Chak, chak.
The traditional dance fan in Tae-oh’s hand made a crisp sound as it smoothly opened and closed, repeating the motion over and over. After a week of constant use, the fabric attached to the bamboo ribs was frayed and worn. It was as if the fan had become an extension of Tae-oh’s hand—he spun it effortlessly, tossed it into the air, and caught it with ease. His mastery of the fan was even more natural than Sol’s, who had practiced fan dancing countless times while learning Korean traditional dance.
Tae-oh’s innate reflexes and athleticism played a part, but it was also the result of sheer effort—so much so that it was said he never let go of the fan except when he slept. Meanwhile, Ga-ram, who occasionally dragged Ji-ho in and out of the recording studio, had rushed to finish the arrangement quickly, knowing they had started late. To carve out even a little more practice time, the two had resorted to taking short naps in the corner of the practice room.
According to the guidelines they’d received earlier, the “vocal” aspect was a top priority, so they had to pour all their energy into singing practice. Although the first episode hadn’t aired yet, their outstanding performance had earned them the company’s assurance that they didn’t need to worry about things like studio access or costumes. But despite this bold promise, even though the song’s concept had been decided, there was still no news about the costumes.
This was because Sol hadn’t rolled the gacha yet.
Of course, Sol hadn’t been idle, but he found himself in a rather awkward situation. In the first round, he had drawn the concept gacha first, and the costumes and arrangement had been relatively safe and straightforward. However, the song for the second round was different.
The arrangement incorporated Eastern elements, reflecting Sol’s active input, and the choreography involved the use of fans. With such a distinct concept, the costumes had to match perfectly. But the gacha system was completely random—even using ten tickets didn’t guarantee anything remotely Eastern, like a hanbok or a similar attire.
They couldn’t perform a fan dance wearing leather jackets. The uncertainty made Sol hesitate to roll the gacha. Every time Ji-ho or Deuk-yong asked, “What about our costumes?” during practice, Sol couldn’t help but flinch. He knew he had to roll eventually, but… Sol furrowed his brow, his vission blurring. Tae-oh, who was swiftly swinging the fan to check the overall choreography, appeared hazy in his sight.
Lately, whenever Sol looked at Tae-oh, he felt an inexplicable fluttering in his stomach. It was a mix of tension and unease, but unlike the discomfort he felt when dancing, performing on stage, or riding in a car, this feeling wasn’t unpleasant. To soothe his churning stomach, Sol swallowed dryly and buried his face in the sheet music he was holding. He had just returned from a vocal training session with Ji-ho. As his nose touched the paper, filled with scribbled notes, he caught the scent of ink and paper. The familiar smell brought him a strange sense of calm, and he gently closed his eyes.
Though his vision was blocked—first by his eyelids, then by the paper—he could still picture Tae-oh’s movements through the soft sound of music brushing against his ears. Even without the music, the choreography, crafted entirely by the two of them, was so ingrained that he could tell which move it was just by the sound of footsteps. With his eyes closed, Sol hummed along to the melody.
The mumbled humming gradually grew clearer, developing into proper pronunciation. Perhaps it was because he had listened to the song so many times that it was ingrained in his ears, but someone began tapping their foot in rhythm with Sol’s singing. Tap, tap—the sound of shoes hitting the practice room floor synchronized perfectly with the sound of Tae-oh opening his fan. The foot-tapping was undoubtedly Ji-ho’s. Since Sol sometimes fell out of rhythm when nervous, Ji-ho had spent the entire practice period clapping along like a dance instructor.
As Sol continued singing, Ji-ho added harmonies. Following Ji-ho’s lead, Deuk-yong and Ga-ram, who had been taking a short break, joined in when their parts came up. The singing was relaxed and steady, but then the sound of rubber soles skidding across the floor—screech—interrupted the flow, and Tae-oh suddenly stopped.
“Sung Sol.”
“Huh?”
At Tae-oh’s call, Sol’s eyes snapped open, and he quickly got up from his seat. The cheerful humming that had filled the room came to an abrupt halt, and everyone’s attention turned to Sol. As Sol cautiously approached, Tae-oh repeated the move he had just been practicing and asked, “When moving from here to there, isn’t the path too long?”
“Uh… It was a bit rushed, but not to the point of being a big problem. Actually, Ga-ram and Ji-ho hyung switching places felt even tighter.”
Tae-oh seemed to have noticed something off about the movement flow while reviewing the choreography. Since the song required a strong focus on vocals, they had prioritized minimizing movement to avoid running out of breath or losing pitch stability.
“I was fine,” Ga-ram replied casually, but Sol picked up the fan that had rolled to the floor. Although they had gone over it multiple times, Sol began following Tae-oh’s movements to see if there were any other issues he might have missed.
Sol and Tae-oh opened their fans and spun around in a wide arc. While they had decided to focus on vocals, they couldn’t completely neglect the performance aspect—after all, they were idols, not ballad singers. Sol and Tae-oh worked well together. They didn’t need to count beats or give signals; their movements just clicked. As their motions aligned, they looked elegant, almost like celestial beings, even in their training clothes.
Deuk-yong, who had been watching the two for a while, quietly got up and moved to the corner of the practice room. Deuk-yong was struggling the most with this choreography. Accustomed to powerful, bold movements rather than delicate ones, the softer, more fluid style of this routine was proving difficult for him.
As Deuk-yong retreated to the corner, Ji-ho, worried about the youngest, followed him. But contrary to Ji-ho’s concern, Deuk-yong stood in front of the camera set up in the corner and began swinging his arms. Seeing this, Ga-ram, who had been watching Sol, also approached Deuk-yong and asked what he was doing.
The three of them huddled in front of the camera, checking their reflections in the lens and casually smoothing their sweat-drenched hair with their fingers. Deuk-yong, who had been examining himself in the camera lens, pointed a finger behind him. In the direction he pointed, the two practice fanatics were diligently moving their bodies, completely unfazed by the absence of the other three. Suddenly, Deuk-yong pretended to jab his finger into his eye.
“Sniff, sniff… It’s so hard being the youngest among genius practice fanatics.”
Ga-ram, startled by Deuk-yong’s exaggerated gesture, glanced at him, then immediately made a face at the awkward, out-of-place aegyo that followed. It turned out Deuk-yong wasn’t actually poking his eye—he was pretending to cry. Unbothered by Ga-ram’s reaction, Deuk-yong stuck out his lips in front of the camera and continued his antics.
“This morning, I told Tae-oh hyung that the fan keeps getting tangled, and he just said, ‘Then practice until it doesn’t tangle anymore,’ and walked away. DK is heartbroken.”
Deuk-yong, still pretending to cry, crossed his arms in an attempt to mimic Tae-oh and spoke with a serious expression. His posture somewhat resembled Tae-oh’s, but his voice and vibe were completely off. Ji-ho let out a disbelieving laugh at Deuk-yong’s imitation.
“Hey, are you trying to imitate Tae-oh right now?”
“I’m good, right? I’m exactly like Tae-oh hyung, aren’t I?”
“…Even Yoon Tae-oh would probably cringe at this.”
Ga-ram chimed in, looking at Deuk-yong with a mix of amusement and disbelief. Still, there was something endearing about the youngest, despite his large, imposing frame. Ji-ho, exasperated by their maknae’s antics, ruffled Deuk-yong’s hair, which was now taller than his own.
“Kim Deuk-yong, you’re crossing the line.”
When Ji-ho absentmindedly called him by his real name out of habit, Deuk-yong exploded in protest. It was a slip-up that happened occasionally, as the name had become so familiar.
“Ah! It’s DK!”
“Are you still doing that? Doesn’t it feel like it’s already ruined? Let’s just call you Deuk-yong.”
“They’ll edit it out, right? I trust them.”
Ji-ho tried to coax him into just going by “Deuk-yong,” but Deuk-yong was firm. Instead, he kept drawing hearts in the air toward the camera, mouthing “Edit, edit” repeatedly. Behind the three of them, who were busy fooling around, Tae-oh and Sol could still be seen checking their movement flow, captured in the frame.
“But seriously, what’s going on with our costumes?”
As Deuk-yong brought up the topic of costumes again, the music playing in the background came to a perfect stop. Tae-oh and Sol, who had paused their movements, exchanged glances and caught their breath. Sol, who had been panting with his shoulders rising and falling, finally heard the conversation between Deuk-yong, Ji-ho, and Ga-ram.
“Yeah, seriously. Yeong-ho hyung hasn’t said anything. We’re running out of time, and we haven’t even done a fitting…”
“Maybe it’s not happening today? I hope it’s something like a Joseon-era swordsman or a warrior’s hanbok.”
At Deuk-yong’s words, Sol’s ears perked up. This was a good opportunity to gauge what kind of costumes the members wanted. He needed to prepare a backup plan in case the gacha didn’t yield hanbok.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why? It’d be cool.”
“We’re not holding swords; we’re holding fans.”
Deuk-yong, as if he had actually become a warrior, pretended to draw a sword from his waist. Ga-ram chuckled softly and shook his head at the sight. Though Deuk-yong’s words were just wishful thinking, Sol took them seriously. Even though Sol was the one who had to choose the costumes, he didn’t trust his own taste in this area. That’s why he kept delaying the gacha roll—he had no idea what a decent backup option would look like.
“Wrapping a headband and going full hwarang. Ugh…!”
Deuk-yong, lost in his own imagined concept, kept making exaggerated noises like an uncle sipping soju.
“Hanbok would be nice, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be hanbok. As long as it has an Eastern vibe, it should be fine, right? Something fusion-like.”
Ga-ram added his own thoughts, clearly having given it some consideration. Sol listened carefully to the members’ comments, mentally compiling a list in his head. Ji-ho, who had been quietly listening to Ga-ram, suddenly seemed to feel uneasy about the lack of updates and began considering the worst-case scenario.
T/N: Sorry for late update. There was a problem with the raws I'm using. I couldn't access it and stuff. So yeah. (๑-﹏-๑)
