The Two Js

Jae-in used to say, like a habit, “Once we debut, don’t you think the three of us will be called ‘3J’?” Considering how naturally they had bonded without any major incidents, Ji-ho sometimes thought that far-fetched fatalism might actually be right.

True to first impressions, Jae-in was the type to speak his mind without filtering. Spending time with him, Ji-ho realized that Jae-in’s personality only seemed bad because of his blunt way of speaking. Unlike Ha-un, who was subtly quick-witted, Jae-in didn’t know how to hide his emotions at all, which often led to misunderstandings.

Conversely, it meant he was that much more sincere and open about his true feelings.

After practice, the three of them used the company rooftop as their hideout. Trainees were technically banned from the roof for safety reasons, but Jae-in would drag the two older boys along to enjoy these minor acts of rebellion.

“Don’t worry even if we get caught. The CEO can’t really scold me. Honestly, my family has some power in this industry. I heard the CEO owed my dad a favor back in the day.”

Having blurted that out in front of Ji-ho and Jun-o, Jae-in quickly shut his mouth as if realizing it was a slip. Ji-ho and Jun-o were more surprised by the fact that the always-confident Jae-in was actually checking their reactions.

At barely seventeen, Jae-in—looking younger than his years—scrunching his face as if he carried a heavy burden, poured his story out.

“Originally, I was supposed to go into a major label like Ji-ho Hyung. They were definitely positive when I auditioned. But then, the kids I went to the academy with started posting on the agency boards, saying I only passed because of my dad and that they’d tell everyone even if I debuted…”

Bullying from peers that had started at some point, an agency that changed its tune because they didn’t want to take a risk on a single trainee, and parents who tried to stop their son, asking why he’d want to do something so difficult.

Jae-in told the story with exaggeration, as if he were the protagonist of a tragic drama. As if he were some conglomerate heir who had been hiding his identity all this time.

“I’m telling you guys because you’re nice. I feel like you won’t get jealous of me and will keep staying by my side. My dad connected me with Star Ent thinking a small agency would make me change my mind about being an idol, but did he think I’d quit that easily? If you treat me well, I’ll even ask my dad for favors if something happens.”

There were many things to point out in those words, filled with a teenager’s typical bravado.

Should he point out the contradiction of claiming to be a “talent-based” trainee while immediately wanting to lean on his father? Should he mention Jae-in’s father, who supposedly told him to quit but still pulled strings to get him into a company? Or should he note Jae-in’s innocence in speaking so freely about things that could get him criticized?

Ji-ho debated how to react. Honestly, seeing Jae-in’s immature remarks made him doubt if the boy’s family really had power in the industry. After all, Jae-in had ended up as a trainee at the tiny Star Entertainment, not the major label he wanted.

In truth, what Ji-ho felt from Jae-in’s boastful story was a different emotion. Something similar yet distinct from the jealousy Jae-in warned against—something he should have been used to by now, but still found unsettling.

He was envious of having reliable parents—a father. It contrasted so sharply with his own life: born after his father passed, losing his mother at a young age, and then losing the grandmother who raised him shortly after. He felt ashamed that he was feeling this way toward a brother three years his junior.

“The reason those kids were jealous wasn’t your background, Jae-in, but your skill. Is our CEO the type to take bribes? He definitely scouted you for your talent. Don’t worry. There’s no way we’d ever hate you. Knowing we can get help from your father after we debut actually makes me feel so reassured.”

The first one to answer Jae-in, who had been worried about their reaction, was Jun-o. With his signature good-natured smile, he told Jae-in exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Right? I knew it! Ahem, I was just testing you guys. You know, like a friendship test.”

Unable to hide his joy, Jae-in’s triumphant gaze turned toward Ji-ho.

Jae-in’s monolid eyes, made charming by a mole beneath his right eye, looked as attractive as they were innocent. His cute visuals were more than enough for an idol trainee. Furthermore, considering he followed the training diligently despite complaining every day, Ji-ho agreed that Jae-in wasn’t just a “parachute” hire.

However, because of the lingering envy in his heart, Ji-ho ended up giving a clumsy answer.

“I… think Jun-o is right, too.”

Did the uncomfortable emotion bleed into his hesitant words? Hearing Ji-ho’s answer, the corners of Jae-in’s eyes sharpened.

****************************************************

Among the seven debut members, there were clearly four who could be considered vocalists. The eldest, Se-han, the two youngest, and Ji-ho, who joined last.

While the trend for modern idol groups was to avoid strict distinctions like “lead” or “sub” positions, it was only natural for a hierarchy of skill to be established among trainees.

Ha-un had already secured the main vocal spot with his unique tone and skill before Ji-ho even arrived. Se-han tended to focus on developing a balanced range of abilities rather than a singular, dominant position.

This naturally meant that Ji-ho and Jae-in were competing for the lead vocal position.

“Okay. Ji-ho, you’re good enough to start practicing another song. As expected of D&T—the vocal foundation is solid. Next is Jae-in… Hmm, can you try the high note from ‘The sky is’ again?”

The difference in skill between Jae-in and Ji-ho was stark during vocal training. It was only natural. Factoring in the three-year age gap and the duration of training alone, Ji-ho had several times the experience Jae-in did.

“…The sky is— cough.”

“Yoon Jae-in, why do you keep putting unnecessary tension where the chest voice switches to falsetto? Weren’t you called out on this last time? I told you to practice opening and closing your vocal cords whenever you have a spare moment outside of training. If you make mistakes on basic parts like this, debut is out of the question.”

The outside vocal trainer was harsh with Jae-in. Because Star Ent had no other trainees besides the debut team, the trainer was strict to ensure they didn’t get complacent.

“I practiced just like you said, but it’s not getting fixed. What am I supposed to do?”

Though it was a harsh method, that was exactly why the trainer intentionally compared the members to incite competition.

“Then ask Ji-ho to look at it while you practice. It’s obviously not working because your method is wrong. You know you’re already lagging behind Ji-ho, right? You were in the debut team first, but at this rate, you’re going to get pushed aside completely.”

“…I get it.”

That day’s vocal practice ended on an awkward note. Jae-in, unable to hide his feelings, had been scolded by the trainer for failing to control his facial expressions.

“Ah, seriously. That teacher is so embarrassing.”

As the other members left, Ji-ho and Jae-in happened to be the only ones left in the practice room.

Ji-ho was concerned about Jae-in, who looked irritated to the max. Beyond the fact that the trainer had used him as a comparison, Ji-ho felt their relationship had grown awkward since the rooftop conversation. It was obvious from the way Jae-in—who couldn’t hide his discomfort—was pointedly avoiding his gaze.

Just as Ji-ho was wondering how to approach him to clear the air…

Jae-in, who was always more proactive than Ji-ho, didn’t hold back. Soon, his sharp voice echoed in the room.

“What are you looking at? Do you like that I got scolded? You know you’ve been acting different toward me since we talked on the roof, right? Why? Does it look to you like I’m trying to debut with zero skill, just relying on my dad’s back, too?”

His straightforward, confrontational way of speaking had no hint of hiding or beating around the bush. This attitude was something the company pointed out every time, but it wasn’t easily fixed.

“Fine! I’m a vocal trainee but I can’t even vocalize properly yet and I’m worse than a Hyung who joined late. But so what? You won’t be able to kick me out anyway!”

It was a statement that revealed Jae-in himself was the one insecure about his skills—using his background as a shield—and that he was still very conscious of what others thought.

Hearing Jae-in’s shout, Ji-ho no longer felt ashamed of the envy he’d felt toward him. Instead, he wanted to emulate Jae-in, who spoke out things he himself couldn’t say and acted with such confidence. Furthermore, Ji-ho instinctively felt that Jae-in’s biting question wasn’t an intentional attempt to pick a fight, despite how it appeared.

He wanted to comfort him. Even if he wasn’t as eloquent as Jun-o, he wanted to give Jae-in an answer. He wanted to tell him he was working hard enough, and that he was here because he had the talent.

But instead, something completely unexpected popped out of Ji-ho’s mouth.

“I was just… envious of you for having such a reliable father. Actually, both my parents passed away when I was young.”

“Huh?”

“Ah.”

Jae-in looked incredibly shocked by the unexpected revelation; even his pupils were shaking. If Ji-ho hadn’t snapped out of it and continued quickly, Jae-in might have shouted, “Hyung, did you just make me look like a jerk who made a dead-parent joke?”

“T-That is, you told me a secret you were hiding, so I felt like I should tell you one, too. Ah, you know—friendship! You said it was a friendship test.”

It was a desperate, split-second answer, squeezing out every bit of wit he didn’t know he had.

“What? Was that it? You were seriously agonizing over how to test me back? Aigo, you should have just said so.”

It was a remarkably simple reaction. Jae-in, immediately changing his attitude, seemed to like the fact that Ji-ho had shared a secret to become closer. Looking at the ensuing conversation, it seemed Jae-in didn’t even remember the awkwardness of the past few days.

“So Ji-ho Hyung is an orphan? Argh, no. ‘Orphan’ is a bad word, right? I only used it because I didn’t know. Seriously!”

“’Orphan’ isn’t exactly a slur. Hmm, but just in case, let’s not use it after we debut. And you don’t have to worry that much. It’s not like I grew up all alone; I had my grandmother. Though I had to go to a group home after she passed.”

Ji-ho usually hid his family background from those around him ever since he’d overheard a fellow trainee gossiping that he was “acting pitiful.” When he moved to Star Ent, he had agreed with CEO Hyeong-jun to keep his family history a secret.

But strangely, the words came out easily toward Jae-in.

Even though he was aware the person in front of him was three years younger, he felt at ease. Being with someone so excessively honest made him act the same—it was a mysterious feeling, different from simply relying on someone.

“…So after leaving the group home, I even lived at the CEO’s house for a bit. I’m glad I moved into the dorm now. Oh, Jae-in, you said you were moving in next month, right? If you want, do you want to come to our room? Jun-o and I are sharing.”

“Hyung, I had no idea. Honestly, I’ve only seen group homes in dramas and stuff… If—if this company goes under and we can’t debut, then come live at my house. I’ll ask my dad!”

“What? What kind of weird talk is that?”

Jae-in even had tears welling up in his eyes, imagining whatever he was imagining after hearing Ji-ho’s past. Though it might have just been a misunderstanding due to Jae-in’s small eyes, Ji-ho didn’t dislike Jae-in for expressing pure sympathy without overthinking it.

Jae-in’s continued “special comfort” reached a point where Ji-ho finally burst into laughter.

“Thanks for telling me your secret. I won’t even tell Jun-o Hyung. I’ve always thought ‘2J’ sounded cooler than ‘3J’ anyway. Since both you and I have such pitiful family histories, I think we’re like a ‘2J of Destiny.’”

He had no idea how both of them qualified as having “pitiful family histories,” but Ji-ho didn’t bother pointing out Jae-in’s absurd logic.

“No. Let’s tell Jun-o later. He’ll be upset if we say we’re ‘2J.’ And… eventually, I want to tell the other members, too.”

“But I’m still the first one among us to know your secret, right?”

“Haha, yeah. Yoon Jae-in, you’re the first.”

Perhaps that eccentric conversation that day was what changed Ji-ho’s perspective on being a “rolling stone” in the debut team.

The thin wall he’d unconsciously built had surely vanished thanks to Jae-in’s honesty. And it was surely thanks to that, that Ji-ho was able to reach out to the other members first.