Iseul’s stomach drops. A myriad of responses flickers through his mind and wells up at the back of his throat, but only one makes its way past his lips.

“What?”

The way Kuro says can’t rings through his mind, the way it did all those nights before when all he had was a blank canvas in front of him and no will to write. Disbelief fills every part of him when Kuro lays down the stack of papers on the desk.

Iseul tries to gather his voice, but all words leave him. The shame of it burns at his face and neck.

There's a measured sort of blankness to Kuro's face, showing Iseul how professional he can be, unlike the warm, teasing smiles he’s used to receiving. “I don’t want you to write to conform to what everyone else is doing or with the mindset that you’ll be writing a masterpiece. I want to know your story.”

“Story,” Iseul says numbly, a statement rather than a question.

“Anyone can write a song about heartbreak, but what makes it powerful is how vulnerable and sacred the feelings are to the writer and how those feelings are interpreted by the singer. More often than not, songwriters conjure up experiences for singers who don’t really understand the meaning behind them.” Like you, Kuro doesn’t say, but Iseul hears him all the same. “If you haven’t felt like your heart was torn apart by something, how can you evoke those same feelings from your listeners?”

Iseul has felt like his heart was shattered into innumerable pieces. Too many times to count. If he were younger, more inexperienced, he would have balked at his words, because how dare Kuro speak as if he knows anything about him?

But Iseul’s different now, and Kuro’s trying to help. Instead of challenging him, he tries to understand what he’s saying. “So my writing lacks depth?”

Kuro nods. “You’re good at expressing your emotions through performance, but penning them on paper is a different story. You’re the one responsible for your lyrics now, not anyone else, so I want you to write something that’s meaningful to you. Not the kind of song that other people want or expect from you. What kind of story do you want to tell the world?”

It’s true.

Iseul has always conveyed what he couldn’t with words through his body—that’s how he was able to debut as an artist in the first place. But no matter the confidence he carries himself with, it’s difficult to have created something, to have stripped himself down to his most vulnerable moments, only to be told that it’s lackluster.

When he had written these songs, he thought they were poignant.

Only now, a part of him agrees with Kuro because his words reflect exactly how he felt at the time—lackluster, lost, and unworthy of standing in the light again.

“I—” Iseul falters. “I’m not sure. I need to think about it more.”

Kuro grows silent, turning his gaze outside the window, beyond the city. Iseul’s slightly worried that he disappointed Kuro somehow when his expression doesn’t give way to anything, and his mind is miles away from what Iseul can fathom.

Finally, Kuro rises from his chair, gazing at him with a softness in his eyes. “That’s fine,” he says, as though he’s imparting mercy, trusting Iseul to make his own choices. “Let’s go find your story.”

* * *

Long car rides make Iseul sick.

He ends up in the passenger seat of one of Kuro’s more nondescript cars, and he can’t even look at the road. His stomach reacts poorly even when Leo shuttles him from one place to the other, maneuvering through traffic while abiding by the laws of the road, so it’s not surprising that he feels like he’s dying when Kuro doesn’t seem to know how to drive.

His body presses firmly into the seat as Kuro speeds as if the law doesn’t apply to him, changes lanes too much, swerves left and right, and all over. The world speeds by in a blur of colors as Kuro leaves all the cars behind him in the dust. Iseul’s heart is ready to beat out of his chest, and he thinks, I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye to you, Leo.

When the car slows down amidst traffic, coming to a stop abruptly, Iseul holds back the contents of his stomach. He shuts his eyes, head deliberately falling to the side and hitting the window with a dull thud. “Thank God.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing,” Iseul mutters. He doesn’t mind that they have to idle alongside traffic, because it means not having to endure Kuro’s reckless driving. The car rolls slightly forward, then stops. Forward and stops again.

The repeated lurching motion might make Iseul feel even more nauseous, but he prefers this to having to fear for his life on the road. The next fifteen minutes are spent in silence, and he tries to sleep—at least if he dies, he’ll die while subconscious—but sleep eludes him.

Meeting Kuro face-to-face, having him acknowledge his existence, was never meant to be anything more than a fantasy. Yet, he’s so close to Kuro here, sharing the same space as him, going on a sojourn together in search of a story.

Working with him is an honor that many can't afford, as he knows melodies as well as his own heartbeat, but Iseul doesn't understand why he chose him. He focuses on the song playing from the stereo now, a duet between Mina and Bora that tells of a relationship between two women who recognize each other as soulmates. His fingers drum to the beat, restless against the car door.

His anxiousness must be apparent because Kuro breaks the silence first. “Why Bora?”

Iseul opens his eyes. “What?”

“You chose her as your favorite.” A pause, fraught with hesitation. He can’t believe that Kuro remembered what he told him the evening of the concert. “Why do you like her?”

Iseul turns to him, but Kuro only stares forward, presenting him with a view of his profile. The slant of Kuro’s mouth is cautious, and he thinks that he sees Lee Aera in his features now. Years of seeing Kuro’s face in music videos, broadcasted music performances and commercials on television, pictorials in fashion magazines, have imparted upon him the knowledge that Kuro is attractive—the darkness of his eyes enigmatic, his smile charismatic.

So what does it mean when those features are so hesitant, so pensive?

“She has a deeper tone than other female idols,” Iseul answers, reminded of the high pitches that dominate Nayeon’s saccharine songs. “I like hearing her sing.”

Kuro seems to contemplate this deeply, his brows furrowing in thought. Iseul doesn’t play favorites, but he isn’t lying when he thinks that Bora is pleasant to listen to. If Nayeon’s songs are supposed to be as sweet as fairy floss, full of fluorescent colors and princess dresses and childish exclamations—then Bora’s songs are as seductive as wine, all lipstick-stained kisses and fur coats and sultry bravado.

“Not because she winked at you?”

“To be fair, you did that too,” Iseul answers flatly.

Oddly enough, Kuro’s laugh sounds relieved. “She does have an attractive voice. I thought she was your type.”

Iseul shakes his head in disbelief, because there are more important things to be concerned about. He lies back against the seat, folding his arms over his chest. “Whatever.”

“I wrote this song,” Kuro adds. “If you like this one.”

Iseul never mentioned anything about that. He doesn't know why he seems to care for Iseul's opinion so much. Even so, he decides to ask, “Where do you get your inspiration?”

“For this song?” Kuro pauses, taking a moment to think back to the memory. “Sometimes I can't help but steal stories from people I talk to and sneak them into my music.”

"Such as?”

“I found this story when Mina brought back a stray cat, knowing fully well she was allergic to it.” The corner of Kuro's mouth raises in a smile, only barely there. “When Mina was on her phone the entire day, listening to Bora go on and on about her trip even when they had a twelve hour time zone difference. When Bora went bare-faced and had her hair in a messy bun for an important photoshoot just because she wanted to prove a point to the world.”

His gaze softens with fondness, speaking of how much he cares for his members.

“If you’re asking about otherwise, I turn to my muse for inspiration,” Kuro continues. “Sometimes, even places. That’s why I’m taking you to one of my favorite places.”

“You haven’t even told me where we’re going.”

“We’re going to the sea.”

At that moment, he considers leaving Kuro and driving back to Seoul by himself. He’s torn between confusion and disbelief. “It’s ridiculously cold outside, and you want to go to the beach?”

“You can find stories anywhere,” Kuro says, a smile tilting on his lips, “but many of my stories have been found by the sea.”

* * *

When Kuro mentioned going to the sea, the most logical destination would be Naksan Beach in Gangwon Province or Haeundae Beach in Busan. Even Jeju Island would have made more sense than this.

One two-hour flight over the Pacific Ocean later, Iseul ends up in a rental car with Kuro in the middle of nowhere in Japan.