone.
The easy answer is that he’s damn good at it. The real answer is a lot less simple, but nothing ever is, is it?
He leans over to look at Minghao, on the opposite end of the room, where his eyes are still locked on the screens. One of the girls is doing her one-on-one while the others rush past her in a flurry of sequins and satin.
He’s already forgotten what the hell their date theme is supposed to be tonight, and he’s itching to be out on the set rather than sitting in mission control. But supervisors supervise, and if Jeonghan intervenes any more, it’ll be a costly blow to his sanity.
At least Joshua isn’t on set anymore.
“And yet, here we both are.” Mingyu gestures between them before reaching for his coffee. Minghao lets out a short laugh, flipping to the next page in his notebook.
“I’m just saying, you’re smart. You’ve been here, what? Four years? You could be supervising on a different project. See the world.”
The air pot in the PCR is empty, and they still have a few more hours of filming for the evening. He’s already forgotten the name of the runner since Heuning Kai’s been promoted to PA—and doing a piss poor job of it. Watching him fumble with the contestants Mingyu had handpicked for him is painful.
“Some of us have to rely on regular work for a living. Not a trust fund.”
“Right.” The backrest of Minghao’s chair squeaks as he leans back from the table, two legs off the ground. “Or your inheritance.”
Mingyu’s head snaps up, body turned fully forward. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not the only one who runs intel on new coworkers.”
“It’s not an inheritance.”
“Your parents live in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in all of Korea.”
Mingyu scowls. It’s not not wrong. He examines Minghao from the corner of his eye, watching him watch the screens. Watching his hand glide across a page as he takes notes, so clearly out of his element here.
Mingyu thumbs through the searches he’d done before Minghao had formally arrived on set. Before he’d screamed into a pillow in his hotel room and helped himself to the mini-bar. His Instagram. The blog he’d kept through university, and the director commentary on YouTube.
Sure, the network had bid on him, but no one gives unless they’re getting.
“Network intervention aside, was it your mom or your ex that was a fan of the show?”
There’s enough distance between Minghao’s last project (a short doc on repression and art) and where he is now (watching a has-been female idol wrestle with an Olympic archer for a shot at a date with some soccer player) that it’s one or both.
Minghao’s hand stills. “My mom.”
“And when was the last time you’ve spoken to her?”
Hesitation. And then, “Some time.”
Mingyu reads between the lines. “That last story took you too far away from home, huh?”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Produce me,” Minghao says sharply, snapping his notebook shut. His chair rolls as he stands, circling the table to retrieve the worn leather laptop bag that dangles from the old broken tripod everyone uses as a rack. “I fell for that shit once, and I’m not doing it again.”
“So be real with me, sajang-nim.”
Minghao’s arm drops, eyes already rolling before facing him head on. Watching the professional veneer come down changes his body language, his stance. There’s an edge to his voice when he speaks again.
“You know I didn’t take this job because of you.”
Mingyu barks out a laugh, turning his attention from the screens to give it to Minghao fully. “Oh, I know. There are easier ways to upset me, and you’ve always been creative.”
Minghao’s expression darkens at the reminder. They’d done so well at keeping the shared past under wraps that Mingyu dragging it out into the open, even when they’re alone, is a betrayal.
As they both know from two rounds of eliminations so far, the past cannot stay buried. Better to drag it to light now rather than let someone dig it up later.
On screen, the ex-idol bests the archer. The camera pulls in on her triumphant face, the dark glee in her eyes. She’s thrown her fear of shattering her reputation to the wind. Mingyu makes a mental note to move her on the board. Character arc aside, it disqualifies her from what they call ‘a wifey’.
“You’re the one who went above Jeonghan’s head to tell Seungcheol about what he and Joshua are doing on this set,” Minghao says carefully, turning over each word like a smooth stone.
Each word already lined up to be thrown in his direction.
“I’m sorry that your brilliant plan backfired and didn’t go your way, but when you’re in my control room—yes, Mingyu, my room, I’m showrunner, not you—we are not…”
One of the walkies blips, and they both jump. A sharp reminder of where they are now. How their lives have reconverged.
Minghao’s hands twist around the leather straps, reddened face visible even in the din. “You’re nothing to me. Do you understand?”
Then the mask returns, and Minghao’s professional persona slips right back into place.
Mingyu clears his throat and turns back in his chair. He reaches for the walkie, catching something near Camera 3. It’ll be smart to capture it for the B-roll.
“Yeah. Understood.”