The announcement of the Seoul Pride Festival reverberated through CHROMATIC's schedule like a seismic shift. Rehearsals intensified, pushing them to their physical limits. StellarRise, usually meticulous, became even more demanding. Under the harsh glare of the boardroom lights, every spirit was measured in millimeters: microphone adjustments, pose approvals, 'Will that spin convey pride or insecurity?' It was a choreography of control, starkly opposed to the vibrant chaos of their true essence. Every dance move, every vocal inflection, every facial expression was scrutinized, analyzed, and often, re-scripted. They were to be the embodiment of "authenticity and self-expression," but only within the agency's carefully constructed parameters.
For Ji-hoon, the pressure was suffocating. The thought of performing on such a massive, emotionally charged stage, knowing millions of eyes would be on them, sent a cold dread through him. His stage fright, a constant companion, clawed at his throat. He found himself retreating further, spending hours alone in the practice room after everyone else had left, his voice the only sound, pouring his anxieties into raw, unpolished melodies on the old piano.
Hyun-woo, however, seemed to thrive on the heightened intensity. His eccentricity, usually a controlled burst, became even more pronounced. He experimented with bolder outfits, more outrageous makeup, pushing the boundaries of their "Color Splash" concept. He argued fiercely with the creative team, demanding more artistic freedom, more "realness" in their performance. He was a whirlwind of energy, challenging everyone, including himself.
Their dynamic, once a subtle undercurrent, became a palpable tension. In public, Hyun-woo would often throw an arm around Ji-hoon, pulling him into the spotlight for interviews, praising his "ethereal voice" with a theatrical flourish. Ji-hoon would offer a small, polite smile, his heart pounding, feeling both exposed and strangely protected by Hyun-woo's overwhelming presence.
In private, their interactions were different. Hyun-woo would seek Ji-hoon out, often finding him hunched over the piano in the quiet hours of the night. He wouldn't comment on the music, but simply listen, his gaze intense, absorbing every note
.
One night, Ji-hoon was struggling with a new melody, a mournful, introspective piece that spoke of hidden feelings and unspoken longings. His fingers faltered on the keys, the notes clashing. He felt a familiar wave of frustration, the fear that his emotions were too messy, too raw, to ever be truly expressed.
A soft click of the door. Hyun-woo entered, his neon green hair a vibrant streak in the dim light. He walked to the piano, his platform sneakers silent on the carpet. He didn't say anything, just sat on the bench beside Ji-hoon, close enough that Ji-hoon could feel the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of his unique cologne – a mix of ozone and something sweet.
Ji-hoon tensed, his fingers hovering over the keys. He hated playing his personal compositions for anyone, especially Hyun-woo, whose discerning ear missed nothing.
"Play," Hyun-woo murmured, his voice low, almost a command. "Don't stop."
Ji-hoon hesitated, then, with a deep breath, began to play the melody again. The keys creaked with nostalgia, their echo pulsating against the walls. Ji-hoon felt each chord like a naked beat of his soul, and the room was covered by a cloak of expectation. This time, he didn't try to hide the raw emotion. He poured his frustration, his longing, his fear of being seen, into the notes. His voice, usually so controlled, was a soft, trembling hum, a whisper of a song.
Hyun-woo listened, his head tilted, his eyes closed. He didn't interrupt, didn't offer advice. He just listened. And as Ji-hoon played, he felt a strange sense of liberation. Hyun-woo wasn't judging. He was understanding.
When Ji-hoon finished, the silence in the room was profound, broken only by the distant hum of the city. Hyun-woo opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on Ji-hoon's face.
"That," Hyun-woo stated, his voice a low, resonant murmur, "is the sound of pure color, Ji-hoon—unscripted, unfiltered, unforgettable." He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of Ji-hoon's jaw, then resting on his cheek. His thumb brushed softly against Ji-hoon's skin, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of electricity through Ji-hoon's entire being. "Don't ever hide that from me… or from anyone."
Ji-hoon's breath hitched. The touch, the words, the intensity in Hyun-woo's eyes… it was overwhelming. He felt a blush creep up his neck, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He wanted to lean into the touch, to close the small distance between them, to lose himself in the understanding he saw in Hyun-woo's gaze.
But the fear was still there. The strict rules of StellarRise, the watchful eyes of the managers, the millions of fans who expected a certain image. This was dangerous. This was forbidden.
Hyun-woo seemed to sense his hesitation. He slowly withdrew his hand, a flicker of something akin to disappointment in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual confident smirk. He stood up, stretching languidly.
"Shadows protect you, yes," Hyun-woo said, his voice grave, "but I prefer to see you shine, even if it means getting burned in the process." He paused, his voice returning to its usual theatrical tone. "Get some rest, Ji-hoon. We have a big day tomorrow. The agency wants to talk about our 'image' for the festival." He winked, then headed for the door. "Don't worry. I'll handle them. I always do."
He slipped out, leaving Ji-hoon alone in the quiet room, the lingering scent of ozone and something sweet filling the air. Ji-hoon touched his cheek where Hyun-woo's thumb had rested, his skin still tingling. The unscripted melody he had just played, the raw emotions he had revealed… they felt like a secret shared, a bond forged in the quiet hours of the night.
The agency meeting the next morning was as stifling as Ji-hoon had expected. They wanted CHROMATIC to be "bold," "inclusive," "authentic," but only in carefully curated ways.
They discussed their outfits, their choreography, even their social media posts. Hyun-woo argued fiercely for more artistic freedom, for a performance that truly reflected their message of "be your true color." Ji-hoon, as usual, remained silent, observing, his anxiety growing with each new restriction.
The close of the meeting was a collective whisper of relief… until Hyun-woo, passing by Ji-hoon, slipped a folded paper into his pocket.
Ji-hoon opened it: it was a sketch of their choreography, marked in red with a single word: 'REBELLION'.
His fingers trembled. That was the true script they were both willing to write.