RAT Chapter 4 (Part 2)

Jin Yoorim thought for a moment, but couldn’t recall the name. Across all these loops, that trainee had never made it to debut.

“Like, what the hell—he only acts like that around Park Yeoul, like some damn dog—!”

“Yongwon, watch your language.”

“…Ah.”

Right—Yongwon. That was his name.

At Park Yeoul’s quiet remark, which he’d spoken while calmly listening until then, Kim Yongwon flinched and stammered out an apology.

“You shouldn’t let that become a habit.”

“Uh… yeah. Sorry.”

There was no real reason for Yongwon to apologize, but Park Yeoul accepted it naturally, as if that were the proper thing to do. The other trainees didn’t seem to think anything strange of it either.

And the moment their eyes met through the small gap in the open door, Park Yeoul smiled.

“But isn’t that kind of cute?”

“Huh?”

“I don’t like dogs that don’t recognize their owner.”

Just as Jin Yoorim’s hand on the door tightened, Park Yeoul broke the sudden awkward silence in the room with a casual grumble.

“…My dog Bonggu likes my friend more than me.”

“What? You have a dog, Yeoul?”

“I’ve had one for years… What, you didn’t know? Wow, I’m shocked. We’re breaking up.”

“You never said anything! Do you have pictures? Show us!”

“Nope. I don’t show pictures to people I’ve broken up with.”

Soon the practice room was filled with chatter about pets and pleas for photos.

At that point, Jin Yoorim pushed the door open wide and walked straight toward Park Yeoul.

Kim Yongwon, the one who’d started the gossip, flinched for a moment, but Jin Yoorim didn’t even glance his way.

He rarely spoke to anyone except Park Yeoul anyway. At most, he would answer if one of the D.I.Y. members asked him something.

So of course the other trainees found him unapproachable. He knew that, and he didn’t care.

Still, the fact that Park Yeoul had stood up for him made him quietly happy.

He couldn’t tell whether it was because Yeoul had taken his side—or because he’d just treated him like his dog.

Jin Yoorim practically jogged the last few steps, stopping in front of Park Yeoul and sitting down.

As always, Park Yeoul smiled and reached out to ruffle his hair.

“Woof.”

“…Huh?”

“……”

When Yoorim let out a small bark, quiet enough that no one else could hear, Park Yeoul blinked several times, looking briefly startled, then covered his face with one hand and burst out laughing.

Even while laughing, he didn’t stop patting Yoorim’s head, and that alone made Yoorim feel deeply content.

“You’re seriously crazy, you know that?”

When Park Yeoul finally managed to stop laughing, Yoorim mouthed silently—woof woof—and tilted his head in the same direction as him.

Park Yeoul broke into laughter again. The other trainees glanced over, curious, but he didn’t explain; he just kept laughing.

Then, with a soft motion, he took off his loosely worn jersey and draped it over Yoorim’s waist.

“Yoorim.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you been practicing all week?”

“……”

He couldn’t exactly remember, but if Park Yeoul said so, it was probably true. And Park Yeoul was the type to show up to practice every single day.

Yoorim nodded slightly. The smile faded from Yeoul’s face, replaced by a quiet sigh.

“…Yeah. They say that can happen when you’re too tired.”

“……”

When Jin Yoorim stayed still, not fully understanding what Park Yeoul meant, Yeoul hesitantly gestured downward. Through the gap in the jersey draped around him, the space between Yoorim’s legs was visibly, unnaturally swollen.

Realizing it at last, Yoorim tugged the jersey lower and lowered his head.

Perhaps Park Yeoul had interpreted his younger trainee’s sudden arousal in the most reasonable, forgiving way he could.

Though in truth, Jin Yoorim had already been aroused long before entering the practice room—ever since Park Yeoul had said he disliked dogs that didn’t recognize their owners.

If he had to explain himself, he couldn’t help it.

Because through all the years—or rather, all the loops—Park Yeoul had never once actually owned a dog.

So when the words “a cute dog that recognizes its owner” left Park Yeoul’s lips, it could only mean one thing. He had been talking about Jin Yoorim himself.

Of course, Park Yeoul probably didn’t truly think of him that way. It was only a joke sparked by Kim Yongwon’s earlier comparison. But still.

“You know, if you only practice too much, you won’t grow taller. You need to rest too.”

“I’m fine.”

“What? No, you’re not. Height’s really important for an idol.”

“Really. I’ll be taller than you someday.”

“Ah, sure. It’s good to aim high.”

Park Yeoul smiled, forgetting his earlier awkwardness.

Maybe it amused him—the idea that seventeen-year-old Jin Yoorim, barely over 170 centimeters, thought he could outgrow Park Yeoul, who had already passed 180.

Yoorim smiled back, blinking slowly, trying to look gentle. In the previous life, he had indeed grown past Yeoul’s height by the time he was nearly twenty-three.

Though, of course, Park Yeoul—who had died at twenty-one—never knew that.

“Still, let’s rest today. It’s the weekend practice session anyway.”

“I’ll rest if you rest.”

“Ha, all right. This big brother will keep you company, then. What, do you want me to even go to the bathroom with you?”

“……”

“…Yeah, that was weird. Sorry.”

As Yeoul helped him up, Jin Yoorim blinked slowly again.

He wanted to see the twenty-four-year-old Park Yeoul.

Not the Park Yeoul who looked down at him—but the one who might have to look up, even slightly.

The fourth round was easier than Jin Yoorim had expected.

He had debuted once in the first round, even if it failed, and in the second, he’d at least brushed the edge of the top tier.

Besides, the second-round Jin Yoorim had been a creation of Park Yeoul himself.

The seventeen-year-old who now smiled exactly the way Yeoul had taught him—matching the angle of his face, the tone of his laughter—couldn’t help but stand out.

And since even a not-yet-regressed Park Yeoul was still Park Yeoul, it didn’t take long before the eighteen-year-old looked troubled, studying Yoorim for a while before saying outright—

“Yoorim.”

“…Yeah.”

“Can I… observe you for a bit?”

“Observe me?”

“That sounds weird, huh? I just can’t think of a better word for it…”

“If it’s you, you can do whatever you want.”

“Uh, no, that’s not what I meant.”

Yeoul grimaced at Yoorim’s serious response but then grew thoughtful, gazing quietly at his face.

After watching for a while, he leaned closer, as if to take a better look, then suddenly burst into laughter and cupped Yoorim’s face with both hands.

“It’s just so strange.”

“What is?”

“When I look at you like this, you’re just… soft. Like a kid.”

“I’m a kid?”

“Yeah. You’re my puppy, remember?”

“…Woof.”

“Good boy. All right, since you’re cute, how about a smile?”

Jin Yoorim understood not only the words but everything left unspoken.

He blinked slowly, then smiled without warning.

He lifted the corners of his eyes just enough to look bright, and relaxed his lips slightly so they wouldn’t tremble at the sudden change in expression.

The most important thing here, of course, was the desire to be loved.

In the second round, whenever his smile had looked stiff, Park Yeoul had teased him with, “Don’t you want to look good for the fans?”—his expression full of pitying amusement.

So if this time, Yeoul liked the way he smiled, it was only because Yoorim wanted so desperately to look beautiful in his eyes.

Embarrassed by the thought, Yoorim briefly lowered his gaze to avoid Yeoul’s, then lifted it again.

It felt like such a waste to lose even a second of this closeness to useless hesitation.

Fortunately, his choice wasn’t wrong this time either.

Because Park Yeoul’s eyes softened, curving upward as he smiled at him.

It was a smile completely unlike his usual confident one.

Yoorim forgot to breathe, staring at that face.

His vision blurred, as if he might cry, though he wasn’t sure if it was because he’d forgotten to blink—or because of Park Yeoul himself.

“Hm, something feels off.”

“……”

“Maybe it’s because your face doesn’t look like Jin Yoorim’s.”

Yeoul laughed awkwardly, patted his cheek lightly, and pulled his hand away.

Only then could Yoorim breathe again—and he clenched his teeth to stop himself from crying.

Well, of course it’s different. There’s no reason he’d want to look good for me.

For the first time since starting the fourth loop, Jin Yoorim felt defeated.

He had thought that just watching the living, shining Park Yeoul by his side would be enough.

But it wasn’t. His feelings were far from pure or innocent—he wanted more.

Pressing his hand against the cheek where Yeoul’s touch still lingered, he drew in a slow breath.

Would it be possible, if I could break down that high, unshakable wall?

So this time, Jin Yoorim decided to say nothing.

Now that he was auditioning directly instead of entering through recommendation, maybe things would unfold differently.

And even if the same tragedy repeated again, at least he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about something he hadn’t caused himself.

Eighteen-year-old Jin Yoorim didn’t bother hiding his irritation as he strode over and turned off the music.

“Ha… fuck, seriously.”

“Eden. Watch your mouth.”

“No, hyung. He’s the one openly acting like a jerk right now.”

“……”

It wasn’t surprising that Yoorim’s early appearance had pushed the debut lineup to form sooner than in previous loops—but what he hadn’t expected was that END Entertainment, a company that big, had no other rappers besides Eden.

Or, more accurately, that the higher-ups’ preferences were simply too strong.

Since the day Eden had joined, the debut lineup—Jin Yoorim, Park Yeoul, Kim Dojun, Moon Taeyoung, and Eden—had never once changed.

No matter how much favoritism he got, a mere trainee couldn’t overturn the company’s decisions.

And to be fair, putting aside personal resentment, even Yoorim admitted Eden had star quality. After all, Eden had debuted every time in D.I.Y. and had been the most successful member in the first loop. Even in the second, he’d been a variety show favorite—the “entry point” member for new fans.

But the real issue was that in the timeline where Yoorim hadn’t been part of D.I.Y., Park Yeoul had given up too easily.

Since he didn’t know exactly what had happened that round, he had to be cautious about swapping out members.

So even though it had been nearly a year since he’d started training, and Eden’s arrogant, I’m-a-rapper-not-an-idol behavior was grating, Yoorim endured it.

Eden probably didn’t even realize how unbearable he was being—but Yoorim told himself he’d done his best.

Now, with their debut date moved up by nearly a year, it was getting impossible to stay patient.

Eden was still making the same mistakes in the same spots of a routine they’d repeated dozens of times.

After turning off the music, Yoorim didn’t return to his spot. He stood crookedly, glaring at Eden.

Park Yeoul glanced back at him once, then turned toward Eden again.

“I told you, this kind of thing becomes a habit. You gonna swear and complain like that on live broadcast too?”

“No, but Jin Yoorim—!”

“Eden. Am I talking about Yoorim right now?”

“…Sorry.”

At that, Park Yeoul’s tense expression softened into a faint smile. He patted Eden’s shoulder.

“Let’s do this one more time—no, twice at most—and then call it a day!”

He turned to the others, raising his voice cheerfully.

Kim Dojun and Moon Taeyoung, who had slumped to the floor, slowly got up again, and once they did, Yeoul walked over to Yoorim.

From the moment Yeoul turned, Yoorim straightened his posture and tilted his head just enough to look up at him.

Everyone knew the cautious expression was an act—Eden, who couldn’t hold back and muttered “That bastard…!” under his breath, knew it, and so did Park Yeoul.

But instead of scolding him, Yeoul simply ruffled Yoorim’s hair roughly and smiled.

“Knock it off, you too.”

“……”

“Answer me.”

Mouthing the word silently, Yoorim replied, “Woof.”

Park Yeoul frowned and pressed down on his head with the same hand.

“Acting cute won’t get you off the hook.”

“…Okay.”

But wasn’t that, in itself, calling him cute?

While Yeoul bent down to restart the music, Yoorim took advantage of the moment—when Yeoul couldn’t see—and flashed a bright, taunting smile at Eden.

Eden glared back, forming words with his mouth slowly, clearly enough for Yoorim to read them.

“Park Yeoul’s dog.”

Unfortunately for Eden, the words didn’t hurt in the slightest.

Yoorim already knew the other trainees called him that—and besides, wasn’t it just the truth?

Instead of returning to his spot right away, Yoorim brushed past Eden’s shoulder.

“Jealous?”

“You psycho piece of shit!”

That did it. Eden exploded, throwing a punch.

Yoorim, who had been expecting it, dodged and deliberately let himself fall back.

The blow had been aimed at his face—he couldn’t have taken it head-on.

“Hey. What do you think you’re doing?”

“……”

And since Eden didn’t want to get on Yeoul’s bad side, there was no way he could explain what had just happened.

Park Yeoul’s face was colder than ever as he looked between Yoorim, who had fallen, and Eden, who had gone pale. Then he motioned to Eden.

“Follow me.”

Kim Dojun and Moon Taeyoung said something anxiously, but Yeoul shook his head firmly.

He waited for Eden to move, and when the trembling boy finally did, Yeoul closed the door behind them without another word.

“Whoa… What the hell was that? You think it’s serious?”

“Never seen Yeoul this mad before.”

Dojun and Taeyoung kept talking between themselves, not even glancing at Yoorim still lying on the floor.

Yoorim, for his part, ignored them completely and just stayed down, staring at the ceiling.

If only Park Yeoul would finally realize—

That the only one who could give him exactly what he wanted was Jin Yoorim, and no one else.

If only he’d get rid of all the parasites who fed off his light, pretending to shine on their own.

Maybe, while they were out there, Eden would even announce he was quitting.

Say something dramatic like, “Screw idols, I’m going back to my rapper roots.”

That would be perfect.

Of course, that wish never came true.

A long while after Dojun and Taeyoung stopped talking and started glancing nervously at him, the door opened again.

Park Yeoul returned with Eden.

Yoorim hadn’t really expected otherwise.

As long as this world’s protagonist didn’t will it, nothing could change.

But still, something about it bothered him—the way Eden, who had left pale as a ghost, came back red-faced, flushed almost to the point of bursting.

Not that Yoorim had ever liked Eden in any loop, but this was different.

Sure, it made sense that his face would be red—getting scolded by someone only a year older would do that, especially for someone as prideful as Eden.

He tried to think of it that way, but Eden’s face looked slack, his expression dazed and foolish.

Reflexively, Yoorim looked toward Park Yeoul.

Yeoul met his gaze with the same faint, calm smile as always.

Yoorim quickly looked away.

He couldn’t ask. Not what they talked about. Not what happened.

He bit the inside of his cheek, holding back words he could feel rising in his throat—words like, “What were you two doing?”

At the same time, he didn’t want to see either of them.

He didn’t want to see Park Yeoul smiling like nothing happened, or Eden fuming in embarrassed frustration.

It was just a misunderstanding, he told himself.

That red face was just bruised pride.

If Yeoul didn’t tell him, there was no need for him to know.

For now, he had to think that way.

When he finally looked up again, Yeoul blinked in surprise and motioned him closer.

Yoorim practically ran over.

Yeoul cupped his face in both hands.

“What’s this?”

“……”

“How can you be this pretty?”

“…Jin Yoorim.”

I’m the puppy you have to take care of, he nearly said—but swallowed it back.

Yeoul smiled quietly, the corners of his eyes curving the same way Yoorim’s had, back on the day he’d said, “You’re my puppy, remember?”

The realization made Yoorim’s face burn red.

But even then, Yeoul didn’t let go.

Laughing softly, he said, “Ah, you’re seriously too cute.”

“……”

Because I’m doing exactly what you want?

Yoorim lowered his head and bit the inside of his lip again.

Someone that close, close enough to reach out and touch—still felt impossibly far away.

Eden had changed. From a certain day onward—one he could clearly point to—completely.

It was better than the days when he’d run around like a fool, not even knowing his own feelings. Or was it really better? Could this even be called an improvement?

During a break in choreography practice, Park Yeoul fanned his shirt lightly as if to cool off.

At that moment, Eden, who had been staring at him the entire time, turned red all the way up to his neck and quickly looked away. Yeoul hadn’t even taken off his shirt—just the faint glimpse of his waist had been enough.

Watching that ridiculous sight, Jin Yoorim couldn’t stop himself from letting out a small, incredulous laugh.

What bothered him most was that Park Yeoul knew all of this—and let it slide.

No, it had long passed the point of simply turning a blind eye.

As Eden’s gaze lingered on him with open admiration, Yeoul even waved lightly at him through the mirror.

Yoorim closed his eyes and lay back, exhausted in more ways than one.

Even in October, dancing for hours made it impossible not to sweat.

Sure, as trainees preparing for debut, the air conditioner in the practice room ran softly all the time—but still, normally, they’d all be drenched by now.

Kim Dojun and Moon Taeyoung’s hair was soaked, sweat dripping from their chins.

Even Eden’s headband had darkened with moisture.

Yoorim didn’t sweat much, so outwardly it was only a line trailing down his neck—but enough that his clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin.

Yet Park Yeoul looked exactly the same as when they’d started.

That little gesture of fanning his shirt earlier—it was just a performance. A show to make it seem like he was tired too.

Maybe Dojun sensed something off as well, because he stared at Yeoul for a moment before suddenly blurting out nonsense with a serious face.

“I used to think that story was a lie, you know?”

“What story?”

“That real idols don’t sweat.”

“Come on, idols are human too. Of course they sweat. What kind of dumb thing is that to say?”

“Dojun, language…”

“But look—ta-da! There’s one standing right here.”

“……”

At Moon Taeyoung’s words, every head in the room turned toward Park Yeoul.

Even Yeoul himself, who’d been about to scold Dojun for his tone, faltered and gave a small, awkward smile under their stares.

“Wow, really? You’re not sweating at all? We’ve been practicing for what—two hours? No, almost three now?”

“See? That’s a real idol.”

“No, that’s not a real idol—that’s like, medically concerning. Are you okay, Yeoul?”

Dojun frowned, got up with some effort, and walked over to him.

“Yeoul, you’re not sick or anything, right? …Hey, Moontae, doesn’t his face look way too pale?”

“Huh? Now that you mention it… Yeoul, are you sick? Seriously?”

Just as they reached that strange conclusion and Yoorim frowned at the absurdity of it, Park Yeoul suddenly burst out laughing.

“Wow, unbelievable. You don’t even know if I’m sick or not now? I’m disappointed. We’re breaking up.”

“Didn’t I literally just say I was worried about you?”

“Oh, the real idol, Yeoul, doesn’t care about that. I’d rather keep practicing.”

“Come on, we’ve been resting less than five minutes, leader. Have mercy.”

“Nope, it’s already been fifteen. Time to get up.”

At Yeoul’s words, Eden jumped up faster than anyone else, stretching his ankles.

Just days ago, he’d been the one whining with a puffy face for “five more minutes.”

Watching that, Jin Yoorim sighed quietly.

He knew they were moving steadily toward D.I.Y.’s debut—and yet, he couldn’t feel pleased about it.

Even knowing Eden’s feelings would never be returned, even knowing that Dojun and Moontae would never truly be Yeoul’s friends.

Even though he loved the dazzling Park Yeoul right in front of him—he couldn’t stop the growing desire for that Park Yeoul, the one who remembered. The one who had come back before.

If he couldn’t have Yeoul by his side, then no one else should either. No one.

Without the return of “Park Yeoul,” D.I.Y.’s showcase went off without a hitch.