한국말이 더 빨리 늘었음 좋겠어
나의 마음을 더 잘 전할 수 있게
i wish my korean would improve faster,
so i could better convey my feelings.
+
sweat runs down the back of jae’s neck but he’s careful to keep this discomfort off his face, eyes flitting between the other contestants and the staff as he tries to follow the instructions that are being given about today’s filming. the room they’re all in is one of many backstage, all equally stuffy and upsettingly beige. they’re their own special kind of purgatory, one that jae lives through before every time he goes on stage.
woosung shuffles closer to jae’s side, and jae leans down to hear. “they’re about to tell us what order we’re going on, right now it’s just a bunch of bullshit about not making an ass of yourself on stage,” he whispers, and jae nods.
“thanks,” he replies, but woosung is already shuffling back into his original position.
they try to be lowkey about it. they sort of have a little clique, all the kids who came from abroad. jimin is usually the translator (given that she’s the only one who is actually bilingual), but currently she’s across the room which means that the responsibility falls to woosung. jae and matthew are pretty much useless, constantly out of the loop until jimin rolls her eyes and fills them in on what’s happening.
it’s not that he doesn’t try. his mom still speaks to him in only korean and he gets around in his daily life just fine, but when it comes to formal language and technical terms everything is lost on jae. his korean lessons feel remedial at best, and he’s still stuck every week on stage not knowing exactly what the judges are saying to him.
still, jae bullshits his way through today’s filming the way he always does. his voice cracks near the beginning, but he manages to recover the performance. the judges have a lot to say to him after, and as usual he understands maybe fifty percent of it. so it goes.
he takes a car home with a handful of other contestants, stumbles into the dorm behind matthew and goes to bed listening to people chatter in a language he should understand but can’t.
+
“jaehyung.” his teacher is disappointed in him. it doesn’t faze jae anymore.
“yes?” he replies (his default response).
“space,” she says in english, pointing to his page where all his words have run together. “spelling.” she points to another spot, where he’s forgotten a line that will turn a nonsense syllable block into a real word.
“sorry,” he apologizes, quickly moving to fix it, but she’s already moved on.
language lessons are always frustrating, but he’s the only korean-american in the whole class. there was something comforting about having matthew and woosung with him, a trio of people who can’t do what korea expects of them, but the show is over and they’ve gone their separate ways and now jae is alone in jyp. there’s other english speaking trainees, sure, other americans, but no one like him. no one with korean parents who’s been raised entirely overseas.
“it’s ok,” mina says in careful english. “korean is hard.”
“yeah,” jae agrees, letting his pencil drop with a sigh. “it really is.”
+
there are certain coping mechanisms that get jae through the day. first is the persona. in english, it's easy for jae to be himself— to show a loud, confident persona honed by years of insecurity and now bolstered by the fact that speaking english is just about the only thing he's confident in these days. in korean, he tones it down, pulls it back, shows a side of himself that's more digestible. it's easier to get away with his lacking conversational skills if he's sweet about it, flashing a smile and speaking quietly and in a higher pitch than normal. even if he makes a mistake, the ajummas just smile at him and give him extra food. it works.
when the persona fails, he moves to exploitation. this is a skill he's been working on since he first showed up for kpop star— no one expected the americans to know anything, and it would be a shame to not take advantage of that. even when he does get the gist of why he's being scolded, it's all too easy to smile apologetically and stutter out that he doesn't understand, he's a foreigner, could you please say that again? at least half the time he ends up just getting dismissed with a groan, and he makes a quiet exit while doing his best to keep the grin off of his face. as long as he keeps expectations low, it's hard to disappoint.
some of the other trainees pick up on this too, or have had it figured out for themselves since before jae came to the company. mark is exceptionally good at it, which jae attributes at least in part to his face. oh well, he thinks. not everyone can be born handsome like that.
if anyone notices what they’re doing, they don’t say anything about it, for which jae is eternally thankful. it’s one of the few things he can still do that lets him feel like he’s having any fun at all.
+
being put into a group brings its own set of challenges. three out of the four guys they’ve put him with speak only korean, and jae can’t help but fear what they thought when they found out they’d been saddled with him. they’re all nice guys—sungjin will make a good leader, wonpil is a natural peacemaker, and junhyeok never fails to make everyone laugh. and then there’s brian.
their relationship has been difficult, to say the least. brian hates jae, for reasons not entirely known to him. that considered, it’s all too easy for jae to let jealousy overtake him—brian also came from abroad to train, but his english is near perfect and his korean is understandably flawless. his vocal tone is rich and deep in a way that jae’s isn’t, and he proves himself in every evaluation to be the better rapper of the two of them. the only thing jae has to cling to is his position as guitarist, which he knows brian resents him for.
he speaks english, though. brian speaks english and that makes him a safe haven, of sorts. when jae can’t force himself to translate every thought anymore, he goes to brian. to his credit, brian doesn’t judge him. he switches seamlessly into his second language, just barely the hint of an accent tinging his words as he reacts to whatever jae has to say.
they’re not really friends, but he’s the only person jae can talk to a lot of the time, and somehow that works.
things do come to a head though, as they always do. they’re supposedly only a few months out from debut, but everyone’s heard that before. their drummer is a new addition, and while jae thinks he’ll eventually fit in, for now he just brings more awkwardness than he absolves. wonpil and junhyeok adore him, though, which leaves jae with sungjin and brian when the three of them go off during their precious break time for “bonding activities”.
sungjin is using his break time to practice what their guitar instructor coached them on that morning, brian is scribbling in his notebook, and jae sits feeling pretty useless as he scrolls through twitter, guitar still in his lap.
sungjin grunts in frustration, striking a discordant sound out of his acoustic.
“you should take a break,” jae suggests quietly, without thinking too much. clearly it hits a nerve though, because sungjin glares jae down like he wants to kill him.
“i’m trying to take this shit seriously,” he says, and jae is immediately affronted.
“you think i’m not taking things seriously?”
sungjin looks at the phone in jae’s hand and then back to his face—it’s enough to make the point.
“what, i can’t go on my phone? it’s not like it matters. they’re just—they’re jerking us around again,” jae struggles to find the right words, which only furthers his frustration. “we’re never going to debut.”
“don’t say that,” brian cuts in. “our lineup is finalized, we’re debuting.”
“we were finalized before, and then they changed their minds. we don’t even have a fucking title track.” he pauses, what he wants to say not translating in his head. he switches to english, directing it at brian. “don’t kid yourself. the company will say anything to keep us in this shithole and you know it.”
“what did he say?” sungjin demands in korean, glancing back and forth between jae and brian. jae feels a sick kind of pride at having provoked sungjin’s ire.
brian glances from sungjin to jae, and jae just shrugs. he doesn’t know how to translate that even if he wanted to (which he very much does not).
“i’m not doing this,” brian says to jae, right before he turns to sungjin and repeats the same thing in korean. then, he flips back to english, though it doesn’t seem to be directed at anyone other than himself. “i can’t fucking do this.”
he shoves his notebook in his bag and then he’s gone, the door to the band practice room slamming shut behind him. jae looks to sungjin, who’s staring at where brian was just sitting.
“i’ll go find him,” jae says, surprising himself with how easily the words come out. sungjin looks up, eyes softening, and jae is glad they don’t have to use any language to say “i’m sorry.” just the understanding is enough.
as luck would have it, brian didn’t make it far. jae finds him a ways down the hall, sitting against the wall with his head between his knees.
wordlessly, jae sinks down onto the carpet beside him.
“don’t say anything,” brian warns in english, undoubtedly for jae’s comfort.
“wasn’t going to,” jae answers, and brian doesn’t have anything to say to that.
jae’s not sure how long they sit there in silence, but eventually, eventually . brian raises his head. he tips it back till it hits the wall, eyes focused on the ceiling high above them.
jae takes the opportunity. “i’m sorry,” he says quietly, pushing down the hit to his pride.
brian’s eyes close. “i thought you weren’t going to say anything.”
“i wasn’t,” jae defends. “but you deserved an apology. sorry you got stuck in the middle.”
“‘s fine,” brian mumbles, still refusing to open his eyes. “why apologize? you never have before. no one does. i’m just a walking papago to you all.” he snorts, and the bitterness is palpable. “i’m never going to not be stuck in the middle, so it’s better if i get used to it before debut, right?”
“that’s not—” true , jae wants to finish, but he can’t. no matter how much his korean improves, if it improves, he’ll never be on the level of a native speaker. brian’s the bridge, and he’ll probably never be free of that job as long as they’re in the same group. the realization hits jae with a wave of indescribable guilt.
“it’s fine,” brian repeats, but this time jae can hear that some of the anger has leached from his voice. “i know it’s hard for you. when i first moved i was terrified to talk to anyone in case i made a mistake.”
“i’ve still been a dick though,” jae points out, and brian laughs, albeit hollowly. “you always try to keep me in the loop, and i’ve never thanked you for it.”
“well,” brian sighs, “now you have. don’t mention it again.” it sounds more threatening to jae than anything else, but brian doesn’t seem to be mad anymore, so jae takes it in stride.
sungjin doesn’t say anything when they walk back into the practice room; brian gives him a nod before he picks up his bass, and then everything is back to normal.
after that, jae pays more attention. though their friendship is still somewhat uneasy, brian continues to prove himself the bigger person every time he steps in without even needing to be asked. he’s never unkind, either—there’s no condescension when he points at where jae’s made a mistake in his lyrics, just a toneless correction and then he’s gone.
it’s then that jae decides to make more of an effort with brian, if for no reason other than being friends with him is more enjoyable than not. brian takes it in stride like he does with everything, and that’s that.
+
if someone had told jae in 2016 that he’d be missing these days where all they do is go to radio shows and sit in their band practice room for hours on end, he would have laughed in their face. it was mind numbing boredom, back then—the ever present feeling that he could be doing more, should be doing more. now, he has no time to himself. every second is accounted for, whether it’s a public schedule or a songwriting session or a meeting with their producers or even a team dinner. jae barely has enough time to breathe before he’s being pushed into another car or makeup artist’s chair. the results are worth it; two songs a month and a marked increase in the amount of people who know their name, but the process is soul sucking.
before, he had plenty of time to bitch and complain about doing his korean and japanese workbooks. now, he’s lucky if he has enough time to look up a word on papago. of course his motivation to improve his korean beyond the basics he needs for daily life and survival in his career would come only when there’s no time. of course.
they’ve gotten back to the dorm just barely earlier than expected, but jae will take it. he washes up as quickly as he can and then goes digging for his long abandoned korean textbook, the one he’s had for two years and still hasn’t finished going through. laying in his bed on his stomach, he flips to the last section that has writing in it, where he must have stopped the last time he pulled this thing out (god only knows when that was).
one look at the page in front of him has jae regretting everything—it’s a section on grammatical nuance, which is arguably rather important for broadcasts and, though he shudders even thinking about them, variety shows. none of his members are particularly confident on them, jae maybe least of all because things are always moving so, so fast and by the time he processes what was said they’ve already moved on to the next topic.
with that discomfort in mind, he gathers the remaining shreds of his motivation and starts to work through the example sentences and dialogue, copying without caring how shit his handwriting gets. two pages in jae’s hand starts to cramp, and by four pages he’s asleep, textbook still lying open next to his head.
+
jae feels the most him when he’s on stage. it’s pure, unadulterated joy, the lights and the sound of the crowd imbuing him with energy and feeling he could never dream of having otherwise. still, there are frustrations.
brian catches him backstage after the festival performance, while the techs are helping them pack up and jae is still shaking his head at himself for the slip he made on stage. he’d apologized immediately, hoping the laughter of the audience meant he was forgiven for the mistake, but still. it’s disappointing that he can’t even give his fans a message without messing up and saying the wrong thing.
“what’s up?” brian asks, squatting down next to jae and tossing him the end of the cord he’s been folding back into the guitar case.
jae shakes his head again. “nothing.”
“you’re frustrated,” brian says knowingly, and jae looks up to the sky and curses himself for being so easy to read. “just tell me what’s up.”
“i can’t speak korean, that’s what’s up,” he answers simply.
brian makes a noise of surprise. “your ment? you made a mistake?”
jae nods, and brian huffs lightly. “of course you’d end up getting hung up on that, hyung. trust me, i get it, but it’s really not a big deal. i’m sure everyone knew what you meant.”
jae shakes his head. “it doesn’t matter if they get the gist or not. i’ve lived here for what, eight years now? i should be able to get through a few sentences without fucking something up.”
brian knocks jae in the shoulder, nearly pushing him over. “stop being so hard on yourself. you probably can’t tell, but the rest of us can see how much you’ve improved since you joined the team. just,” he cuts himself off, sighing in frustration. “just go easy on yourself, okay? you’re doing well.”
“easy for you to say,” jae mutters, but he won’t meet brian’s eyes in an effort to hide the fact that there’s a choking sensation in his throat.
“yeah, it is, ‘cause i had all the same problems,” brian says like he knows everything, which in this case he kind of does. “c’mon you’re packed up and we need to go take photos. you can finish feeling sorry for yourself later.”
“fuck off,” jae answers good naturedly, but he stands anyway, following brian down the stairs and out of the fenced in festival stage feeling lighter than before.
+
if jae compares himself now to where he was when he first came to korea, it’s not hard to be proud. he can hold his own in conversations and interviews, can write lyrics in korean (albeit with spelling mistakes), and plays translator for the other members even more often than brian does. brian jokes that jae’s paying back years of translating debt, but jae doesn’t miss the pride in his eyes too.
they’re fresh out of a radio show where the host mistook jae as a busan native, which had them all laughing as they struggled to explain how the dialect just rubbed off on him. as they walk to the car, sungjin claps him on the back with a smile.
“we’ve taught you well,” he jokes, and jae laughs. really though, he thinks, they have.