seven sights [kiho, kihyun x wonho]

sight two

Minhyuk sees it at the broadcast studio.  

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"Look," Minhyuk says, "they're doing it again."

He tries his best to keep his voice down, though with the cacophony of noise all around them, Minhyuk doubts even Hyungwon, who's sitting right there next to him, can hear his words very clearly.

Hyungwon mumbles something unintelligible in response, clearly not paying Minhyuk any attention at all. He's busy examining the glittery makeup dusted along his cheekbones with a small, compact mirror. Minhyuk hits Hyungwon on his shoulder and huffs a little in frustration at being blatantly ignored.

"What's up?" Hyungwon asks, finally humoring him and granting some disgruntled eye contact. He's got dark color artistically smudged around his eyes and it makes him look even sleepier than usual.

"Kihyun and Hoseok," Minhyuk says, a little louder and more insistent this time, pulling on Hyungwon's arm for added emphasis. The satiny fabric doesn't really give him much of a grip, quickly slipping out of his fingers like water.

They're all in the waiting room at a broadcast studio, soon to perform on a nationally televised music show for the first time in a while. They're styled and made-up, having already finished with rehearsal and sound check and all that good stuff hours ago, ready to go on for the real deal in about twenty minutes. Now, all that's left to do is wait.

For Minhyuk, it's one of the worst parts of being an idol. The waiting. So much waiting. The sitting around and trying to find things to do when you're so exhausted and so hyped up and so emotional all at once, when your body is so full of both adrenaline and fatigue that all you want to do is either get out there and perform or pass the fuck out.

In attempts to stave off the boredom, Minhyuk has tried everything. He's made up so many different games and started so many forced conversations, attempted friendship with everyone he came into contact with just so he'd have something to capture his attention. He's brought all manner of video games and puzzles and coloring books and, one time, when he was really desperate, he even brought some school books, though he had abandoned those quickly in favor of counting the tiles on the ceiling. He's explored every corner of every studio, befriended janitors and staff and a few times, even snuck out into the audience to watch the show.

He just has to distract himself somehow, otherwise his boredom will eventually give way to something even more debilitating: the anxiety. Though experience has made him less nervous about performing than he had once been, he still gets jittery and jumpy, full of nervous energy and panicked thoughts and a desperate need to direct that energy somewhere else other than into his own mind, where it's sure to quickly spin out of control.

Minhyuk can already feel the little prickles of anxiousness starting to chip away at his good mood and it's only getting worse by the minute. He can't help but notice how the fabric of his outfit is a little too heavy, starting to uncomfortably stick to his skin, and that the room is a little too warm and stuffy, like all of the air has been replaced with cotton balls. He seriously hopes to God that he's not sweating too much, but he can feel his eyes reddening a little from his colored contacts.

The waiting room is absolutely packed right now as performers shuffle in and out, getting ready to go on soon or just exiting the stage, exhilarated and full of adrenaline either way. Minhyuk can see managers and stylists and production crew running around in all directions, cute little girl groups in lacy dresses, soloists who stride with an air of untouchable confidence, and even some really famous groups who look to Minhyuk like gods walking amongst mortals.

It's noisy and absolutely overwhelming to the senses. There's the yelling of announcements and directions and the harsh squeak of shoes on smooth tile floor. There's the piercing smells of hairspray and makeup and cleaning chemicals, as well as the smells of coffee and food, something fried and greasy that has Minhyuk's stomach rumbling because he hasn't eaten in a while. There's smoke and fog leaking through the cracks in the stage door, obvious remnants from some sort of special effects, and Minhyuk can even feel the bass of the stage music pounding through the floor and up through his spine.