“Thanks for coming out, Noah. I needed it.” Being worked half to death trying to burn the moves for their latest comeback into the back of her brain gets tiring after a while — stress relief was inevitable (despite her manager’s protests to just go home and rest). “I feel like I won’t be able to go out again for a while. Schedules and shit. Ugh,” Mona sighs, arms stretching out over the table, head in the crook of her left elbow, looking up at the boy sitting by her, “I know I shouldn’t complain but comeback preparations always suck.”

good company and a few rounds of drinks are his ideal way of any night. even a random tuesday night---early morning. nearly middle of the week, and noah can’t think of a better way to spend his bewitching hours than knocking back shots of this and that. guzzling bottles of whatever is ordered and deposited in his hands. a sorry excuse to dismiss his addiction or start of. he won’t admit he has a problem. a gnawing one that depends to be fed every now and then. however, these days, it’s more now than anything else.

he doesn’t mind nor think there is a cause for concern. even when his friends dwindles down to one, he sees no issue. refuses to, vision under heavy influence. the last two standing, and noah regards mona a languid gaze. takes her all in.... even if he’s seeing two or three, spinning around and confusing him more than he isn’t in his right mind. yet, he still manages to think clearly enough to recognize her. partners in crime and all. it does shit to a person. makes the friendless... have friends and actually cherish them. (this can be the booze talking.)

what feels like a mere minute is actually hours past midnight, and he is slumped in booth worn by others like him. heavyweights with shoulders uneven and bags under eyes. he finishes what’s left in a familiar brown bottle that is also a likely companion on nights like these. “add tteokkochi to that, too.” and he isn’t himself, since noah can’t fare well with anything too spicy. he’ll regret later or not at all, mind spinning with what can be compared to... happiness. he smiles for no reason. lasts a whole three seconds before he breathes through his nostrils, snorting. “don’t be such a lightweight. this can be your last drink in a while.” he orders another hite, meeting her grin with a grimace. 

two peas in a pod yet the differences make the friendship all the more intriguing.

“it takes less than a minute for the internet to pull up thousands of results for what ha minsoo is supposed to be.” he smiles wryly, holds the cigarette next to his cheek. “i’m pretty sure none of them include this.”      

noah takes the offered cigarette slow and polite, as if he’s walking on a landmine, and he doesn’t want to blow a limb off. or worse. can always be worse. under his breath, he mumbles his gratitude of sorts. slurred but not unintelligent or incomprehensible. it almost feels wrong to thank minsoo for the nicotine and tobacco. because they are idols, and they shouldn’t be relying on such an addiction. they are only human with lungs, maybe grey now. and even the mere population shouldn’t smoke, but they still do. discarded butts of cigarettes fill garbage bins of seoul. some are unfortunately dropped on the sidewalk, near the curb of roads from drivers and cyclists. an awful vice, to be fair. but noah has never been one to care much about much of anything.

so, he cups a hand over his lighter once a flame ignites and catches the end of the white stick. he inhales deliberately, consuming the smoke, and the toxins with it burn the back of his throat. “whoever thought this was a good idea should be fired.” a grey cloud steams from his mouth once he talks, and he leans over the ledge of the terrace on his elbows. his sight is obscured for a blink, then he helps himself to another laborious drag. waits until he is slightly lightheaded, and he smile something remotely natural. but it’s cruel, oh so cruel. because he really doesn’t care about those who got caught. he’s in it for his own skin, and he didn’t do much. what a time to make wise decisions.

the cigarette between his middle and ring finger? not a smart choice, but it’s whatever, really. you can’t expect him to make smart ones all the time. but it is better than more alcohol. his liver must despise him, and his sanity can’t possibly take another drink. he’s almost there. almost too drunk too care. 

or perhaps he is.

“do any of us really want this?” noah snorts at the cigarette, nose scrunching as the infamous smell wafts. “seems like we end up needing it...” and he takes another inhale, another mouthful of poisonous smoke dancing in him and around him. he taps excess ash, watches flickers of orange flutter in the air and onto the ledge. “end up feeling alive with it? ironic how it’s slowly killing us, but it’s also what can help. with you, you feel present. and with me? well... it pacifies and takes me away for a bit without losing myself. so, maybe it’s more or less the same.” his shoulders shrug, partially given up on explaining himself. noah isn’t good at talking. at words. 

at making conversation. and yet... he isn’t ashamed to speak raw thoughts almost poetically so with minsoo. not a friend. barely an acquaintance. a stranger---accurately someone he doesn’t know beyond what he sees on screen. but this is reality now. the stars twinkle slow above them. almost mockingly. 

He didn’t want to say it out loud, but he was hoping for some advice out of Noah. Usually, their relationship was mostly drinking away their sorrows and shitting on their dads, but he was also actually out there. “Isn’t it funny? All the skinship and yet still all the homophobia.” He laughed drily. “If I ever debut, how the hell am I supposed to live without getting caught flirting with dudes?” It was one of his favorite pastimes. “How am I supposed to hide myself?”

     noah laughs, too. almost rich in vibration. something from the bass of his throat. hearty, almost full, but he never is full. (there is always something missing in him.) so, he drinks and drinks with hopes and futile dreams he can fill the blank space with anything: liquor, baseless relationships, shallow friendships. nothing quite works. nothing quite gives him that satisfaction. although, he thinks he comes close with hojun. the friendship between them runs deeper than most. strangely so since he is a veteran idol, and hojun is still a trainee---which is downright shame, in noah’s opinion. but when does 99 ever make sound decisions? never, really. “i’m sorry, but i just picture you debuting as ronald mcdonald. you know, the mascot of mcdonald’s.” cute, he finds the leisure and comfort to joke around. must be the alcohol already affecting him.

must be the friendship, too. 

“but yes, debut.” noah collects him, observing hojun with more... care than he usually does. glances back at the journal then the empty bottles and lastly on hojun’s face. he dissects his features, subconsciously compares them to his: both tall (noah has a bit of an upper hand), broad in shoulders (hojun bests him there), handsome (and he isn’t boasting.) scary, their similarities. pretty jarring. “excited?” but likeliness ends somewhere, but their differences still brings them closer. 

there’s a pause, heavy and laden, and she sighs. “i though - i don’t know. i thought it’d…. it’d feel different.”

     noah has no dreams. not a single one.

or that might be one. validation from the last place he’ll ever get it: his father. noah tells everyone that matters, so no one at all, he’s stopped pioneering down that path ages ago. that’s a well dried up of acceptance, of parental love he thought comes with having a child. yet for the better part of him, he continues to seek that: even a paltry text message asking noah how he’s been or he’s listened to imperial’s latest releases. nothing expansive, but hopeless all the same.

he wishes he had the determination his friends seem to have in gallons. take jowi for example: she wanted a solo and got it. broke herself in the process. everyone seems to crack bones to fit somewhere. even noah at one point. maybe he was determined then. maybe he was ambitious then. maybe he had dreams then, too. dreams that imperial would have been more than a janitorial crew. and that’s aiming low as it is.

but not everything comes to fruition.

“i’m not taking advantage. i just think you’re very generous... for treating me to drinks and all. do you want some more? it is your treat.” and he’ll keep insisting that even if he might end up paying later. he’s the type to unless he gets too shit-faced drunk to remember. his card is in his wallet, and that’s all that matters: booze, money, great company with a pretty friend and a night to unwind. he’ll just ignore managers are on surveillance. try to shove that in the back of his mind as he stands to order hite beer. he comes back with two in hand and drops his weight back next to jowi. a little too close for comfort, but he’s there. it happened, and he’s far too comfortable to move away.

“no, actually. that did sound pretty emo.” but there is no judgement here. it’s in the way noah speaks. voice a notch less impish. a notch more humane and tender even. even a smattering of laughter at her actions. besides, noah relates to her. he doesn’t look forward to much of anything. maybe his next drink. that’s about it. he picks at loose threads of his distressed, black jeans. “i thought we’re here to drink and forget and not drink and cry? but i’ll amuse you this once. call it my payment for these drinks.” before he does, he chugs down enough beer that he won’t feel too much of a pinch. “99 still won’t let me film a music video. you think they’d be smart to cash in on my degree. or maybe i’m just not that good, and i’m only fooling myself.”

Panic stations. Recovery mode. His tone is almost sheepish as he turns away once more, trying desperately to hide his internal flailing. “I’m sorry. For asking you so many questions.” He says, before quickly adding, “and disturbing you. I wouldn’t have bothered you normally, it’s just been a weird night,,,”

     he finds the conversation refreshing, having spent a lot of the evening going back and forth between people, who aren’t entirely strangers but not quite friends. his tongue nearly sticks to the roof of his mouth after being quiet for too long, nothing but a paltry refreshment bottle to aid. and that’s long gone, somewhere in the pits of trashes and broken glass, he assumes. (impossible to repair. sharp, jagged edges, may cause bleeding when touched.) although, he takes no joy in what happened, someone breaching what should have been a private party, noah isn’t quite disconcerted. shit happens.

the entire world seems to forget idols are humans before, well, before they’re idols; the entire world seems to forget they come equipped with feelings and not batteries. that they deserve even a speck of privacy and normalcy like everyone else. everyone forgets, much rather thinking them to be entertainers onstage and off. yet when they do something of typical human behaviour like fall in love, argue, they’re marred and dragged through filth online. noah wants to see where in the manual does it say they come with feather white wings and sunbeam halos.

still, the frenzied panic was funny for all but two seconds. if he had a visualization board with him, he can draw out the thoughts everyone must be going through: what was seen? what was heard? they’re rewinding their memories, trying to remember every detail that might lead to an article or two if the man had not been caught because a valid point was made. “yeah,” noah half laughs, gaze still set on the urban horizon rather then the company who made himself known with an ice-breaker even noah can’t answer with silence. “guess luck was on our side they were shit at their only job: get in and get out safely with our careers on the line. serves them right, really.”

the humble detour tickles noah enough that his mouth curves to a shape more pleasant than it is sardonic. he’s surrounded by far too much ego nowadays, that what taewoo provides is, for the lack of better words, nice. he blames the alcohol for tampering with his vocabulary, but his korean remains rather poor. all his inner monologues are still in english with a few korean words tossed here and there. he likes to think he’s getting better at it, though: korean. speaking in general, not so much?

but he’ll entertain taewoo. there isn’t anything unpleasant about his abrupt appearance. in fact, it is welcomed. noah could have walked away when he through out his bottle, but he stayed. for what sentiment, he’s not quite sure of. “you’ll get there eventually. i’m sure of it.” no, he isn’t really. this might be senseless motivation and blind encouragement, but he isn’t in the mood to be a stick in the mud, to be an asshole when nitro is on a steady climb. but one never knows. he thought imperial was raising only to be on this flat plateau. not quite bottom. not quite top.

She sips her coke and looks over at the open bar. “I might be convinced after a few drinks though; I apparently make quite a few stupid decisions after drinking. Unfortunately for you, I am not drinking tonight.” She has not drank alcohol since her last stupid night and she is not about to start now. Though it would be nice to forget for a little bit, to have the stress melt away, to lose herself at the bottom of a bottle, to not be the boring one of Nightmare, the one that the PR team never had to worry about. “I wouldn’t even know what to get,” she mutters.

     “hyung is pretty tame,” he refers to his manager somewhere in the hustle and bustle of too many people in once place. maybe he’s keeping the other members in check or maybe he’s enjoying himself, too. noah thinks, for someone in charge of four other men, he deserves it. “he can’t hurt a fly. might scold me for manipulating a fine, young lady like yourself.” the sarcasm is drowned out when he lifts a light alcoholic beverage to his lips. less than five percent. won’t do much. actually, won’t do much of anything. “controversies are a good way at shooting into the spotlight. take a good look at poizn.” less sarcastic. a little more true. and noah rests his elbows on the bar counter, counting the drinks stacked on shelves in front of an illuminated wall. different shapes and sizes, and he recognizes most of them. sad.

what noah should be doing is helping jia out. in being a decent senior in the industry. in warning her of the ups and downs, but he has a feeling she understands. with the state nightmare is in. he wouldn’t be as familiar with them himself if it wasn’t for the other members. not that jia stood out least. he’s more comfortable with her than... let’s say remi or hani. eunsol is another story. another type of odd bubble in the pit of his stomach. he shakes his head, wrinkles his nose and rests his chin on an upturned hand. “stupid decisions? that’d be fun to see. it’ll make this night vastly more interesting.” and dangerous. and risky. can imperial afford another scandal now? most likely not. noah should be responsible. should be... that flies over his head.

she took her hands off the piano, turning around and practically coming face to face with noah. ’’starting on the middle C, sing through the solfege up and down the scale, but take your time and really listen to each pitch. first try this in acapella because it’s harder to sing without the piano. despite it being harder, it will however help you with sight reading or as italians like to call it, a prima vista. it’s simple enough, right? so now sing for me, little nightingale.’’

     judgement smells a little something like wet paint. noah wrinkles his nose, rubs it with the back of his hand then settles it on his knee is it bounces incessantly restless. guilt washes over him. takes away what colour is left on his face and stains it ashen. he sighs, quirking the smallest of smiles, although, nothing is funny. this isn’t funny. him showing up hungover is not funny. “i think what you should know about me is my sarcasm never goes away unlike...” well, noah needs not mention it. it’s written in the greys under his eyes as he leans forward, palm and chin and very aware the smell of alcohol mixed with mint. he sometimes wonders if it’s him. if he can smell something not there. 

    is that how bad he is? he doesn’t want an answer, so noah sits back up and stretches arms over his chest. “i’m good. don’t worry about it. i’ll get something later.” if his stomach can handle anything else. it should be used to the unhealthy lifestyle. should be used to it but not particularly like it. his body is rebelling against him as much as he taints the temple of flesh and bones. a shame, really. “besides, it’s much too early for whiskey, don’t you think? should use it as a reward for a job well done today.”

     if. only if.

     noah listens to sunjung and listens to her well. her knowledge is a nice distraction from the disarray winding him something tight and uncomfortable. something wicked and sour burns down his chest, and he knocks against it, coughing some more. but his attention remains a sunflower to the sun despite the haziness glossing over his eyes. despite the fatigue evident in the lack of animation in his expression. he listens to her, tries to understand even though his head his pounding in and demanding him to flee. to get out of there. 

     “i feel like the industry has all of us,” he grumbles in the midst of her speaking, hoping the words will get lost with the waves. “solfege? so that do-re-mi nonsense, right? yeah, i can do that,” he clears his throat, a curdle of a lump lodged in the back of his throat that frees when he laughs. truly laughs until the corners of his mouths reach his cheeks. “nightingale? you flatter me too much or do you just say that to all your students?”

     straightening his back, noah inhales enough that his lungs are filled with air and fake confidence he can actually do this without sounding like a screeching alley cat. “stop me if i’m shit. please and thank you.” another inhale with some more air and less of that self-confidence he’s in dire need of. this is a bad idea; he should have cancelled, but he doesn’t like cancelling. glancing at sunjung almost sheepishly, he should have because this is going to be bad: real bad. and so he starts at do on a rather weak middle C, wavering and faltering. it’s rather flat, but he continues, anyway. foolishly headstrong ‘cept there is no strength or only idiocy. and very little accuracy, too, hitting the second do off-key. the notes that follow only resume his downward spiral. 

“oh!” she had nearly forgotten about the extra bag she had brought with her. “i got you something.” she hands over the shopping bag, the contents a yellow hoody. “i saw it and it reminded me of you.” his favorite color of course, and she thought he ought to own more clothes in his favorite color.

     his chin rests in his palm while his eyes find purchase on dahyun’s lips as she speaks. noah sees the words before he hears them. blinks slow so he won’t miss even a beat or flicker in her expression. he takes her in, maps out her features. gauges the facets he sealed to memory a while ago. time flies faster with her yet it’s paced and idle. the world seemingly slow, allowing him to enjoy in something. in her.

     “you aren’t sick, right?” he makes sure, reaching over the table and placing a palm atop her forehead. winter is merciless, and he’s prone to getting affected by the crisp winds and dry air. worrying isn’t noah’s scene. it’s much too humane than what he learned growing up, but he does so with dahyun---worries, is concerned. she plays in snow; she leaps before she looks. 

     plus, who knows what added stress the scandal between their groups did to her. 

     noah drinks for peace. convinces himself reality isn’t the clear-cut everyday but the blurred around the frames nights when he’s had one bottles too many. 

     his sight returns to the menu, hand propped to gesture for a waiter. he orders: concise, quick, dismissive. he doesn’t want identities revealed. doesn’t want the brunch ruined because there is a strange hiccup in his pulse that brings a wash of warm to ripple. in the middle of winter, and he’s melting. melts to goo when dahyun hands him a bag. heat crawls to his face, perches under glasses he pulls off before they might fog and give it away. 

     give away she flusters him. 

     running a hand through his hair, noah pulls his fringe away as he unpacks something cotton plush against the pads of his fingers. his mouth drops a smidgen, breaks the icy facade he wields like a shield. “it’s so...” yellow. “soft.” like her. bright like her. sunny like her. distant voices of a serene yesterday plays. they’re on his bed, under white sheets, he’s playing with her hair, watching the slight raise and fall of her chest. they talk about colours---what their favourites are. she had on something yellow before he removed it. it sticks to mind, so he says he likes it. 

     noah doesn’t like yellow.

     or didn’t. 

LOADING INFORMATION ON IMPERIAL’S LEAD DANCE, LEAD VOCAL NOAH HAN …

she sighs. she shakes slender fingers through her hair and shakes it out in shining waves down her back, tugs at the edges of the dress she’s chosen for the evening, a slinky black number with full sleeves because fuck it guys, it’s cold out there, and she’ll sacrifice one set of extremities but not the other. a girl has to survive after all. she kind of regrets it now that she’s not out in the cold of the roof garden,  but instead meandering through the rooms like an aimless waif, some ghost haunting the revelry. her gaze alights on a familiar figure however, a guarantee of understanding, of a good time, of a kindred spirit, and she smiles something similarly sweet and sardonic as she approaches. she cocks her head to the side and lets her hair fall long over her shoulder, the edges of her eyes upturned with a sparkle of mischief inside. the rebellious innocents reunited, and she settles a hand on his shoulder, toe to toe as she tilts her drink toward him for a toast. “having a good night then, handsome?” she jokes out, hums thoughtfully as she edges closer, as if she might be about to sit upon his lap. “you look lonely, want a little bit of company?” she neglects the wryness for a moment to shift and settle beside him, laughing as she shakes her head and lets her hair fall back down her spine. “i’m bored, honestly. it’s weird. we’re at like, the premier party of the year…is it premature to say that since its the new year? maybe.. but anyway its a damn fine party, and i’m bored,” she whines, juts her lips in a pout.

noah han at a party and not enjoying? scandalous.

he finds himself far from the extravagance, opting to wallow alone. or having little to no choice on the matter. good behaviour is called upon, and anything else is frowned upon—heavily. so, he drinks a little to compensate: a flute of sweet moscato. nothing strong, nothing considered rough but something classy. which is all wrong. this is about illusions, anyway. pretending to be someone you’re not for the sake of reputation. they need a pristine one to survive longer. even if it’s a mere beat longer.

still. façades are fraying at the seams. bodies are looser. shoulders less stiff, more slumped and slanted. piece by piece, people start looking more human. noah appreciates it. gives him a reason to let go. not too much. at least not yet. it’s never that much fun to act on reverie alone. he likes being around people—certain people. ones he can indulge with. ones that will paint the town red with him then they scamper away in hopes of not getting caught. image, baby, image. he has a career to think about, to protect. and he won’t let imperial be the second poizn. yet another group falling to the perils of scandals and rumours. he already has to clean the shit up, why make a mess?

but honestly, that locks him in this bubble. nothing crystal but hazy. where others can see him, he can see them but not really—not quite. one wrong move and the bubble can burst. he’ll be left unprotected, an easy target. he can practically hear the keyboard warriors going at it. the scarier part is, in the back of his mind, he doesn’t care.

noah stares at the pink liquor, sees his blank expression in the reflection. he wonders if such a low percentage of alcohol is affecting him. that’s a first. the thoughts are quickly dusted under a rug when he sees beyond the drink at someone approaching. a smile tugs on his mouth, crooked and not so charming, but it’s raw, and he holds the glass to clink against hers. finally some company—good company. he tries to not let his eyes wander as he sips, tries not to eye jua like a predator but chuckles in appreciation instead that she decided to join him. maybe he can find fun now. or make some.

aroon drinks more of the coffee before it gets too cold, the least thing he needs is to waste coffee away when he still has some good ten or twelve hours awake. “anyway, how about you? are you excited to perform tonight?” the question comes with more mockery than he intended to, but it’s fine, noah understands him. “are you guys doing any special stage? i was hanging out with jaeyoon the other day but you know he is,” the coffee is finished and aroon wishes he had more. maybe he is getting addicted to it. “he never says a thing about imperial or anything else when he’s focused on making music so i can never get an update on you.”

here’s the thing, noah gets happy over the weirdest, unconventional things. misery does love company. and if he can pubically announce that as the quote he lives be, he will in a heartbeat. catching aroon in the same predicament as him: apathetic, so to say, noah is low-key thrilled to know he isn’t alone. though, he is certain there are countless others in their position. tired of the routine. tired of the same songs, dances, melodies, beats, stages but on different days.

today is some grand event, but he isn’t looking forward to anything. big or small, every performance is the same. he dances. he sings. and repeat. whatever, it’s in his programming, anyway. and it’s in the job. what he signed up for. utterly foolish but far too late to regret.

“we’ll watch the same shit, and fans will record our reactions. if we look too dry.” he slices his throat with a thumb, emitting a sharp sound before laughing bitterly. “we’re dead.” that’s where his ice prince mask comes in handy. no one really scruntizes him for appearing so aloof or disinterested. bless them. doesn’t mean the comments are any less nice, however. noah learned not to dwell.

“three hours? surprised you’re still standing.” he understands the exhaustion aroon must be going through, noticeably flinching as his own fatigue is triggered. dark circles, lethargy—and tonight is supposed to be something spectacular. yeah right. “glamorous,” noah repeats, can’t keep back the snort and roll of his eyes. “aye, that’s what it’s marketed to be. and that we’re perfect. we don’t get tired. we’re some robots they can plug in and use at the beck and call to perform like circus monkeys. really fucking glamorous. i’m glad i signed up. aren’t you?” all sarcastic, all unnerving. noah has to help himself to some coffee to keep the fluctuation of emotions at bay. from what everyone knows, he doesn’t carry them.

“oh my god, i don’t want to know what goes on between you and dahyun, it’s weird,” her tone is not of reproval, but the one of a shocked younger sister – it’s how jiyeon sees herself when it comes to dahyun, and sure how dahyun sees her too. “and no offense, but you look too much like a good guy for me to believe you’d be out there taking post-sex pictures.” jiyeon chuckles. she looks at him and reaches to squeeze his hand before letting go. “thank you noah, this means a lot to me. really.”

noah doesn’t understand the weight of scandals much. all he relates it to is poizn and being their prized clean up crew. the best fucking job in the entire world. so, he can’t wrap his mind around the magnitude of it all because he hasn’t suffered through one. he’s the type of person that has to experience something to understand, to really get the barebones of it all.

but he can’t.

what he can do is, offer jiyeon some sympathy. or what he thinks sympathy is. no one bothered to show him any, so he isn’t sure how to properly manifest it—especially when he’s drunk, seeing her in two and they’re swaying back and forth, circling the other. he taps his head to rid the hallucinations, then jiyeon is back to one: someone being honest with him.

he lithely pats her shoulder. his way of saying good luck without speaking. noah figures he can talk too much and most of it makes little sense. for now, he goes the silent option or what he thinks it is. control lacks when alcohol is in the driver’s seat.

“it does suck. everything. not being able to post pictures normal people can get away with. but look at it this way, you cleansed the fandom of any fakes.” that’s a poor attempt. noah knows it, tucks in his lips and hisses because he’s quite aware. let’s try that again. “all you can really do is embrace the problem and move on. it happened already. people will forget. more scandals will happen. poizn should do something stupid soon.” again, not the best, but he is trying.

making light of a heavy situation is not his strength.

and somewhat vastly inappropriate.

“hey, don’t worry about it.” once more or twice, he pats her shoulder again. maybe he is taking this in strides and being too lenient. yet, like he said, it happened already(2). what can anyone do. it is out of his hands. “fall up seven get up eight, right?”