Even if his words aren’t rehearsed, Iseul refuses to stumble over them and present himself as unsure, hesitant, because this isn’t a story that’s unfamiliar to him, written by someone else. These are his own words and there is no better person to write them.
“But home doesn’t have to mean Nami, because a part of me belongs to Seoul too,” Iseul says, entirely sincere. “I’m still coming to terms with what you said—how returning home doesn’t have to be conditional. There are people I can fall back to, regardless of where I go.”
After years of believing that choosing one had to mean leaving the other, Iseul finally understands that it never needed to be true. It feels so much more real, being able to put this into words.
His childhood in Nami had its melodies nestled in the songbirds in the trees, the water flowing from the river, the quiet lullabies of his mother as she sang him to sleep, the secrets he and his cousin Sion exchanged as they explored the uncharted expanse of their home village.
Life in Seoul had its own music, familiar to him as the rush of cars through the bustling metropolitan, the pulse of neon letters from billboards illuminating the night sky, the heated cheer of fans resounding through indoor arenas, the laughs only he and Leo could share backstage.
He has memories in both places, people who love him and people he loves—and he’s comfortable with the knowledge that he can belong to both.
He watches as a smile blooms on Kuro’s face, the affection in its almost unconscious.
“Maybe,” Kuro says, “you’ll find yourself leaving a piece of yourself here too.”
It’s possible, because stories are never so straightforward. There are detours too, leading to places he would never expect.
Shiratori is as small as it is vast, an idyllic town found at the edge of the sea with a community thriving at its heart, welcoming him as though he were coming home. Time doesn’t hold its breath here like in Nami, where the hours stretched throughout the days without awareness of the cities beyond. Nor does it rush too quickly like in Seoul, where there was never any time to finish what he needed to do with too many burdens to bear.
Being in Shiratori slows things down for him, narrows his world into something smaller and more contained, regardless of what awaits him.
And it’s strange to think that in a week from now, it will be gone.
“Yes,” Iseul answers quietly, “I just might.”
* * *
“You must be having fun,” Leo says over the phone, and he can hear the grin in his voice.
“Are you sure about that?” Iseul counters. “Guess where we are.”
“Tell me,” Leo urges.
Iseul looks over his surroundings, then stops at where Kuro’s sitting. It’s not difficult to explain, just difficult to believe. Maybe if he says it aloud, it’ll feel more real. Kuro leans against one of the plush chairs in front of a towering wooden bookcase, book in hand. He looks like he belongs here, completely immersed in whatever he’s reading—only he’s reading a graphic novel.
Iseul’s voice falls into a whisper. “A manga museum.”
Silence answers him.
He stares blankly at several murals on the wall. The artists reinterpreted several European paintings to feature popular characters from animation, and he doesn’t know how to feel about this. At least, they’re varied in their interpretations instead of outright replicating the artwork.
“Is he,” Leo says, unsure, “some kind of otaku?”
“I have no idea. Is that a bad thing?”
“It doesn’t really match his image. Sometimes he’s this charismatic playboy in a suit and tie and other times he has this bad boy concept in a leather jacket or fur coat. He undergoes these transformations whether he wears his hair up or down.”
“Concepts don’t usually translate well to real life,” Iseul points out, because what Kuro’s reading happens to be a slapstick comedy series.
“Yeah,” Leo says, holding back a laugh. “Well, you might see a new side of him.”
“Maybe.” Iseul doesn’t say that he’s already seen different sides of him—the Kuro who loves to eat desserts as sweet as the things he tends to say, the Kuro who’s comfortable and quiet and at home beside the sea. He’s accepted that the Kuro he’s come to know is more than the person he knew through music.
Sometimes, he thinks that Kuro should be back in the city, composing songs for himself and his group and working with people Iseul would never be acquaintanced with. Someone who should be admired from a faraway distance.
Instead, Kuro’s here with him, entirely accessible.
“Are you working well with him?” Leo asks.
“I think I am,” Iseul says. “It’s a little different, but not bad, per se. I’ll let you know as time goes on.”
At Noh Media, the album development process was as structured as any other entertainment company. Iseul wasn’t allowed to attend any of the meetings when he was still a trainee, but as time went on, he was able to sit in the conference room when management reviewed Gyeoul’s compositions to select the title track for his album or worked with songwriters like Dambi to finish the lyrics.
On the other hand, Kuro doesn’t seem as structured with his music. Eventually, when Iseul returns to the city, he’ll have to spend time in Meteor Entertainment’s recording studios and practice rooms to prepare for his album and its promotions. But it’s this process of creating music that isn’t as constrained as before, that Iseul appreciates even if it isn’t as familiar to him. No longer does he have to pass his songs through gatekeepers to determine the future of his songs. He’s never known this kind of freedom before.
They’re doing much more than working around here, while Leo explains that he’s been busy meeting with Hwang Empire representatives to discuss the things that will extend past his album release. There will be press conferences, variety shows, interviews to attend—all the things that he never liked but always needed to do.
“Thanks for your hard work,” Iseul says, because Leo’s just as invested in his comeback as he is. “I’m going to use this time to work too, so I’ll talk to you later.”
“Keep in touch,” Leo says, not as his manager but as his friend. “I don’t want to have to be the first one to call or message you every time.”
“Yes, yes,” Iseul promises. “Bye now.”
He decides to explore the rest of his museum as Kuro reads. While they’re currently in the collection space where books can be removed from shelves and read freely, there are also exhibits in other sections of the museum dedicated to works from new artists as well as research. He walks past other visitors leaning against the shelves and reading on the floors to find one of the history exhibits, keen on learning more about the development of the art form.
Two young women repeatedly glance at him while he focuses on the artwork in the exhibition, flushing and smiling when he meets their eyes. At first, he thinks it’s because they recognize him. The thought dies a swift death when he realizes that the character on the wall bears a subtle resemblance to himself, blond hair and all.
Iseul shakes his head, then goes to observe the other side. The museum is fairly small outside of its collection, so it doesn’t take long for him to go through the exhibits.
Although he’s used to visiting art history museums, this is a new experience for him, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. Nowadays idol songs are used for mainstream animation series, so he can understand why the appeal in learning more about the subject.
He ends up taking a seat at one of the café tables outside the gift shop. Since he doesn’t have his notebook with him, he works through his ideas on his phone. He slides in an earbud and opens up one of the playlists that Leo curated for him, full of recent songs from Phantom. Working sends him into a quiet concentration as he pieces the fragments together, rewriting lines so that they flow into the next.
Half an hour passes before Kuro finds him, a paper gift bag in hand.
Iseul looks up, pulling out his earbud. “How was your book?”
Kuro offers him a smile. “I’m very fond of the author’s humor. It’s an out-of-print series, so it’s nice that this museum has one of the original copies.” Unexpectedly, he places the bag on the table, the front of it carrying the logo of the museum. “This is for you.”
Iseul blinks quickly in confusion. “You didn’t have to.”
“But I wanted to,” Kuro says, beaming at him. “For the dessert earlier.”
Iseul doesn't make a habit of accepting gifts very often. Even at his fanmeetings, he prefers receiving fan letters instead of material gifts, urging his fans to use their savings for a greater cause. But he remembers each and every thing he receives, keeping them by his desk and never tossing them out.
The tissue paper crinkles as Iseul reaches into the bag. He pulls out a small leather-bound notebook, smaller than the one he’s been using during his time here. Tucked within its front cover are three postcards with Shiratori’s seascape reimagined with different Japanese painting techniques.
“I thought that you could use them to write to your family.”
“Thank you.” Iseul’s voice comes out pleasantly surprised. “That’s very thoughtful of you. But now you’re going to make me feel as though I keep on owing you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Kuro says with a laugh. “You never have.”
It's a very odd thing to say, when Kuro has given him more than what he would have ever expected from him. Kuro keeps smiling at him, and he can't fight the small smile tugging at his own mouth.
There’s no doubt that Iseul appreciates the gesture, and he lets himself accept this without questioning it.
More than that, it relieves him when he recognizes that Kuro appears to be in a much better mood now.
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