Thirty-Five
Hana arrives later in the afternoon. Jihoon asked Yeong to collect her from the airport, and after they pick me up from the hotel, we head to Jihoon’s apartment. It’s near Itaewon in a neighborhood called Hannam-dong, close to most of the places we want to see over the next couple days. We’re both dozing when my phone dings with some photos from Jihoon. The first is the whole band dressed as princes in lush velvet and brocade and tight pants laced at the front with high boots, standing in what looks like a baroque fairy-tale throne room in outer space.
The second is of him and Kit, back-to-back and looking at the sky. The last is of him, alone, standing near a rock with a light saber, King Arthur style. He’s looking straight at the camera with his tongue touching his lip, dangling a crown from his hand. I make an ungodly noise, and Hana is instantly awake.
“Is that Kit?” Her eyes bug out as she looks at the second photo. Then she blinks. “Hoonie sent you their concept photos? Unedited?”
“I guess. He said they had a shoot today.”
“Do you have any idea how secret these are? StarLune’s concepts might as well be stored in Fort Knox. If these get leaked, there will be chaos in the fandom.”
“I’m not going to leak them,” I protest. I can’t stop looking at the photos. He’s not even a person right now, and it’s clear why they’re called idols. This is Min, not Jihoon. The uncertainty stirs in my chest again but is immediately quelled by knowing he trusted me enough to send the shots.
Hana scrolls through the photos. “Starrys are going to go nuts with how hot these are. It makes sense with the hints Newlight’s been dropping about the new album.”
I make a face and content myself with sending a series of fire emojis to Jihoon.
“You don’t know anything about what they’re planning, do you?”
“We don’t talk about that a lot.” We texted frequently but haven’t been able to meet again thanks to his punishing schedule.
She glares at me. “Pretending he isn’t who he is isn’t helpful.”
It takes me a minute to parse this out, but when I do, I decide to ignore it. “I was busy. This was a work trip.”
“You were busy ignoring the fact that you are dating Jihoon and Jihoon is a vocalist for StarLune.”
“We’re not dating.” Not if dating includes actual dates.
She waves this away. “If you’re not seeing anyone else, then it’s close enough.”
“Hana, I am doing my best, but it’s an adjustment.” Another photo comes in. Jihoon has his jacket open, and he’s wearing a sorry excuse for a shirt, thin lace that covers nothing. I brandish the phone at her to prove my point. “This is not what regular guys do. We’re going to talk about it after the VIP concert.”
“Good.” Satisfied to know there is a talk scheduled, Hana relaxes and leans over me. “Tell him to send one of Kit. Sangjun, too.”
I grab my phone protectively. “Tell him yourself.”
“I’m not supposed to see these, remember? Because they’re under lock and key, but apparently you’ve recalibrated your boyfriend’s give-a-fuck-ometer to zero.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Not officially.
She does a yap-yap motion with her hand. “Whatever.”
A final photo comes in, a selfie. It’s Jihoon again, same outfit, same incredibly toned lace-covered chest, but he’s blowing a kiss.
In this territory, Jihoon is a visual king, and as a mortal, I can’t compete. I poke Hana, and we make monster faces to send back.
We drive up to what looks like a regular apartment complex, although the Pentagon-tight security checkpoints we need to negotiate indicate it’s not for average people at all. There are three-sixty-degree cameras tucked into trees and mounted on walls, small robots buzzing along the paths, and guards patrolling the grounds. The driver drops us off at a painting-filled lobby decorated with a chandelier ornate enough to grace czarist Russia at its most opulent.
Like a hotel, there’s a concierge who greets us with a friendly smile but whom I suspect is a combat master ready to take down intruders. I wouldn’t be surprised if tucked under the desk is an AK-47 and panic buttons that would cause gates to slam down on all the entrances. Hana deals with the details and soon hands me a fob. “Here. Your key.”
She taps hers against the numberless pad in the elevator, and when we arrive at the floor, it opens right into the apartment. It’s one of those design elements that looks good in movies but feels strange. I need a hallway.
We walk into a foyer with vertical lights hanging from the ceiling, which must be fifteen feet high.
We’re here, I text Jihoon.
His response comes immediately. Home within an hour. Make yourself comfortable.
“They’ve renovated since I was last here,” Hana says as she explores. To call this place an apartment is an understatement. It’s so cavernous it echoes, and it includes a music room with a piano and guitars as well as the multiple bedrooms. The floors are polished stone and covered by pretty rugs. It’s a lot to take in.
“This one is yours,” Hana says, peeking into one of the rooms.
“Why?” I’m in the main bathroom, which has a separate shower and jacuzzi tub, but I go over. “Wow.”
A gorgeous bouquet of primroses and tiger flowers stands on the desk, and orchids decorate the side tables. I check the other room. “This has flowers, too,” I point out.
“Gerberas,” she says. “Pretty.”
“Why did he give me a guest room instead of asking me to stay with him?”
She sits on the bed and stretches her arms back. “I assume this is about Jihoon, and I further assume it was because he wanted you to have your own space.”
“Doesn’t he want, you know.” I make a wiggle motion with my hand. “To be together?”
Hana makes a moue of distaste. “I’m two doors down.”
“You know what I mean.”
She sits up. “Let me check my Jihoon translator.” She rubs her temples and closes her eyes like a fairground psychic. “I’m getting vibes that…let me see…okay, it’s coming through, and the spirits say you should use your words and ask him yourself.”
“Hana, come on.”
“Communication is central to a healthy relationship. I keep telling you this.”
We bring in our suitcases, and I continue to investigate while Hana showers. She joins me while I’m staring into a small fridge I found in the kitchen. After a peek over my shoulder, she pushes me aside to rifle through because it’s stuffed full of skin-care items instead of food. “He’s got the full Beauté Diable line,” she says, pulling out a package with reverent hands. “This is a fifty-dollar sheet mask.”
“Let’s see if they have anything to eat besides retinol serums.” I’m nauseous, but it could be from either anticipation or hunger.
She opens the larger, non-cosmetics fridge and some drawers before admitting defeat and handing me a banana. “Not much apart from microwave rice and ramen.”
“Aren’t they millionaires?”
She points at the cosmetics fridge. “Millionaires with priorities.”
We eat the bananas standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room as we debate stealing Jihoon’s sheet masks to alleviate the physical effects of Hana’s jet lag and my residual hangover. The Han River looks gray and sad under a cloudy late-afternoon sky, and my tension rachets up with each minute that passes.
When the door finally opens, it’s a surprise even though I’ve been waiting for it. Jihoon comes in first and drops his bag on the floor before kicking off his shoes and crossing the room in long strides to wrap me in a hug that feels like home. He keeps his arm around me as Kit comes over to greet Hana with a smile and a tight embrace while watching me with distrust over her shoulder. It gives his face an interesting expression, and I make sure to give him a big toothy grin to be a jerk, even though his contempt is well-earned after what I did to Jihoon at the airport in Toronto. He shuts his eyes.
Any worries I had about Jihoon’s welcome and what it would be like to see him after the café talk melt away as he keeps me tucked in tight. Both men are coiffed and made up and look more like models than flesh and blood, but they pepper Hana with enthusiastic questions about the flight, the drive from the airport, and if we’re hungry.
“You only have dehydrated pucks,” says Hana. “That’s not food.”
“Easily rectified.” Kit pulls out his phone and puts in a sushi order before heading off to take a shower.
Jihoon runs his hand down my arm. “Let me change.”
Alone again, Hana and I fall into a weary silence. “After I eat, I need to sleep,” she says.
“Jihoon says they need to leave again anyway.” He showed me their schedule, and it was packed from morning to night with interviews, show appearances, practices, and rehearsals. The new album and the concert are keeping them busy.
She doesn’t answer, but her head nods down onto her chest. With Jihoon here, some of my stress has transformed into exhaustion, and I relax on the couch beside her, barely registering the dip of the cushions when Jihoon comes back to burrow into my side. It’s restful to have him here, not doing anything but breathing.
Conversation over dinner is a mess of Hana and I trying to keep our eyes open and both men’s phones flashing with notifications every few seconds. The two of them do their best to keep to English but occasionally drop back into Korean when a message comes through.
“You should rest,” Jihoon says as they get ready to go. He’s barefaced and dressed in gigantic maroon sweats that hang off his lean frame. Kit is already at the door pulling on his shoes. “We’ll be late, but I’ll text.”
He doesn’t kiss me goodbye, which I do my best to not read anything into. Hana barely waits for the door to close before she stumbles down the hall, muttering about jet lag. I turn out the lights and linger in the living room, comfy in an oversize chair. The city is on display, and too lazy to go to bed, I watch the lights flicker on and off as people go about their business. Finally I drift off, head resting on the side of the chair and hands tucked in my lap.
“Ari?” A gentle touch on my shoulder wakes me up. Coming out of a deep sleep means I’m not sure exactly where I am, but Jihoon is sitting on the floor beside me.
“Hi.”
Now he smiles, but he looks weary. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
I sit up straight and rub my eyes. “What time is it?”
“Past two.” He leans against my knee, and I run my hand through his hair. “Why are you not in bed?”
“You gave me my own room.” In my half-awake state, it’s easier to say what’s bothering me. “Is it because you want your space?”
Jihoon looks up at me and blinks. “I was being respectful. I know you don’t like to be woken up, and I have to leave early.”
That’s thoughtful and he’s right, I do hate waking up. I can make some sacrifices, though. “We don’t have much time.”
Perceptive as he is, he reads between the lines to what I want to say. “I want to see you when I can, too.” He urges me up and leads me to his room.
It’s bigger than the one he gave me but has the impersonal air of a hotel. I climb on the bed and look around. “You didn’t decorate much.”
“I’m not here enough to bother.” He says it indifferently as he sorts through some bottles on the desk.
This time, instead of letting it go, I take a page from the Book of Jihoon and simply ask what I want to know. “Why is it not worth the bother to make it homey?”
Jihoon stops, and I watch his face in the mirror as his eyes move over the room. “Your place in Toronto,” he finally says. “You had some photos up and little figurines on the desk that you liked.”
“They’re ceramic birds,” I say. “Two in a cage, one in flight. Hana gave them to me.”
He sits down on the bed beside me. “When we were younger, Newlight did a lot of filming in our rooms. Fans would dissect everything they saw, so there were no secrets. We learned to hide anything truly personal.”
“Do they film in this apartment?”
He shakes his head. “Kit hyeong and I refused. We needed some space to be ourselves.” We both look around the bare room, and he gives a small laugh. “I suppose the old habits stuck with me.”
“You must have some art or something you enjoy.”
Jihoon jumps from the bed and goes to his closet, where he pulls out a small wooden bowl. It’s carved from a knot and polished to a dull glow. “I bought this last year from a street vendor,” he says, curving his hands around it. “The person didn’t know who I was, and we haggled for ten minutes. Usually people try to give me things for free because it’s good for promotion.”
He puts it down on the desk, frowns, and shifts it to the left. Then he’s in the closet again. This time he brings out a statue of a tiger, a strange dark work that mixes Tigger’s goofiness with the menace of a wild animal. “From an artisan in Thailand,” he says. “She begged me not to display it because she didn’t want to be overwhelmed by Starry requests.”
“Why not?”
“She wanted her work to go to people who appreciated her skill, not those who wanted one because I did.”
“They can be one and the same,” I point out.
He nods in agreement. “I agree, but she said time would tell. Not everyone knows our fans the way we do.”
Jihoon studies the newly decorated desk before giving it a nod of satisfaction and me a quick kiss. I’m already dozing when he comes back from the shower. Once he’s in bed, I pull him up so his head tucks under my chin, his long body half covering mine. “Tell me you want to be here,” he says in a low voice.
“I do.”
I can feel him smile. “It was like coming home to see you in the chair. I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”
“How are the rehearsals?”
He makes a humming sound, the muscles in his chest and stomach shifting against me. “Difficult but manageable.”
I’m not sure if it’s worse to ask or not to ask, but I decide to keep going. “Are you worried about what happened last time, when you were at Olympic Stadium?”
Jihoon’s arms tighten around me, and he buries his face in my hair. “Every time we rehearse.”
“Hold on a sec.” I wriggle away from him and grab my wallet from my room.
He looks at the little silver hand I press into his palm when I return. “What’s this?”
I sit cross-legged next to him on the bed. “I was tense studying for my bar exam.” That’s putting it lightly—I’d never been so stressed in my life. “I was having an awful day and nothing was going right when I found this on the ground. It was like the universe was giving me a sign.” I rub my nose. “I know it sounds silly, but I brought it into my exams.”
“A good-luck charm.”
“More of a reminder. When I touched it, I told myself I’d worked hard and I could do it. You can’t do anything about the luck, but you can control the effort.”
“Now you’re giving it to me.” He sits up as well, duvet bunching around his waist.
I look over. “You work hard, Jihoon. I know you can do it.”
His eyes flash between me and the hand, which has the fingers outstretched as if waving a cheery hello. “Thank you.” He gets up and puts it in his wallet, then gives it a small pat after he zips the pocket shut.
When he gets back to bed, I draw him in until we’re lying with our legs tangled together.
“How tired are you?”
He stirs with interest beside me, rolling up on one elbow and looking down. “I feel slightly more alert now.”
“Then thank me better,” I tell him.
He grins. “That I can do.”
And he does.