Best Friend X Swap

Yoon Hyuk, now in his fifth year as an idol, held the positions of main vocal and visual.
Despite having a voice that could make anyone stop and marvel, he had been born with absolutely no sense of rhythm. He was famous as the survival-audition contestant who had overcome that fatal flaw with nothing but sheer determination.
Singing ability: A+.
Dancing ability: F.
Combined trainee grade: C.
The story of how a C-grade trainee managed to make it to the debut lineup through endless practice was nothing short of brutal — a tale of human triumph. Naturally, the public rooted for him. When he finally burst into tears after hearing he’d ranked second overall, they had no choice but to love him.
After that, his life turned upside down.
One day he was a nameless trainee; the next, he was part of a top idol group every citizen knew.
He became the talk of the town wherever he went. Every agency, every show, every brand wanted him. And the attention toward Yoon Hyuk — the living embodiment of every shōnen-manga backstory mashed into one — was overwhelming.
Schedules poured in every day, and the fandom grew larger by the hour.
It felt like another lifetime when he’d hesitated to order tuna gimbap instead of plain, afraid of looking indulgent. Everything around him had changed that much.
The tolerance shown toward him now that he’d reached stardom was frighteningly loose. A world where every staff member revolved around him — on stage and off — had enough destructive power to twist even a level-headed person’s sense of values. You can do anything; you’ll be forgiven. It was the structural rot of the entertainment industry: the belief that a popular celebrity could get away with anything.
It would have been stranger not to develop a case of celebrity syndrome.
That was what his fans had worried about the most.
But a year passed, the project group disbanded, and even when he re-debuted as a solo artist, Yoon Hyuk remained the same — steady, consistent, and earnest, meeting fans’ expectations as always.
That was simply his nature. According to Ye Ju-yeol, Yoon Hyuk was “so self-aware he’s practically pessimistic.” He always knew the love he received outweighed his worth. He lived with the thought that the road down was closer than the road up, and so he kept trying to be better every day.
Because only that way could he avoid regret.
Only then could he feel a little less guilty about the love he’d been given.
With such a disposition, it was no wonder that even five years after debut, his popularity kept climbing. After all, who didn’t like a hardworking, good-looking man who never slacked off?
Still, even Yoon Hyuk had his weak points.
“Huff… haah…”
“Ahh…”
By the time the tear-jerking mission ended, more than an hour had passed. Barely scraping a passing score, Yoon Hyuk collapsed in exhaustion, while Ye Ju-yeol, who’d been laughing so hard he fell backward, was now clutching the {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} back of his head and groaning.
So much for “feeling good” this morning.

Even sprawled out and drained, Yoon Hyuk ground his teeth. Though he’d once conquered his lack of rhythm through grit, dancing remained one of his biggest weaknesses. Compared to five years ago, his improvement was miraculous — but it still meant he practiced every move twenty or thirty times where others needed ten.
He was the very picture of “If it doesn’t work, make it work,” yet against a girl-group medley — and a double-speed version at that — even he was helpless.
The production team, who had vowed to judge him objectively, gave up halfway through, collapsing beside Ye Ju-yeol from laughing too hard.
But Yoon Hyuk himself stayed serious. He didn’t care if others laughed at his clumsy moves. Once he decided to do something, quitting wasn’t an option. Looking foolish was fine; giving up out of embarrassment hurt his pride more.
Even when he gasped, “Just a sec—” and crumpled to the floor, he soon sprang back up like a roly-poly toy, demanding the music again. His sheer willpower left one of the assistant directors visibly moved. Not even rookie idols worked that hard.
In the end, thanks to the staff’s merciful eyes, the two barely passed the mission — but even after receiving their next address, they couldn’t leave right away.
“I can’t. You drive.”
Dragging their suitcases down to the underground parking lot, they finally switched places. After one particular dance section, Yoon Hyuk’s legs had turned to jelly, and he declared he couldn’t press the pedal. Luckily, Ye Ju-yeol had just gotten his license. He was a beginner, sure, but the destination wasn’t far.
“Sorry for laughing so much, Hyuk-ss. Leave the driving to me!”
“Fine…”
“And hey, you were really cool back there. You didn’t give up and still passed! That’s what I like about you — always have~”
Yoon Hyuk, fastening his seatbelt weakly, glanced at Ju-yeol tapping the steering wheel. Being able to say things like that — so easily, so sincerely — was a kind of talent too, he thought.
It had been like that before, as well.
If Seo Sa-heon and Lee Seo-eul were known as the “Composite Best Friends,” Ye Ju-yeol and Yoon Hyuk were the so-called “Room-corner Best Friends.” That came from their old survival show.
When the staff said each contestant could make one phone call to someone they wanted encouragement from, Yoon Hyuk had dialed Ju-yeol’s number without hesitation.
He didn’t even know what came over him.
At the time, he’d been uncharacteristically weary — exhausted from practicing, only to realize effort meant nothing before raw talent. His trainer had just told him, “You’ve got the physique, shame about the rhythm.”
For once, Ju-yeol picked up right away.
“Hyuk-ah,” he greeted warmly.
Yoon Hyuk answered curtly, mood already low, and before he knew it, he blurted out:
“Hey… do you think I’ll ever debut?”
Ju-yeol’s chatter cut off instantly.
Realizing what he’d said, Yoon Hyuk squeezed his phone and shut his eyes. He hadn’t called to whine. Regret washed over him. He opened his mouth to cover it up — just kidding, never mind — but Ju-yeol suddenly shouted so loud the speaker crackled.
“Hyuk-ss! Didn’t I tell you not to doubt yourself? You’re definitely gonna debut! Even if you get dropped — huh? — I’ll debut you from my living-room corner if I have to! So don’t you dare worry!”
“……”
“You’re gonna make it, Yoon Hyuk! Nobody knows that better than me! Just trust me!”
It was laughably baseless confidence.
He often said ridiculous things, but debuting from the living-room corner was a new one. What did that even mean? Yoon Hyuk wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Somehow, that absurd positivity comforted him.
The call ended there.
But whenever things got rough afterward, that voice came back to him.
Fine. If nothing else works, I’ll just debut in his living room.
Mumbling that nonsense to himself always made everything feel less serious.
And just as Ju-yeol had sworn, Yoon Hyuk did debut — not from a living room, but from that same survival show where he’d been mocked as a perpetual C-grade.
When viewers later saw that call broadcast, the entire nation collectively lost it.
People cried over dinner watching it — over the then-unknown pair’s silly conversation. It was funny, but somehow it hurt. It was the first time Yoon Hyuk, always stoic and wordless, had let out a hint of weakness.
The call became a meme online.
Later, when Yoon Hyuk promoted the drama of Ju-yeol’s first supporting role, their friendship resurfaced, and the two were officially labeled the “Room-corner Best Friends.”
“…Yeah, yeah. Just drive already.”
“Okay!”
It was a ridiculous nickname, but he didn’t mind it.
Once he confirmed the car had safely exited the parking lot, Yoon Hyuk dozed off without realizing. His body was still worn out from recent album promotions — schedules packed too tightly, rest too scarce.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept.
A strange chill prickled his skin, and when he cracked his eyes open, he saw they were still on the road. Blinking a few times, the view outside sharpened — highway lights.
“What the—?”
Startled, Yoon Hyuk shot upright. The drive home was only twenty minutes; why were they on a highway? He turned and saw Ju-yeol gripping the steering wheel, smiling awkwardly, knuckles white and trembling.
Then he checked the navigation.
The ETA that had once said 20 minutes now read 1 hour 13 minutes.
The sign ahead showed they were leaving Seoul.
“Hey… no way.”
“Hyuk-ah…”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
He tried to deny reality, but Ju-yeol’s tearful face confessed the truth.
“Nobody would let me merge…”
“……”
Yoon Hyuk just wanted to go back to sleep.