Chapter 12 #2
Andy gestured for everyone to get into first position, a five-pointed diamond spread to the corners of the stage, Min Jun at the downstage tip, Andy and Min Jae in the back.
The beat hit a moment later. Gone was the bright synth melody, replaced with a slow sub-bass, throbbing like a heartbeat—Min Jae's idea, too.
A heavily filtered vocal whispered the line "You and me. .." just before the main beat dropped.
They shifted, slinking toward second position to a slowed down tempo as Andy sang the first verse.
No bounce. This was a confident, dangerous strut, slowly converging on the center, their movements becoming more intertwined and suggestive as they got closer, in a slow, deliberate seduction.
The first chorus was Min Jun’s, his pure voice providing the haunting melody.
Tae Woo backed him with powerful, low-register harmonies throughout, giving the song a dangerous edge.
Woo Jin dominated the second verse, giving over the bridge for more overall lines, his smooth, confident swagger selling the new, raw and possessive lyrics.
Because the bridge was where they’d planted the magic.
It was Min Jun’s idea, after watching what he thought was the electric chemistry between Andy and Min Jae.
Maybe it was, to some extent. Andy and Min Jae had been entirely pleasant and polite with each other, which was, frankly, more than either one of them deserved.
But, after a few days watching, it was impossible not to notice how obviously pleasant and polite they were.
Two sharks circling the edges of the tank, an alliance for only as long as they had bigger fish to catch.
But Min Jae liked the idea, especially with the way the mentors had eaten up their killing part duet in the signal song.
Andy liked the idea, too. Probably for the same reason.
After Woo Jin's rap, the music stripped back to just the throbbing heartbeat bass. The others slipped to the back of the stage, where they’d become a shifting, backlit, silhouetted tableau in the darkness during the full performance.
There was no spotlight to shine on Andy and Min Jae during the review performance, either. But they didn’t need one.
The air crackled with an unspoken tension, a magnetic force drawing them together.
Their movements began subtly, a slow mirroring of gestures.
Shoulders rolled, heads tilted, their gazes locked in an intense, almost predatory connection.
Min Jae initiated a slow, deliberate circle, the shadow to Andy’s sun, their steps perfectly synchronized.
Then, the dynamic shifted. Andy took the lead, his movements fluid and captivating, and Min Jae responded with a sharp, grounded power, their individual styles weaving together into something new and undeniably potent.
Their bodies drew closer, the space between them shrinking until only a breath remained.
Riki and Hwa Young both gasped. The choreography demanded a trust that transcended mere professionalism.
In a seamless transition, Min Jae’s strong hand found the small of Andy’s back, guiding him into a lean that defied gravity, their eyes never breaking contact.
For a fleeting moment, suspended in the light, they were a single entity, a perfect balance of opposing forces.
Then, the vocal exchange began. Andy’s clear tenor, now laced with a dangerous edge. Min Jae’s deeper, huskier response. Their voices intertwined, a silken thread weaving a spell of dark seduction.
As the final line of their duet approached, they moved into the climactic pose.
Min Jae’s hand slid from Andy’s back to cup the nape of his neck, his thumb brushing lightly against the sensitive skin there.
Andy’s hands rose from Min Jae’s waist, slowly, to trace the sharp line of Min Jae’s jaw.
Face-to-face, so close their breath mingled, so much gravity even the light surrounding them seemed to dim.
In that suspended moment, before the music exploded back into the final chorus, was something raw.
Something real. A chemistry that reached far beyond the stage.
Or, at least, that’s what they’d planned. The critical response from the mentors was mixed.
Cipher leaned toward his mic stand on the table. “I commented before about how we’d be in for a show if you pulled off even half of what you’re planning. Well, half is what we got. And I was wrong.”
“Your vocals were impressive,” Riki shared. “And not just your singing. Your concepts. Your arrangements. Your harmonies. All were truly, truly breathtaking. The other teams have no idea what they’re in for.”
Hwa Young picked up her mic just to sigh.
She met each of their gazes in turn, ending with Min Jae and Andy, nailing them to their places on the stage.
There’d be no escaping what was to come.
“I feel like I’ve been down this road with you two before.
This is like the signal song all over again.
” She paused, frowning. “No, it’s worse.
Because you didn’t choreograph Number One.
I did. So, now, you’re not insulting me and my art, you’re insulting your own. ”
Andy and Min Jae quickly nodded in unison. “Yes, seonsaengnim.”
Hwa Young chuckled. “You’re gonna have to do a lot more to charm your way out of this one than that.
” She paused again, shaking her head. “Because that’s exactly what that performance was missing.
Charm. I mean, it was technically perfect.
And some of those moves?” She shook her head again.
“I don’t mind admitting that I’m a little jealous of what you came up with here.
But it's cold. You look like two strangers who just met.
There's no heart, no chemistry, no charm.
Right now, it's the weakest part of the song. "
The weakest part of the song? The killing part was the weakest part? Min Jae’s head nearly exploded. He’d poured his heart and soul into that part. How could they have not seen it?
“I hate to say it,” Woo Jin admitted, once they’d returned to their practice room. “But I think the mentors were right.”
They’d gathered around the monitor, watching a video of their mentor review performance provided by the show.
Another perk of being Team One, apparently.
Min Jae wasn’t so sure it was a perk, as he watched himself perform from the camera’s perspective.
Hwa Young had nailed the issue completely.
His moves had been perfect. The duet was technically flawless.
Impressive, even. Except for the total and complete lack of feeling.
He and Andy looked more like dueling robots than passionate dancers.
“It looked different on stage than it does in here,” Min Jun added. “I guess I never really noticed.”
Andy huffed. “It’s okay. I’m grateful for their honesty. That’s what the review was for. And now, we know what to fix.” He glanced at Min Jae. “And we have time to do it.”
Min Jae knew what was coming. At least Andy had the decency to look uncomfortable about knowing, too. “Yeah.” He huffed, backing away from the others with his arms folded across his chest. “We do.”
“I think you guys should give us some space,” Andy announced, catching Min Jun, Woo Jin, and Tae Woo with a sweeping glance. “Find another practice room to drill your formations while Min Jae and I work on our part.”
Woo Jin frowned. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m not really a dancer, but I could–”
“You’ve had a week to do whatever it was that you could do,” Min Jae countered, cutting him off. “We can handle this.”
Woo Jin huffed, shaking his head, but kept quiet. Min Jae outranked him, so putting up a fuss, especially when he knew Min Jae was right, would be out of bounds. “Fine.” He turned to Min Jun. “Practice Room Eleven is usually open. Let’s head down there.”
Min Jae batted away a tiny wave of guilt as he watched the others leave.
He’d been hard on Woo Jin since before the evaluation.
Since that dream moaning comment. Maybe he was still mad about that.
Or not. Either way, it didn’t change the fact that Woo Jin hardly had the dance skills to critique.
And he had no idea what the real issue was, anyway, meaning only Andy and Min Jae could solve their little conundrum.
Of course, they had to do it without really talking about it in front of their precious Dream Makers.
Once the practice room door closed, Min Jae counted to ten before speaking. “I know what you’re going to say, and–”
“Do you? Because I really don’t think you do.”
Min Jae’s eyebrows briefly flexed. Andy rarely interrupted him. He rarely interrupted anyone outside of joking around. “Please. Enlighten me.”
Andy chuckled, rolling his eyes as he looked away. “We both want to win this, right?” He turned back. “You want my spot, and I want to keep it. And, sure, we could rework this section’s choreo to keep us farther apart. But...” he trailed off.
Yeah, but. “Their expectations for us will be twice as high as anyone else. Meaning, we do that, and we’ll lose. So, how do we make it work?”
Andy took a step toward Min Jae, whose body reacted like it was a threat. Or a promise. “I know we’ve had our issues. We’ve worked around them pretty well, so far. But it hasn’t been enough. If we want this to work, we’ve gotta let them go.”
Min Jae frowned. “Just like that?”
Andy took another step forward. It was all Min Jae could do to hold his place.
“Yes. It doesn’t have to be forever. It can just be for this mission.
We’re both experienced, professional dancers.
We know how this is done. And it has to happen.
” Another step, close enough to touch. “Because, when we click, we make magic.”
Magic? Golden skin glowing silver in the moonlight.
Flushed cheeks hot to the touch. Quickened breath, his thumb caressing soft lips.
Magic. That, Min Jae could do. If they wanted a show, he’d give them a fucking show.
“You’re right. We’re experienced professionals.
We can work outside of whatever our personal feelings might be. ”
“So, we’re agreed?” Andy grinned at Min Jae’s decisive nod. “Then start the music, magic man.”
Still loose from the mentor review performance, Min Jae practically sauntered to the sound system controls.
He’d spent years training to make himself desirable.
To make audiences fall in love with him on stage.
Off stage, he’d learned to make himself desirable in other ways.
More intimate ways. Maybe it was time to put those skills to work again.
He started the track, scrubbing to Woo Jin’s rap verse.
The deep, heartbeat bass thrummed, vibrating the floor as he turned and approached Andy.
Giving his arms a good shake, he settled into position, letting his lip curl into the beginnings of a sneer as his eyes narrowed a tiny bit, waiting for the bridge to begin.
A face he’d worn many times, but on a completely different stage.
Andy tapped the count–six, seven, eight–and they moved.
Min Jae locked onto Andy’s eyes as they circled each other, holding the sneer as he let his lips fall open.
A look Min Jae had perfected in expensive hotel suites across Seoul, infused with dark, possessive longing.
A tool. A weapon. As their bodies brushed, Min Jae let out the same sharp, quiet hitch of breath that drove his clients wild.
That convinced them they’d broken through his walls, pleasuring him despite himself.
When his hand found the small of Andy’s back, he pressed in, dragging his fingertips along the top of Andy’s waist. Not leading or guiding. Claiming him with a subtle dominance.
Andy’s performance intensified with each glance.
Each gesture. Each touch. His lips curled into a grin.
His body flowed, his movements playfully exaggerated as he invited Min Jae closer, closer.
He didn’t just follow. He pushed back. He met Min Jae’s intensity with a raw, genuine fire of his own.
An explosive gaze, daring him to do more.
A fiery stance, promising him it was all worth it.
Min Jae moaned, losing himself a little more with each step, each heartbeat thump.
His phantom partner had come to life. No imagined touch.
Andy was real. Solid, warm, and overwhelmingly present.
Their very real bodies seamlessly twisted and intertwined, his fantasy performance fusing with the reality happening now.
The space between them compressed more and more, until it finally collapsed in on itself, exploding into a naked singularity of desire Min Jae was powerless to escape.
He fell into his performance, dragged along the event horizon by Andy’s inescapable gravity.
Every touch, aflame. Every desperate moan, real.
The exhilarating joy of moving in perfect sync with a force that matched his own.
The terrifying vulnerability of being truly seen.
He hated it, but was helpless to stop it.
He loved it, soaking up every intoxicating moment.
Min Jae and Andy stopped on the final pose, perfectly matched, Min Jae’s hand cupped on the back of Andy’s neck, Andy’s hand on Min Jae’s chest, eyes locked, breath heaving, sweat beading on their foreheads.
If it were a drama, they would’ve kissed.
And Min Jae desperately wanted to kiss him.
He stepped back instead, pulling his hand away just as Andy did.
Still perfectly matched. They stood there, staring, just out of each other’s reach, as the final chorus and outro pounded through the speakers. Followed by silence.
“Fuck,” Andy swore in English. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his palm. “That’s it, right?”
No. That was too much. Didn’t he feel all that, too?
There was no way he didn’t. Unless he was that good of an actor.
But he couldn’t be, right? Not even Min Jae was that good of an actor.
It had to be real. Which also meant, it had to be private.
That kind of passion was something you were supposed to keep to yourself.
“Yeah, I think that’s it,” Min Jae finally admitted.
Andy, his cheeks still flushed, his sweat soaking through the shirt clinging to his torso, grinned. After all that, he fucking grinned. “Great. Let’s do it again.”