“Yah, Ari, you know better.”
“Thank you for the gifts. I love them.”
“You deserve to have things as special as you, and I thought the jacket would be more welcome than the shoes I promised you back in Toronto.” He pauses. “Enjoy yourself.”
Smiling from the compliment, I pass on the message to Hana, who is ecstatic at the idea of seeing the band after the show. “They’ll be sweaty.” She swoons. “Panting from exertion. Chests heaving.”
“Gross.”
“Shut up.” She laughs. “It’s fun to look.”
Hana hands me a pair of earplugs. There’s no opening band for StarLune concerts, and the lights cut out at exactly seven, leaving us in a warm shared darkness lit only with the light sticks that fans wave around. A screen lights up in center stage with a video of StarLune set to a hypnotic driving beat.
Beside me, Hana’s already screaming. I’m too stunned to even think. This entire experience is physical and visual overload. The noise batters at me, and I want to cover my ears with my hands. I’ve never been to a real concert in my life, and this is so much different than I expected that it’s hard to take in. It’s not a show but an extravaganza. There are screens hanging everywhere. There’sinfrastructure.
Jihoon’s growl blasts out from the speakers. Hana jerks me forward, screaming even louder.
When the white lights pierce the darkness of the venue like knives, we’re both hugging and yelling. It’s so cathartic that when Jihoon’s voice stops and the pounding beat starts up again, my knees weaken. The screens explode with red lights, and now Daehyun’s voice roars out, attacking me right down to my bones. On the other side of me, a girl shrieks as if she’s been stabbed, and the light sticks held by the fans pulse with the music in a kaleidoscope of coordinated color all around the arena. People are chanting, and it takes me a minute to realize it’s the band members’ names.
By the time the center screen lifts, I can barely breathe. StarLune rises from the stage backlit with spotlights, and all they do is stand there as they’re revealed to the howling audience. The lights flash on, and they pose for a single perfect moment. They’re dressed in white, gold, and black, complementary but not identical. Jihoon’s face, the flawless mask of an idol, fills the screens. His lips are perfectly pouted, his jawline sharp enough to cut diamond. He doesn’t look real.
Jihoon breaks the pose to glance at Kit, who’s next to him, and the crowd roars. He turns back and tilts his head as if judging us. He doesn’t smile.
The crowd loves it. I love it.
Jihoon’s the first to move down the flight of steps, one hand in his pocket and his swagger so utterly breathtaking that Hana pounds me on the arm. “Holyshit, that’s my boy,” she hollers.
I can’t answer because I have my hands up to my mouth like I’ve seen a ghost. The five of them walk to the center of the stage and stop. For a blessed moment, the crowd’s din lowers to only thunderous.
Then Jihoon lifts his mic, and the five move as one.
I don’t take my eyes off him for almost three hours, and by the time they’re done, both Hana and I collapse back into our seats,spent. Except for a few breaks to change outfits—when they would play videos on the screens that showed StarLune as spies—and to talk to the audience, the band had been in action the entire time.
“That was…” I can’t even finish and flutter my shirt to try to dry some of the sweat.
“It was.” Hana’s voice is so hoarse from screaming, she can barely speak over a whisper.
I thought I’d feel silly for cheering Jihoon on, like I was some sort of rah-rah fangirl, but the hell with that. He was astounding, but he wasn’t Jihoon on that stage. He was Min, StarLune vocalist and idol, and he was utterly in his element. He deserved to be admired for the work he put in and how he pulled it off. Around us, people are buzzing and taking photos. I’m too wrung out to move.
When the venue is about half-empty, a man comes to the barricade, security cards dangling from his neck, and makes eye contact with us. He nods to an exit around the side of the stage.
Beside me, Hana is chanting, “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” and I know exactly what she means, because although I’m trying to be cool, the whole backstage thing is nerve-racking. Part of me wants to tell Hana I’ll meet her at home because I feel suddenly shy about seeing Jihoon. He was alive on that stage. No matter what he said, he was made for this.
We follow the security guy through a maze of cinder-block corridors, and when we arrive, the space is nothing like I expect. For one, it’s small and crowded, with women in artistically ripped crew sweatshirts chattering as they sort through portable hanging closets, people eating from a buffet, and people handing each other drinks as they lounge on black leather couches.
I hear Jihoon laugh in the corner, and my eyes seek him out. Here in this busy little room, he’s nothing like the megastar I saw onstage. He’s only Jihoon. His gaze catches mine, and for a moment, there’s no one in the room but the two of us.
Of course, like all perfect moments, it slips away almost before I notice it happening.
A silence settles as people see us. Jihoon bounces over to make an introduction to the room at large. When Hana bows and I wave, the eyes on us become less distrustful. I’m about to ask how he introduced me, but Jihoon leans over.
“What did you think?” He drips with sweat, shirt open halfway down his chest and an ice pack draped around the back of his neck.
“I loved it.” That’s all I can say, but Jihoon smiles at me as he pushes his hair off his face. “You were unreal.”
“We worked hard,” he says.
Kit comes up, and we look at each other.