Iseul’s newfound success led to discussions of what kind of concepts he would return with next, if there were other genres of music he wanted to do, if he had other talents instead of looking pretty and singing songs produced for him.
It was easy being fifteen and getting to know fame for the first time, even if it meant trading his passions for everyone’s cheers. He trained for all those years only to end up singing songs with stories he never experienced, never quite related to.
It’s not so easy being twenty and looking back on everything he’s done and wondering if it was all for nothing. Performance thrives in his blood, but it’s one thing to endure his fair share of criticism over the years, and another thing entirely to hear it come from Kuro, for him to say that he isn’t able to inspire people through the words he writes.
Iseul’s fingers curl tight into the comforter. Jaw set and teeth grit, he draws the thick covers over his shoulders, smothering himself in it. Something inside him rises like the tide, threatens to overflow and overtake his calm, but he pushes back.
Enough of doubting himself.
The sound of a key turning interrupts the silence of the room. Light slants through the doors as Kuro steps into the darkness.
“Do you always sleep this early?” Kuro asks, as if fully aware that he’s awake.
“I stick to my routines,” Iseul eventually answers. For someone who enjoys routines, there’s currently a lot of unpredictability in his life, more so since he became involved with Kuro. “How was the rest of dinner?”
“Just fine. Kotone said to come down for coffee tomorrow morning.” Kuro steps to where the other futon has been laid out, right beside Iseul’s own, and lets out a soft laugh. “It’s a little too early to sleep, but I think I’ll join you.”
The sound of clothing being divested rustles through the air, and Iseul shuts his eyes tight, fervently hoping that Kuro doesn't sleep in the nude.
After a moment, Kuro slides beneath the covers of his futon. If they had more pillows, then Iseul surely would’ve set up a makeshift barrier between them. “Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine,” Iseul says, unaware of what prompted the question. It’s too dark to see the expression on Kuro’s face, but his skin prickles with the awareness that Kuro’s only a hair’s breadth away, close enough that he can feel his body heat in the space between them. “Just uncertain.”
“Do you not want to do the concert?”
“No. I mean—yes.” Iseul draws in a sharp breath. “It’s just difficult right now. Writing songs might not be anything new to you, but this is a huge deal for me.” It's as though the sea rises within him, obscuring words in his throat, making his lungs feel very tight. He's helpless to stop it. When he speaks again, his voice comes out too quiet, too shaky. “I don’t like that I don’t know what to do about my writing because I don’t know the story I’m supposed to tell.”
“Iseul?”
Iseul can hear the surprise in Kuro’s voice, but he continues. “Knowing that I’ll be performing in front of an audience without having any preparation done so far is making me far too anxious and I don’t know where I should start. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, even if you’re here by my side—”
“Iseul, hold on—”
“I’m grateful that you want to help me. I really am.” With all the conviction he has in the world, he says, “So I’m going to perform regardless.” It feels better to hear himself say it aloud. “I’m going to finish writing my songs and perform in front of everyone. It’s a worse feeling to think about you thinking I can’t do it.”
“I—” Kuro’s breath hitches. “Wow.”
The world has its attention on him, and the stage is his now. Kuro’s given him this opportunity, and he’s resolved to follow through with it. He has every right to berate himself for his shortcomings, but if there’s one thing he refuses to allow, it’s letting anyone else think that he isn’t capable.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you," Kuro says, awed, "but I'll be here for you the entire time. I won't let you fail.”
It sounds like a promise.
When Iseul doesn’t respond, choosing to wait for his breathing to even out instead, silence stretches between them for some time. He's too embarrassed by his sudden candor to speak. They lay there without moving, listening to the padded footsteps and creaks echoing across the hallway, the faraway wind rustling the trees, the water meeting the shore. It’s not an uncomfortable silence but more of a tentative stillness, as if words remain unsaid in the air.
He doesn’t feel that troubled at the fact that Kuro’s lying beside him. In the time that he’s known of Kuro, he’s never heard of Kuro going public with a romantic relationship, or even being caught spending the night with someone else. He’s been involved with every rumor possible with each of bandmates, paired up with Hwang Sua for aesthetic appeal, even with Yoon Hanbyul—but who hasn’t gotten into a scandal with Hanbyul?
“I can’t sleep,” Kuro eventually says.
Iseul huffs. He feels calmer, now that he's gotten his concerns off his chest. “Can I ask you something then?”
He makes out the shadow of Kuro propping himself up on an elbow, leaning over to look over at him. “Anything.”
Iseul marks a contemplative pause, considers the sincerity in Kuro’s answer, before he finds the words he wants to say. He settles back against his pillow and stares up into the darkness. “How often do you go home?”
He can feel Kuro looking at him, though there’s not much he could possibly see. “It’s difficult when I’m busy with my schedules, but I return as often as I can. Anywhere from once a month to once a year. What about you?”
“Not often,” Iseul murmurs, as though he’s confiding one of his most well-guarded secrets. Perhaps, he is. He returned once in four years if only because Leo asked to come along at the time.
“Are you not on good terms with your family?”
“That’s—” His voice grows hushed even though Kuro’s the only one in the room. He used to do this with his cousin Sion as children, simply lying down in their beds and whispering about everything on their minds, from the stories they found in his father’s study to what it would be like one day if Iseul really became an idol. “That’s not it. I just haven’t spoken to them in a while.”
“Not even a phone call?”
“They don’t have cell phones or anything like that. They all live in a small village in the countryside.”
“You could always send letters to them,” Kuro says thoughtfully, not at all astonished by his revelation. “Who do you have waiting for you back home?”
“My parents and my younger cousin. He’s my younger brother and childhood friend and everything at the same time,” Iseul says softly, his cheek pressing into his pillow. He doesn’t divulge much about himself, but when it comes to his loved ones, somehow he has much more to say. “He struggled with health problems ever since we were young, mostly with his vision, so he was never really able to watch me perform.”
“But he listened to your music,” Kuro says.
“He did—” Iseul corrects himself. “He does. When I earned enough money to pay for his eye surgery, I went home to visit. That was the last time I saw them.”
“That’s really impressive.” Kuro’s the kind of person to grant the wishes of his fans with practiced ease, but judging from the faint wonder in his tone, he isn’t saying that simply to be nice. “Did they oppose your debut?”
“No way,” Iseul breathes out. “They’ve always been supportive of me, even if the rest of my village admonished those who wanted to leave. I thought that—if I were to return, I needed to have brought back something or become something they could be proud of. I didn’t want to return as the person I used to be.”
At the time, he wanted everything but the familiarity of his home and the confines of its forest, where the trees spread around and arched over him like a cathedral. His family respected his decision when he left, believing in him as someone who would bring about change to the conventions of their people, even though he’s barely done anything to prove them right. At the memory, his chest swells with an unmistakable longing, an ache in his heart that speaks of absence in his life.
“I think,” Kuro says, his voice growing low, “your family would be proud of you regardless. Their love should be unconditional, not something that you have to prove you deserve. Don’t you think so?”
His voice is so steady, so sure. He says things without caring how he says them, always truthful. He has a way of making things sound simple, somehow always knowing how to say the right thing, even when what Iseul feels is far from it. Where does it all come from anyway?
But even if Iseul registers what he said, the words curl around his head like mist. He didn’t come here to talk about feelings with Kuro the entire time. He didn’t leave his family to become an artist with one signature song to his name, only to fade into obscurity. He should have something to show for all his efforts, but all he has now is the heavy weight in his chest and the stiffness in his limbs from exerting himself after long, unforgiving nights. “I don’t want to disappoint them with how I am now.”
The pause after that is abrupt, and Kuro asks, “Don’t you miss them?”
Iseul swallows, feeling himself choke up. It takes a great deal of effort to continue speaking. “I do.”
He could send letters to them, but penning words on paper is just as difficult as writing a song. He doesn’t want to have to continue telling them how much he misses them, reassuring them that he’s fine just so that they won’t have to worry. Complaining about how difficult his hiatus is or mentioning how homesick he feels, isn’t a privilege that he’s earned yet.
“None of this is your fault,” Kuro reminds him, careful and patient and kind. He lies back down on the futon, turning on his side to face Iseul. It probably shows on his face, but it’s a look that Iseul can’t stomach right now. “I think that your situation reflects your company’s management, because your first two albums demonstrated just how well you were doing. Noh Media should’ve given you new releases to build your momentum as a solo artist, and for you to disappear after all that success, your company had to have to messed up internally.” As an afterthought, he adds, “No offense.”
“Mm,” is all Iseul can say. Tiredness hums in his bones, but Kuro’s words are as crisp and clear as the windchimes hanging outside the inn, filling his chest with something that feels like relief.
“If you’re on good terms with your family, then they should be happy to hear from you. It’s not like you don’t have good news either. You’re making your return to the industry and—” Kuro pauses. “You allegedly have a boyfriend now. I think you have some explaining to do.”
That draws a laugh from Iseul, restrained but very real. Maybe, if he considers what Kuro says, holding back from contacting his family was never the right decision in the first place.
A soft breath escapes him, something between a yawn and a sigh. He takes this as a warning to refrain from deviating from his routine any further. His thoughts are quiet, leaving him a strange sense of peace. Weariness laps at his mind like the darkness of the sea, drawing him in and sweeping him away with the undertide.
Iseul shifts beneath the covers of his futon and closes his eyes. “Good night, Kuro.”
Through the haze of sleepiness, he vaguely realizes this is the first time he’s said Kuro’s name out loud. He ends their conversation here, just so it’s the last thing he remembers before he falls asleep.
It’s a very new feeling to open up to someone, but maybe, he might not mind so much after all.
Too quiet that he almost doesn’t hear, Kuro says, “Good night.”
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