Chapter Text
The room is buzzing with energy that can only come from creativity that fuels a planning meeting. Stell is huddled up with the other members in one of the smaller conference rooms in the headquarters, smiling to himself as Justin, their creative director, shifts his weight on the balls of his feet, the picture of excitement in front of the whiteboard littered with scribbles and diagrams. To their youngest, this is the most exciting part of the creative process—the brainstorming phase.
They’re putting together ideas for other gimmicks prior to the seventh anniversary concert in two months.
“‘Seven years, seven secrets’ is still the best idea for me. Jah’s a genius for coming up with that,” says Josh in response to Pablo’s motion to vote for the theme. “And those untold truths could be emotional catharsis for the fans.”
Stell echoes the sentiment. “Each of us can share a personal one, and then we can do two as a group. We can bookmark the individual secrets with the group ones.”
Pablo nods, gesturing towards Ken. “What do you think, Ken?”
Ken has grown quiet since the call for a vote, refusing to look at any of them. For a second, Stell was sure it was because he wasn’t comfortable volunteering any more secrets than their stardom had already cost them, but never in a million lifetimes did he expect the words that came out of Ken’s mouth within the same breath he thought that thought:
“I could talk about being into boys.”
There’s a beat of silence as the words hang in the air before descending on the four other boys all at once.
Stell feels a hand wrap around his heart—then squeeze.
Josh visibly bites back a smile that is more fiddly than merry. “Are you serious?” he asks, tone deliberately flat. Measured. As though walking on thin ice. Stell feels himself fidgeting, mirroring the discomfort, only that it’s not coming from the same place. Josh’s is more of a matter-of-fact type of unsure, whereas Stell’s is, well… a pit has opened in his stomach, and he doesn’t know where to run.
Ken shrugs. “I like boys like I like girls.”
It was almost flippant, and Stell is awash all of a sudden with the desire to be angry because how dare he shrug it off, as if Stell’s entire world didn’t just tilt off-kilter?
The room erupts into mayhem as Pablo, Justin, and Josh all scramble to reach Ken at his corner of the small room, eager to say congratulations. Stell’s chest continues to constrict at the sight. He tries to rise from his seat himself, but his feet are suddenly rooted to the ground. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. Or what is supposed to be happening. He expected to feel elation, to be overwhelmed with pride for the brave young man in front of him. But he’s only able to clench his hands under the table, terrified of the overwhelming deluge raging throughout his body.
Ken’s husky laughter booms over the din. Something in Stell unravels as those smiling eyes turn to him. It makes his own eyes burn with unwanted tears, and he swallows with all the effort he can muster so he can finally say something… anything.
“I’m proud of you,” he chokes out, so low he couldn’t have heard it if it hadn’t come from himself. He clears his throat again and blinks back the tears so he can smile through them and believe the words to be true. “I am so proud of you.”
Ken’s smile grows. Stell moves to stand again—to embrace him, to run away from him, he doesn’t know—but his knees betray him. They buck under him, and he slams against the table, yelping in pain, and Ken’s smile is replaced with a panicked grimace.
“Bro! You okay?” Pablo exclaims, moving around the circular table to get to him.
Stell clutches his stomach and braces his free hand against the tabletop to catch his breath. The pain was startling enough to momentarily forget about the floodgates that opened in his chest, and he uses the diversion to crack a joke that he so needs—requires—right now.
“I guess I have a case of Josh knees,” he quips, grinning at the other boys. A tear slips past one eye, and he thanks the heavens quietly. At least now there’s a good reason to cry.
“You ass,” Josh says, laughing.
“I know you love me,” says Stell, out of habit. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Ken moving to stand and walk over to possibly assess the damage. That makes him stand ramrod straight, flinching at the sudden motion. He turns to Pablo, who’s awkwardly hovering by his side, holding out grabby hands but not sure where to place them on Stell. “Pau, you’ll have to excuse me. Need to get this checked.”
Pablo is quick to nod, and Stell is quick to turn to Ken to tell him, “I’m proud of you, Ken.”
He smiles and is out of the room before anyone can tell it was forced, his eyes not quite meeting the other boy’s.
He almost doesn’t make it to the restroom before he’s slumped over the toilet sink, dry heaving. With a shaking hand, he manages to lock the door belatedly and sobs without a single sound. For what, he isn’t sure himself. He just knows that he needs to let it all out before the sorrow consumes him.
***
Hi,
I think I learned today the real meaning of “tears of joy.” Rather, I learned that there’s no such thing. Tears have always been of mourning, and sometimes you mourn something that’s supposed to be happy, or make you happy.
It’s crying over a fear that has finally come to light. Of a truth that would have set you free, except, shackled, you yourself had thrown away the key.
If I can’t find it in me to be happy and be free, how do I celebrate his joy and liberty?
Me
***
The next morning, Stell sends a prayer to the heavens before walking into HQ. The reason for his tossing and turning the previous night has yet to arrive, so he allows himself to breathe out the frigid air that’s been swirling in his lungs. He peeks into the conference room where they had sat at the roundtable yesterday, curious if anything else happened after he booked it. Between the lack of additional scrawls on the board, his bandmates’ well wishes (and celebratory messages for Ken) in the group chat, and the meeting summary from Pablo (he refused to have their assistant in the room), he surmises that he didn’t miss much else.
Except for the private message from Ken. He never misses reading his messages, but last night he couldn’t bring himself to respond to the question he read from the notification bubble: “How’re you doing?”
He wasn’t fine. He still isn’t. And it’s not because of his non-injury either. It’s not a bruising a hot or cold compress can alleviate.
He’s afraid he won’t be okay for a long while.
He confirms as much when the boys slowly filter into the studio, with casual hellos and how-are-yous. He’s in the thick of finishing the choreography for the medley they plan to do for their concert when he sees Ken saunter in through the door with all the swagger in the world, blissfully unaware of the thudding that sounds in Stell’s ears, almost knocking him out of balance.
It doesn’t help that Ken makes a beeline over to where he’s purposely smoothing lines of a move in front of the mirror. Doesn’t help that Ken places a warm hand on his elbow. Doesn’t help that Ken’s voice is laced with concern when he asks, “You good? You didn’t reply.”
Stell musters enough semblance of calm to say, “I’m okay, thanks. Dozed off before I could read your message, sorry.” If he moves so Ken’s hand falls from where it’s cupping his skin, he hopes the green-haired boy doesn’t notice.
“It’s all good,” Ken says, smiling, eyes intense as always, but somehow more disarming than usual. “You could’ve responded this morning though.”
He almost sounds like a kicked puppy, but Stell stamps down the notion before it can truly take shape in his mind. He makes a show of looking revolted at Ken’s attempt at being cute. “Oh, don’t be like that. I simply forgot.”
Ken narrows his eyes at him. Stell feels a bead of sweat roll down his spine at being examined under a microscope like this. But thankfully, Ken drops the subject with a shrug of his shoulders. “Need help with the choreo?”
“Nope,” Stell is too quick to say. “I mean, I got it. There’s just one transition that I’m trying to figure out, but you go stretch first. There won’t be any accidents today. Not on my watch.”
“Oh-kay,” Ken says, enunciating each syllable with a smirk. He scampers off to the side to drop his fanny pack and removes his jacket to reveal his tattooed arms through a black a muscle tee.
Stell resolves not to stare.
He does such a good job of not staring, in fact, that he watches Ken during rehearsal, but not directly. From the mirror, from the corner of his eye. Through the reflection off of Justin’s spectacles, or above Pablo’s shoulder. Ken is laughing, and Stell wants to laugh with him, but it makes his heart twist in a way that he doesn’t want to name. Cannot name.
Later that night, he sends another prayer to the heavens.
***
It’s been a week since he came out. He expected some discomfort from the band, being that having an openly bisexual member is all new to the group, but he never expected Stell to be the one to make his being rattled the most obvious. Not that he’s not trying to hide it, but Ken knows him a little too well to not tell that something is up with the one who used to celebrate him, even when the win is as trivial as a fifty-peso winning lottery ticket.
Perhaps what hurts more is that of all the members, he had pinned his hopes on Stell the most. That he would understand, that he would stay by his side.
Still, Ken is not one to give up easily. Perhaps he’s just mistaken. Perhaps he’s just reading into it too much. Perhaps he ought to give Stell space to get used to the fact that Ken is now loud and proud.
One morning, Ken walks in with two iced coffees. He stopped by the café Stell has been frequenting, the one that puts cinnamon in the foam. He holds one out to Stell, whom he sees scrolling on his phone, back against the mirrored wall of the studio.
“Got you the one with oat milk. No syrup, right?”
Stell barely looks up from his phone. “Thanks, man,” he says, without smiling. Doesn’t take the drink. Just goes back to scrolling.
Ken places the cup on the speaker near Stell’s bag and steps back, masking the sting with a stretch and a half-yawn.
Later, during warm-ups, Stell stands on the opposite end of the mirror. They’ve always stretched next to each other before everything went sideways. Always.
And not once did he joke with Ken. Not once did his eyes meet Ken’s.
Still, Ken is undeterred. Just before he exits the building that day, he searches for Stell and, not seeing hide nor hair of him, sends him a chat:
[Ken]
You wanna rideshare?
[Stell]
I’m OK, thanks.
Grateful he’s finally being spoken to even without the usual chirpiness or torrent of emojis, he responds: You’re staying behind?
[Stell]
Yeah, need to finish another choreo.
[Ken]
Where are you?
I can help if you want.
[Stell]
I went out for a walk.
It’s OK, Ken.
You go rest up.
Now he feels he’s being iced again, and he’s starting to get angry. He doesn’t deserve this.
He starts typing, Is something the matter? But he catches himself and catches a breath. With all the intention in the world, he deletes his message and instead sends, We’re good, right?
The reply isn’t as instantaneous, and Ken has started worrying his lip, convinced that he has crossed a line.
[Stell]
Wdym?
This is so unlike Stell. He never asks what Ken means. He just knows. No explanation required.
And Ken knows. If anything, this only confirmed his biggest fear.
[Ken]
Nothing. Never mind what I said.
TC on your way home.
[Stell]
We’re good, Ken.
You take care, too! 🙂
Too little too late. Ken swipes out of the app. Then puts his phone back on airplane mode, like that’ll keep the silence from sinking deeper into his chest.
Stell didn’t lash out. Didn’t say anything cruel. Just started pretending.
And somehow, that hurts more. Hurts so much more than what now seems to be a lie, when he declared that he was proud of Ken.
He should've seen it coming. He should've known something was going to shift. If not with Stell, then with someone else. Definitely the public.
But he was prepared to face it all. He was counting on all four of them to help him face it all.
Perhaps it was naivete. Perhaps it was lingering teenage bravado.
Perhaps he didn’t know Stell at all.