Iseul stills, then turns slowly to face him. Recognition flickers in the man’s eyes. His gaze is stern, accentuated by his arched eyebrows, but the lilt in his voice makes him sound friendlier than he appears.
“You’re Han Iseul, aren’t you?”
“Sorry,” Iseul says, trying his best to sound neither sharp nor defensive, “but who are you?”
He’s wary. He has words prepared, like knives set out before him, but there’s no need to use them. The man doesn’t appear to be a typical fan of his, when his curled hair is carefully styled and his dress seems military in nature. A lanyard hangs around his neck, bearing his name and affiliation, and Iseul should have taken another look before potentially coming off as rude to him.
“I’m Kang Baekhyeon,” the man says, but the name doesn’t ring a bell. “I debuted under Hwang Empire a few months ago, so that makes me your hoobae. Should I call you sunbaenim or—?”
“Just my name is fine,” Iseul says quickly, because Baekhyeon seems to be a few years older than him. If he's an idol, then he has sharper features than most, but Iseul shouldn't be judging him by appearance even if that's what the industry has conditioned him to do. Somewhat apologetic, he offers his hand out for a handshake.
Baekhyeon stares at his outstretched hand, a moment long enough to start to make him feel uncomfortable, before grasping his hand and giving a firm shake.
“It’s nice seeing you here. I was invited to perform at the festival,” Baekhyeon reveals, tapping against the name tag attached to the lanyard. A holographic sticker of a cartoon swan shines at the edge of the card. “Did you come all the way here to perform as well?”
Iseul doesn't want to reveal too much just yet. “Something like that.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you on stage again,” Baekhyeon says, as though he’s watched him perform before. “Are you working on some new music then?”
“Well—”
Iseul startles as the door in front of him slides open. Kuro blinks at him, hair tousled with bedhead, but his confusion at seeing him standing outside quickly slides to faint annoyance.
“So you came here with Lee Kuro,” Baekhyeon states, lacking any inflection.
Kuro leans against the door with his arms crossed, staring at their neighbor with a look that tells Iseul it’s way too early for this, even though it’s nearly the afternoon. “Is there a problem?”
Baekhyeon looks between the two of them, then raises his shoulders in an effortless shrug. “No, not really. I’m not the kind of person to discriminate.”
“That’s good to know,” Kuro says mildly, but Iseul can hear the tension underlying his voice. There's usually a cheerful cadence in his tone, whether he's being truthful or not, but the lack of it makes Iseul question the faint change in his behavior. He arches a brow, making no effort to add onto the conversation.
“Well then,” Baekhyeon says, raising a hand to wave casually. “Sorry for taking up your time. I’ll see you around, Han Iseul."
“Yeah,” Iseul says, breathing out all the tension that gathered in his frame, “see you.”
* * *
“I didn’t expect to see him here,” Kuro tells him.
Kuro slides the door shut behind him, but instead of looking at Iseul, he stares at the floor. Something about his expression falls short of usual, when his gaze holds an absent sort of contemplation, too distant from what he can comprehend.
Iseul strives for a conversational tone when he asks, “Do you know him?”
“More or less.”
Kuro sinks down onto one of the cushions, crossing his legs and leaning his back against the low wooden table. For a moment Iseul thinks that’s all he has to say, but then he looks up and meets his eyes.
“He was one of the contestants in Produce 101 Season 6. Eliminated during the semi-finals since he was older than most of the other contenders—but Hwang Empire decided to debut him as a solo artist. I think he would’ve been a good leader if they debuted him in a group, but I suppose something about him didn’t mesh well with the others.”
“I don’t really keep up with shows like that.” Iseul sits on one of the cushions next to him. He could never tell anyone apart on the show if he had to pick from 101 idol trainees to vote for. “I didn’t think you did either.”
“I don’t,” Kuro says, shrugging. “Aera voted for him faithfully. You have no idea how much she cried when he didn’t make it to the final 11.”
Iseul stifles a smile at her dedication. Chairman Noh mentioned, once, that he would never send any of their trainees to those kinds of idol survival programs, making Iseul secretly thankful that he never had to participate.
It takes an entertainment agency years of financial investment to debut an idol group, only to potentially never see a profit. On the other hand, it takes a broadcasting company a few months to assemble a group through public opinion, eventually pulling in the majority of profits from the show and management of the winning group’s activities. Even if one of their trainees gains exposure from the show, the earnings of someone who made their way into the winning group wouldn’t benefit the company.
Iseul chooses not to watch these shows because they force trainees—more often than not teenagers—into a stressful environment before they’ve had the chance to develop themselves or learn how to handle harsh criticism from strangers who only know them from the other side of the screen. He thinks of the older trainees with six, seven years of training, eliminated only because they don’t have the appearance that the public favors. Reputations damaged so badly that they might not ever debut.
These are the people who are thrust back into their agency, hearts weighed with too much uncertainty about where they’ll go from there. But Baekhyeon’s a survivor, and that’s impressive in and of itself.
“So,” Iseul says, slow and careful, “is it a bad thing that he’s here?”
“I don’t know.” Kuro’s frown deepens slightly, enough that although Iseul’s still learning the nuances in his expressions, he knows enough to notice when something bothers him. “You don’t have to worry about Kotone releasing any information to the fans about our stay here, but I didn’t expect we’d meet anyone else who would know us.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and letting out a sigh. “If anything, I’d be concerned that, well, you were uncomfortable.”
Iseul shakes his head. “I think I’m fine.”
That doesn't seem to be the answer that Kuro’s searching for. An urge nags at him to do something, anything, when tension still weighs in the air around them.
“Do you want to get something to eat?” Iseul gestures aimlessly around him. He hopes that his attempt to lighten the mood doesn't fall flat. “We don’t have to stay here right now.”
“Yeah?” Kuro eases up, because his expression softens into one that he wears when things are more casual and conversational between them. “Yeah. I’d like to go out into town and get breakfast.”
“It’s past noon,” Iseul points out.
“Then,” Kuro says with a quiet smile, “let’s get something else to eat.”
He has good control over the kind of presence he wants to exude, but for some reason, that bothers Iseul more. He should be the one being reassured by Iseul, not the other way around.
“Sure,” Iseul says. “I still don't quite understand the traditions around here, but is it fine if I dress normally today? My feet hurt from wearing those sandals yesterday.”
From what he can see, people in Shiratori wear traditional garments wherever they go. He doesn’t mind standing out from the rest if it means that he can actually walk in his shoes without limping and waking up the next day without skin chafed raw.
Kuro suddenly shifts closer to him, putting his weight on one knee.
Iseul blinks rapidly, drawing his legs back. “What are you—”
“Just checking,” Kuro murmurs.
He carefully lifts Iseul’s right ankle off the floor, searching for any sign of injuries. He moves his foot up and down, but nothing elicits a pained reaction from Iseul. The unexpected touch just makes him shiver.
“It’s no big deal,” Iseul mumbles, trying not to sound flustered. It’s one thing to be aware of Kuro’s presence around him, but another to actually feel his warmth so keenly against his skin. “Just had some blisters yesterday.”
“You have to take care of your voice as a singer.” Kuro’s voice borders on unsettling, how soft it is. He wraps his hand around his ankle, where all the scars from his training regimen have been carved into his skin. “Your body as a dancer.”
“I know.” Iseul isn't some newcomer who needs to be taken care of.
There couldn’t be anything worse than the stress fractures he had to endure during his trainee days, risking permanent damage to his ankles. The integrity of his body was a price he was forced to pay to get this far with his performances.
Kuro gently places his foot down, then stands up to retrieve a duffle bag from the corner of the room. “You should wear your old shoes, but you can borrow some clothes from me.”
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