Chapter Text
Keith flung his knife upwards again and caught it in the same hand. It was this very motion that was currently keeping him sane. His back was pressed against the wall, beside a half open door in a dark hall.
A window at the far end of the hall was illuminated by the condensed neon of the outside city in the almost-familiar Hangul characters of Korean.
His manager, Takashi Shirogane was in the near room, taking part in the most intense conversation Keith had ever heard in his life.
He wasn't above eavesdropping, which is what he was used to doing anyhow. Thanks to multiple suspensions from school when he was younger. Much good it did him anyway, since the ambience of the boiler outside the window did a good job of drowning out most of the exchange taking place in the bright room.
A man whose decision would decide Keith's future interrupted Shiro from speaking.
“그것은 불가능합니다.”
“제이 씨-” Shiro began again.
“그는 어디 있니?” The man asked suddenly, his tone changing. He had interrupted Shiro and Keith never felt so close to punching someone he had never met and was supposed to offer the utmost respect.
Shiro was there for Keith through anything, as a mentor and and close friend. In fact, ever since Shiro quit his idol days to become a publicist and then immediately committed to being his manager, he had bent himself backwards getting Keith whatever connections or pulled strings to get him discovered and into the mainstream as fast as he had been able to.
He was the first person to say that Keith had a skill for rapping with an objective eye, and with his determination to dance and sing too, he told him he could pile drive his way to the top of the billboards if he disciplined himself and was patient.
Keith was brought back to the present with Shiro’s hesitance to answer the other man.
“그는 여기 있습니다.” Shiro finally said.
“그를 데려와.”
Keith gasped, dropping his knife to the floor, the door opening full swing without warning and hitting his side sharply.
Shiro’s head leaned in from the brightness pouring in from the room, his hand still on the knob of the door. His eyebrows quirked with concern at Keith being caught off guard.
“Sorry.” He apologized.
Keith took his knife from the floor, recovering himself as gracefully and quickly as possible. “It's fine.”
“It's your cue, buddy.” Shiro said, stepping aside to make room for Keith to make his entrance. “Jay wants to see you.”
Even though he had expected it, it was another matter entirely to be faced with a media mogul who had the power to make or break your path to stardom. Especially one that adopts an English name for a simple demonstration of power.
Keith took a small breath, pocketed his knife, and entered the bright-as-hell room.
There was a roundness to most of the furniture, but the coffee table in front of him doubled as a bookshelf and had a built-in ashtray, though unexpectedly it was not in use.
On the couch across the coffee table was Mr. Jay, a very standard-issue Korean man in his early forties by the looks of his frown lines and surprise lines. His face spoke of a past of being handsome, but now had a few years on him. He was dressed as if he was younger, with a graphic shirt underneath a light colored suit jacket and well fitted dark jeans. Certainly putting the “casual”, in business casual.
Keith found his own two-piece suit stiflingly formal in comparison. Now he wished he had insisted to Shiro on a more casual outfit to meet with Jay today. Well, what’s done is done, and he would have make the most of it.
Jay’s dark eyes lit up at the sight of Keith’s face.
“Wow!" he began. “You are Keith, yes?”
His English sounded good so far. Keith felt the pressure of having to speak his rather bad Korean to the mogul lift at least two pounds from his anxiety.
“Yes, sir.”
“Please, please. Take a seat.” Jay said quickly, eager to get the conversation rolling again.
Keith took this as a good sign, and visibly relaxed into the empty couch that Shiro formerly had sat in. Shiro stood closely, using his standing position next to Keith as a sort of display of respect and to fade into the background. It was Keith’s moment to shine and be able to sell himself well to Jay.
Jay took out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, “I hear from my people that you can rap very well. How is your singing?”
“It’s good.” Keith offered. “I can play piano. I have a dance trainer too. I get better everyday.”
“You have very nice eyes. Double lidded. Gray, almost dark blue. Are they natural?” Jay asked, leaning into the arm rest and taking a drag from his lit cigarette. Shiro had briefed him that when Jay gets comfortable enough to smoke around a potential star, that person would leave with good referrals or an immediate contract.
Keith did not let this fact get to his head and kept his professional composure.
“Yes, I have a mother with blue eyes.” Keith said, trying to contain his growing self-consciousness about his appearance. His physical features have always done him well in interviews and talent screenings. You couldn’t make it with skill alone and Keith always found himself thanking his genes for some serious saves from pit falls, weirdly enough.
“I see from your file that you used to be a student in American university. Why the sudden change?” Jay asked. The smoke from his lungs slowly let out of his mouth at rest.
Uh oh. This was the deal breaker. Keith had to sell this next line very carefully.
His right hand ached to tremble in the absence of his knife, but Keith banished the habit away by biting down on his own tongue.
“The university wasn’t ready for someone with my spirit. But the rest of the world is and I’m willing to work hard to get there.” He said without a pause or a stutter. Perhaps the reason why he had quit was because Shiro had left and Keith had felt lost without him near. The nights of uncertainty and dread were still fresh in his mind, even if he was miles away from the U.S. Keith felt like a war without a cause, a tool without a use and rapping was what made him feel like he had a place in the world. He wanted to take it, whether the opposition would let him or not.
Jay went quiet, taking another drag of his cigarette and letting it out in one take.
Keith mentally told his lungs to shut up until the whole thing was over, though his eyes were already watering and his nose was twitching too.
It felt like Jay had felt the intent behind what Keith had said. He hoped he hadn’t sounded desperate. The last thing he wanted was a pity contract, even if it was better than no contract at all.
The Korean mogul flipped Keith’s open file closed and Keith’s heart sank to his gut in expected rejection, but then Jay snuffed his cigarette in the ashtray and stood with a smile.
“We cannot keep the world waiting. We will make you a big star, Keith!”
Keith was floored, his bones turned to instant concrete and it was hard to breathe but now for a different reason. He felt a hard pat from Shiro, which knocked his body back into gear along with the basic functions to let oxygen into his brain.
Shiro shook Jay’s hand. “You won’t regret this, Mr. Jay.”
Keith reached to shake the business man’s hand as he stood, smiling from adrenaline relief more than out of gratitude.
“There is a fire in your eyes, Mr. Kim. Do not lose it. I will have you trained here and your album launch campaign to the board will be presented in 3 month’s time!” Jay exclaimed, straightening his jacket and lighting another cigarette.
Wait. Three months? Keith abstained from asking anything, but Shiro’s mouth moved without a sound, maybe coming to the same conclusion Keith did.
“3 months?,’ Shiro finally asked. “Why so soon, Mr. Jay?”
Jay took a drag and let it out with a long sigh. His frown lines deepened again, most likely from what he would say.
“We have a direct competitor in Latin America, a company called Holt Corporation. They are planning to release a solo talent on the same timeframe with a much younger contender to the international billboards. I have heard he is gifted, and very handsome in addition. We must release at the same time or be left in their dust and/or compared to them. I believe that Keith is a perfect and much awaited addition to your plan for him to reach English speaking audiences and mine for both international and national recognition. This will benefit us both.” He explained.
Keith met Shiro’s eyes. It was obvious that they were thinking along the same lines.
This would be the time crunch of a lifetime. Keith had already made up his mind.
“Where do I sign?” Keith said simply.
Jay let out a smoky laugh. “This boy is pure fire! Where did you find this gem, Mr. Shirogane?”
Shiro gave Keith a small teasing smile. “I have no idea.”
It was settled. Jay called in an assistant who arrived with multi-layered forms and these were set upon the coffee table. Keith could understand basic things, like the empty spaces were definitely for him to sign, and other keywords like D.O.B and other phrases.
“Also, Mr. Kim. How is your Korean?” Jay inquired conversationally.
Keith’s eyes darted up at Jay. Worry nipped at his neck. He decided to be honest.
“I can sing in Korean, no problem. I’m not good with conversation, though.”
The mogul seemed sort of satisfied with that answer, typing a few things into his smart phone wordlessly.
“I’ll be sure to hire my best teacher then, because we need to get you on a talk show.”
“Talk show?” Both he and Shiro asked at the same time. A talk show, this early on? Keith had barely signed the contract.
“I can make it happen. We must make the world impatient to catch your fire, Mr. Kim. To make a fire, you must scratch out a spark.”
Lance broke through a merchandise stand with hundreds of t-shirts with his face on them. The aftermath being what was left of the hundreds of signed post cards and rolled up posters falling from the air like some strange hip-hop manna from heaven, thankfully covering his escape from the small but persistent group of girls that had been chasing him.
The now irritating vibration of his iPhone started in his front pocket again, he pulled it out as he sprinted, green button pressed.
“Hello?” He asked breathlessly into the receiver.
“LANCE, YOU’RE GONNA BE LATE TO YOUR OWN CONCERT!”
“Cut me some slack, Hunk! I was chased by a horde of girls!” Lance said testily, darting behind other numerous merch stands and a very confused hot dog vendor who was now short a hot dog.
Lance bit heartily into the warm mustard goodness of the hot dog. It was a big relief from the ritual fasting his manager had been making him do in preparation of the concert. He’d make sure to pay the vendor back when the concert let out.
“Is this ‘horde of girls’ the same one you were taking photos with in front of the diner across the street?”
“N-no.” Lance lied. He pulled up his hood to avoid being seen from the passer-by making their way to the concert venues. The same concert he was supposed to be performing in exactly 4 minutes.
“I can’t believe you, man.” Hunk said. “You worked so hard for this.”
The disappointment in his voice crushed Lance’s feelings a bit. He had never thought he’d be literally running late to his own concert before.
“Their sister couldn’t be there! It was the least I could do for them.”
“And now you’re exacerbating your vocal chords and wasting your stamina running from those very same girls.”
Lance groaned. “I don’t need this, I’m hanging up.” He made a jump over a dumpster, and hung from a jutting minaret, swinging himself up to an open second story window of the concert hall.
“He sticks the landing!” He cheers to himself, and starts booking it down the hall to his dressing room.
The silver plaque read ‘Dressing Room’ and it swung open to reveal a haggard and anxious Samoan man.
“Lance! Did you scale up the side of the building?” Hunk immediately questioned as he helped Lance put on his microphone and brushing off any dust that may have landed on his clothes from the world outside.
“Maybe.” Lance teased as he gave his appearance a final brush over in the well lit mirror. He hoped he imagined that single drop of sweat on his left temple.
Hunk groaned. “You told me those parkour lessons were for emergency getaways from stalkers. Not to use them to scale buildings in front of a sold out concert. What if you got hurt or arrested?”
“Relax, big guy. I'm fine.” Lance said, turning around to see the bouquets and small gifts on the make up table. Receiving handmade gifts and store bought alike gave him warm fuzzy feelings.
Stamina and vocal chords be damned, the happiness of his fans was his own.
The door swung open again to reveal a tall sandy-haired woman in a ponytail. She readjusted her glasses, a beep came from her walkie-talkie as it came to life. Lance's manager took the walkie-talkie from its black holster and turned it on.
“The boy is in the building. We're on in 3.” Katie Holt said into the receiver, eyeing Lance from where she stood, which he returned with a sheepish smile.
The walkie-talkie was put away. “I'm giving you non-stop vocalizing sessions for this later, Martínez. Right now we gotta bus you on stage, so get moving!”
“Yes ma’am!” Both men answered to their manager, sprinting out of the room to get Lance in front of the intended audience.
After a flight of stairs, Lance was quickly ushered on the catwalk above stage, the noise of the masses below them, and Hunk checking his microphone again.
“We did it, Hunk.” Lance said excitedly, covering his mic from picking him up.
Hunk blew air between his lips at that. “What did I do? Those people came to see you, not me.”
“It couldn't have happened without you, buddy.” Lance insisted, giving his best friend a tight one-armed squeeze.
“Aw, be careful with your mic. Knock ‘em dead Lance.” Hunk smiled as he led himself off the catwalk, giving the dancers below a wave of encouragement. “Break a leg, everyone!”
The lights in the concert hall dimmed, and the roar of the crowd dulled with interest. A bright blue searchlight turned on behind Lance, shining over his legs and the dancers ready on the stage below.
“ A mí me gusta~ ” Lance sang teasingly, enjoying the frenzied screaming that followed it. The electric piano slowly escalating his song as the searchlight kept moving over him and the dancers, silhouetted from the front. The catwalk began to lower, and Lance took a breath dramatically, the song stopping abruptly.
A hush falls over the packed people in the hall.
“ Que pasa, Puerto Rico!! ” Lance called out, receiving a thunderous response back from the sweltering masses. “ Gracias por venir .”
It never left Lance to thank his fans for coming to his first concert, this was a moment made of magic. Every breath he took was filled with purpose.
After a few more tantalizing seconds of silence, it was time to officially break into the first song.
“ A mí me gustan las damas locas ,” He sang out, the heavy reggaeton beats starting the song, the dancers jumping into their choreography. “ Loca, locas. Loca, locas. Yo nomás quiero que me tocas. Toca, tocas. Toca, tocas .”
The catwalk lowered until it sunk into the stage, snapping in place like a puzzle piece and smoke erupted from openings around the perimeter of the catwalk, the searchlight dimming and the overhead lights illuminating the stage along with the dancers. Lance joined in the choreography, strutting and stepping fast to the beat, pivoting with each snap of the heavy bass beat and bouncing up to the very edge of the stage.
He leaned down as far as he dared to the people nearest him.
“Tú eres la luz de mi vida, no te pones muy sentida. Te veo en mis sueños, eres mi fantasía. Y cuando tu te pones acercar, mi corazón comienza apretar. Yo no sé cómo lo haces pero ahorita me da igual .” Lance rapped the verse with passion, the girl nearest him handed him a blue rose, the trademark of his first album. He kissed the rose quickly and brushed it gently against her lips; she held her head in her hands in response.
He rejoined with the dancers, putting the rose behind his right ear. “ A mí me gustan las damas locas. Loca, locas. Loca, locas. Quiero enredar nuestras bocas. Boca, bocas. Boca, bocas. Clamame esta noche. Clamame esta noche. En tu cama o en tu coche. Dama loca, dama loca. Me gusta cuando toca, tus dientes en mi boca, y cuando tu me topas, que quites mi ropa. Dama loca. Dama loca. A mi me gusta. Las damas locas.”
Lance slowly swung his hips to the receding beat. “This your Pretteh Boy, baby.”
The song ends and hundreds of cheers greet him. A sea of crazed hands and arms sway in all directions like waves towards Lance's tall and well lit figure.
The opening guitar strings to Océano Mío begin to envelope the concert hall, and Lance is handed a guitar by one of the dancers and he settles into a stool in front of a lowering white tarp and the lights dim to a turquoise. An overhead machine hidden by the bright lights runs a projection of a beach on the tarp behind him, the moving seascape over his body as he sits and strums.
“Sì tu me extrañas, por los futuro mañanas, yo te pido que veas mis vídeos y cocinas esos fideos que nos encantan y yo juro que yo, estoy haciendo, lo mismo. ” He strummed, looking out towards the now calmer ocean of eyes and people, now swaying from side to side, most holding up lights and signs.
Lance smiled through the solemn notes.
Life couldn't be better.