Chapter Text
June 20, 2008
Pomona Fairgrounds, Pomona, California
The summer sun just barely climbed over the horizon, but the parking lot of the venue was already abuzz with early risers. As far as the eye could see, crew members were busy unloading merch tents, food vendors were commencing prep and the unmistakable crack of skateboards against the asphalt echoed across the blacktop. Dust swirled in the morning heat, promising another scorcher of a day for the kick-off of the Warped Tour.
A worn-out, navy blue Chevy Impala crawled past the entrance gate, its rear window half-obscured by sticker residue from long-forgotten parking permits. The sedan’s suspension gave a groan as it rolled over a speed bump, the interior muffled by the tinny hum of a CD blasting through the speakers.
“Okay, dude, we’re here. Let’s shut this down before someone here thinks it’s mine,” Kang Yeosang moaned from the passenger seat, covering his face with a pale forearm as “Writing on the Walls” by Underoath blared from the stereo.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic!” his manager, Kim Hongjoong, just smirked behind his knockoff aviators and tapped along the steering wheel like he was backstage at his own show. “It’s not my fault you can’t accept that this is true art.”
The elder then pulled into a makeshift lot next to a battered tour van tagged up with August Burns Red stickers and finally killed the engine, making the athlete beside him sit up and crack his neck.
“You’ve jammed this track three times already! You know there are other emotions besides ‘anguished-screaming-in-a-haunted-cathedral,’ right?”
“...Says the guy who cried watching The Rocket Summer do his soundcheck on the Boise stop last year,” Hongjoong rolled his eyes.
“What? I was moved,” Yeosang defended himself with a subdued laugh, grabbing his board from the backseat. “He hit that bridge during ‘Never Knew’ and… Okay, yeah, maybe there was one tear, but I promise it was warranted.”
“Hey, whatever helps you sleep at night, man.”
The pair then stepped out of the car and were hit with the full force of the southern California heat, already pushing past 80 degrees. The younger man popped his board down, letting it clatter to the pavement, then hopped on and rolled slowly beside Hongjoong as they made their way toward the check-in gate.
“Wow, can’t believe it’s already your sixth year,” his manager mused, watching a group of sunburnt roadies unload amps from a box truck. “You’re basically the mayor here. Think they’ll eventually name a port-a-potty after you?”
“I’d be totally honored,” Yeosang smirked, kicking up his board and tossing it over his shoulder. “Just as long as it’s a clean one near the VIP tent.”
“Sure, dream big, kid.”
They fell into a pleasant silence as they passed through the gates, some staff waving them through with familiar nods. Banners fluttered in the breeze and somehow, the air already reeked of sunscreen and flat energy drinks.
“So, who’re you dragging me to see this year?” Hongjoong continued, eyeing the posted set times. “Let me guess... Mayday Parade at 1:50, then crying into your tank top during Relient K?”
“Better than you trying to summon demons in the mosh pit during From First to Last,” Yeosang shrugged.
“Summon demons? Excuse you, I’m spiritually connecting with the breakdowns!” Hongjoong puffed, mock-offended.
“Whatever you say, hyung. Just try not to wreck yourself during A Skylit Drive later.”
Yeosang sneered, ignoring his manager’s cries of protest as his eyes scanned the stages as the crew set up. He already felt the adrenaline, disarray and weirdly enchanting blend of sweat, sound and skateboard wax creeping up on him. Warped Tour was back and at last, he was back home. Then, the second they stepped into the skater lot, a low, collective whoop broke out.
“Oh great, he’s back… Pack it up, everyone! The golden boy’s here to make you all look average again,” Nam Yoondo (who everyone called “Eric”), the showcase emcee, called, standing on a milk crate like a makeshift podium near the partially-assembled halfpipe. “Welcome back, Yeosang-ah. Tell me you didn’t bring your own fan club again.”
He was mic'd up and caffeinated, his Neff snapback tilted sideways like it was making some sort of statement.
“Not intentionally,” Yeosang greeted him while flashing a half-smirk.
“Lies!” the emcee declared, throwing his arms in the air as his assistant, Jung Soojung (also known as just “Krystal”), clipboard in hand and cat-eye sunglasses perched on her nose, strolled over beside him.
“You’re late, Kang,” she said flatly, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
“Thanks, Krys-noona, I missed your epic welcome,” the athlete grinned as he gave her a mock bow.
“Showcase walkthrough’s at 10:00,” Krystal rolled her eyes, but nudged him in the arm. “Try not to disappear before then.”
“No promises,” Hongjoong chimed in, already handing off his client’s registration forms to the production manager, Amber Liu, who was coordinating everything from power cables to plastic water bottles.
“Good to see you again, superstar!” she said as she flipped through her clipboard. “And maybe keep your board out of the audio rig this time?”
“One rogue kickturn and you never live it down…,” Yeosang groaned.
“No way you don’t!” shouted Mark Tuan, a veteran skateboarder, who appeared from behind a tent with a friendly smile and a weathered board tucked under his arm. “Look at you, still photogenic and punctual as ever.”
“Missed you too, hyungnim,” the younger man smiled, fist-bumping him.
As the duo walked and talked with Mark, they saw his stoic, no-nonsense manager Lim Jaebeom (who everyone referred to as simply “Jay B”) nod to them in a greeting, pulling a thin Sharpie from behind his ear and scribbling something on a form. Meanwhile, another familiar, shirtless athlete jogged up to them, a towel slung over one shoulder and his famous pecs very much “pec-ing.”
“Yeo!” Matthew Kim (aka “BM”) beamed, going in for a shoulder bump. “Hey, bruh! Did you miss me or just my swag merch sales numbers?”
“Don’t worry, ‘Big Tiddie Gang’ never left my heart,” the younger athlete deadpanned, pointing to the BTG pin on his backpack.
“See? You get it,” BM beamed, turning around to flex at no one in particular while someone from the tent audibly gasped.
Suh “Johnny” Youngho strutted in next, fresh from a photo op, gold bling glinting and his own board in hand.
“Alright, who let this stud back in?”
“You’re projecting again, hyung,” Yeosang teased.
“...Okay, maybe I really am,” Johnny agreed.
Naturally, next to him was his best friend Lee Taeyong, carrying a crate of gaffer tape and a power drill, already sweating, but still nodding up at them enthusiastically.
“Good looks are deceiving,” he informed them. “This dude here made me wake up at 6:00 this morning to steam his cargo pants, he says wrinkles are ‘bad branding.’”
“Wrinkles are anti-punk!” Johnny attempted to correct him.
“Pretty sure most actual punks at this festival would disagree with you,” Hongjoong muttered, amused. “Well, Yeosang-ah, you brought the whole circus to the halfpipe today.”
“Yep, but I missed this circus,” he said to him quietly, taking a deep breath and getting lost in the energized noise surrounding them.
For a moment, the nostalgia hit him harder than any trick ever could. It hadn’t always been this uncomplicated; he thought back to those humid summers in Gwangju, sneaking down to the Yeongsangang River bank with a hand-me-down deck from one of his old classmates and practicing ollies until his knees were bruised and his palms scraped raw. His parents never understood how a quiet kid like him could be drawn to something so reckless and loud. They expected him to focus on school, potentially even take up piano or join the mathletes team, but certainly not skateboarding. They didn’t see the point in something that didn’t guarantee a paycheck or a diploma, and they especially didn’t like how Yeosang’s skater friends dressed, talked or blasted music loud enough to shake apartment windows.
Despite this, he kept skating anyway. Eventually, local sponsors noticed and soon, video footage of him circulating online racked up views in the thousands and he flew to his first international competition in Vancouver at 16. He came home with a trophy and a broadcast interview, and his parents left a congratulatory note on his bedroom nightstand instead of words. It was the first time they ever acknowledged that his dream wasn’t just a phase. Finally, the year he turned 18, he packed up and moved to Los Angeles at the turn of the millennium. He was alone and uncertain, but hungry... until he met Hongjoong.
Back then, the older man was just some fast-talking guy handing out business cards at local skate parks, hustling for indie musicians and fringe athletes with nothing but ambition. Most people brushed him off, but Yeosang didn’t. Something about the way Hongjoong talked made him stay after a local demo to hear him out. In less than a week, they teamed up and several years later, Yeosang still hadn’t signed a contract with anyone else.
As the group’s conversation rambled on, the low growl of tires on gravel sounded back near the front entrance. A silver Ford Escape pulled into the lot, weaving slowly past the barricades. Inside, Choi Jongho sat in the back seat, his palms sweaty even with the blast of cold air conditioning. His skateboard was nestled between his knees, which he’d been bouncing nervously against his shins for the past five minutes. Every time they passed another cluster of festival workers or band members, his stomach flipped.
"...Jjongie-oppa, you're breathing like you're about to defuse a bomb," said Ennik Douma (stagenamed “Jeon Somi”), another athlete one year his junior, twisting around in the passenger seat to look at him and blowing a pink gum bubble before letting it pop dramatically. “Chillax, rookie.”
“I am chillaxed!” Jongho lied. “I just don’t want to, y’know… hurl in front of, like, hundreds of people.”
“You ain’t even on the halfpipe yet, no one’s watching you that hard.”
“Wow, thanks, Vita-Som. How encouraging.”
Their manager, Park Seonghwa, in a crisp, white button-down, glimpsed up at the rearview mirror from behind the wheel. His sunglasses slid just low enough for Jongho to catch the look, which appeared firm and vaguely older brother-ish.
“Kiddo, you made it through qualifiers in Honolulu, then the sponsor tryouts in Long Beach and now you’re here. That’s not luck, Jongho. That’s skill and hustle,” he encouraged the younger male.
“And don’t forget your epic, clean fakie bigspins when there’s literally no grip left on your kicks!” Somi added, gesturing at her colleague’s tattered skate sneakers with a shake of her head.
Jongho looked down. His laces were mismatched, his deck had a chunk missing at the tail and his knees were still slightly bruised from a wipeout earlier that week, all while the festival hadn’t even started yet.
“...Maybe I should’ve rocked a helmet here.”
“You have one in the trunk,” Seonghwa sighed.
“Yeah, but it’s boring and fugly.”
“You think any of these other jocks looked cool their first year?” Somi rolled her eyes. “My first helmet was hot pink with sparkly Hello Kitty faces all over it.”
“You were nine years old then, kinda different,” Jongho mumbled.
Just then, Seonghwa pulled them into a parking spot near the athlete check-in zone, where someone was hauling cases of Gatorade off a dolly. Jongho peeked out the window and saw the familiar buzz of stagehands, all blending into a smudge of tattoos and timeworn Converse. It was the real deal and he felt his tummy lurch again.
“Alright,” the eldest said as he shut off the ignition. “Here’s the deal: Somi already knows the ropes, so you stick close, Jongho-yah. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, don’t push yourself too hard on day one and please don’t try to prove anything.”
“Or do! Just make it look sick,” Somi added playfully, opening her door with a loud creak.
“Seriously?” Jongho muttered, slinging his board over his shoulder as he plodded into the blazing sun. “Do you ever say normal mentor stuff?”
“What’s the fun in that?” she smirked back, popping another bubble.
They slammed the doors shut and Seonghwa hit the lock button with a loud beep as the three of them began walking toward the gates. Jongho felt the ground heating the soles of his shoes already, nerves still gnawing at him. Yet, with each step, it started to feel a little less like a mistake and a little more like the beginning of the rest of his career.
It still felt surreal being there. Jongho never imagined he’d be skating professionally, let alone pulling up to the first day of the Vans Warped Tour beside legends like Somi. Most pros on the circuit had been shredding since they were barely tall enough to hold a board. In contrast, he was a late bloomer, only picking up skateboarding during the final stretch of high school.
What started as a hobby to clear his head between cram school and chorus practice turned into an obsession. He stayed out late in empty schoolyards and parking garages, teaching himself flips and transitions off grainy YouTube tutorials and downloaded clips burned to DVD. While his peers were stressing over university entrance exams, Jongho was throwing himself at stair sets and railings like his life depended on it. By the time he finished his first year of college, he was landing tricks that took most skaters twice as long to master. Still, he didn’t think of it as a career until he graduated and met Seonghwa.
At the time, the taller male already made a name for himself managing Somi, the girl who took the skate world by storm before she even hit puberty. She stepped away from touring for a few years in her teens, feeling burned out, overhyped and too young to know what she wanted. However, by the time Jongho met them both, she was back in competition form and sharper than ever. They found him through a short clip circulating in a skate forum, consisting of footage of him clearing a double-set behind a convenience store, and asked to meet.
From that point on, it was like he’d been adopted into a new little family. For the next 18 months, Jongho trained harder than ever, with Seonghwa coaching his mentality and instincts while Somi toughened him up in every way possible. They teased him into developing confidence, critiqued his stances without sugarcoating a thing and made him repeat lines during mock interviews like a PR drill sergeant, but it worked. Between their steady management and merciless energy, Jongho transformed from a quiet talent into someone who actually belonged in the same lot as the people he idolized.
The closer they got to the ramp area, the louder everything became. Reverb echoed from one of the nearby stages and laughter broke out in waves somewhere near the sign-in tent. Ahead, a tight-knit group of athletes gathered near the edge of the halfpipe, dapping each other up and joking since they’d likely known each other for years.
Jongho instantly recognized a few faces. BM was flexing playfully for a compact group of camera guys, shirt still off and sunglasses perched on his forehead. Meanwhile, Johnny stood nearby, looking like a pop-punk fashion ad, and then there was Yeosang, leaned back against a support rail and talking quietly with Mark. His hair was slightly wind-blown and his posture impossibly relaxed, looking like someone who didn’t just master skateboarding, but was born with it coded into his DNA.
“You okay?” Somi took note of his uneasiness, placing her manicured hand on his upper arm.
“I’m good,” Jongho lied. “I’m just… gonna say ‘sup.’”
Seonghwa opened his mouth to object, but it was too late; he was already walking ahead, determined to introduce himself before his nerves told him otherwise. He approached the mass of athletes, cleared his throat and attempted confidently.
“Um, h-hey! I’m, uh, ‘sup? Choi Jongho. Rookie… skateboarder.”
It was like someone hit pause on the group for a second. Yeosang blinked, Mark glanced up mid-utterance and BM looked over like he didn’t even realize a new person had entered their radius. The youngest of them froze, mentally replaying how stupid he probably sounded. To his credit, one of them smiled politely and walked forward to hold out a hand.
“‘Sup? I’m Kang Yeosang.”
“Oh, hi!” Jongho responded by grabbing it too fast and shaking it for a beat too long. “Nice to meet you all.”
“First tour?” Mark interjected.
“Um, y-yup.”
There was a slight pause, less awkward and more observational. Jongho got the sense they were sizing him up the way pros did with new faces.
“You skate street, too, or just vert?” Johnny suddenly asked, punching through the break.
“A lil’ of each,” Jongho replied. “But I’m mostly here for the ramp... uh, obviously.”
“Sweet. You’ll have fun! It can get cray-cray, but it’s a good crowd,” BM nodded, clearly satisfied with his answer.
“Um, thanks! I-I mean, I hope I don’t totally epic fail out here,” the youngest flushed.
Just as he was beginning to relax, a whistle penetrated the air. Amber’s voice, clear and commanding, appeared at the edge of the pack, her walk brisk and clipboard in hand.
“Good morning, everyone! Catering is set up backstage left. You’ve got an hour to eat and stretch before the walkthrough. If you cramp during practice… well, I’m not liable, but I will laugh,” she addressed them.
That drew scattered groans and a few sarcastic claps, but the group began shifting in motion.
“C’mon,” Somi said, already linking her arm with Jongho’s. “Let’s get you some grub before you pass out in front of the emo gods.”
“Honestly, fainting now would save me a lot of embarrassment later,” Jongho murmured.
The girl just laughed and dragged him forward, the troupe parting slightly as the athletes made their way toward the catering tent. The morning was just beginning and they were all officially in it.
_____________________________
While the athletes moseyed toward the tent, chatter and the smell of bacon trailing behind them, the production side of the fairgrounds remained a carefully controlled frenzy. Behind the main ramp, crew members were already knee-deep in setup, weaving through cases of coiled cables and crates of staging hardware. Amber barked directions through a walkie-talkie as a lighting rig creaked ominously into place over one of the auxiliary platforms. Near the halfpipe, a stack of unused plywood groaned against a support beam every time the wind shifted.
Crouched beside the structure itself, Jeong Yunho was in his own little world. Drenched in focus (and lots of sweat), he adjusted a power drill in one hand and used his shoulder to brace a coping panel into place. He sported a purple American Apparel hoodie paired with Glamour Kills lounge shorts, splattered with neon diamonds and fading stars. He looked like a walking MySpace page, Skullcandy earbuds in and currently blasting an early We the Kings demo ripped from LimeWire, not hearing footsteps approaching. Across the lot, Krystal walked briskly with a new shadow in tow; he was a tall figure in a red flannel shirt, skinny jeans and heavy work boots that still looked a bit too clean.
A last-minute addition to the crew, Song Mingi was pulled in just three days earlier after a seasoned production tech dropped off the tour for a family emergency. He said yes on the spot, barely having any time to pack, but he wouldn’t miss the job opportunity of a lifetime (or at least the summer). Now, as he followed the woman through a maze of equipment cases and floor markings, reality was beginning to settle in. She stopped within reach of the staging zone and turned to face him, already scanning the next item on her to-do list.
“Alright, Mingi-ssi. Your orientation’s technically done, but here’s what you need to remember until someone properly pulls you into the chain,” she instructed. “Basically, stay hydrated, stay away from any heavy machinery unless you’re trained and don’t touch anything that buzzes when you walk past it.”
“Got it!” the male nodded quickly.
“This place runs on schedules and caffeine. If you get yelled at, don’t take it personally. It just means you need to move faster.”
“Tight.”
“Also, if you mislabel a crate or lose a stage map, Amber will find out and it will not be a learning experience. As her BFF, trust me… it’ll be a warning.”
“Cool beans,” Mingi gulped.
“You’ll be fine, just pay attention,” Krystal finished, finally glancing back at him. “Someone here’ll loop you in when they’ve got time.”
With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared down the pathway between two amp towers, already dialing someone on her pink Motorola Razr as she vanished. Mingi stood there for a second, surrounded by the buzz of drills and distant bass tests. To his left, Yunho was still kneeling at the base of the halfpipe, muttering something under his breath as he tightened a bolt with rhythmic precision.
Mingi adjusted his gloves as he watched him, sighing as he wondered if he should approach him. He wasn’t exactly sure where to jump in, but he knew one thing: the halfpipe wasn’t going to build itself. Thus, he moved slowly toward a nearby stack of lumber, rolled up his sleeves and waited for someone to notice the new guy (hoping it may be the cute stranger he was just staring at).
Suddenly, a shadow passed beside him. Mingi turned quickly, expecting another blur of a crew member rushing past, but the person stopped instead. A guy around his age, albeit shorter and more fit, offered him a grin from under his trucker hat.
“You good?” the guy asked. “You look like you’re either gonna cry or start trying to build a random fence.”
“Honestly? It’s a toss-up,” Mingi let out a nervous laugh, the stress in his shoulders easing a little.
“First day?”
“Yeah,” the taller male replied, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Got pinged at the eleventh hour. Someone else in the crew had to bail and I was their lucky backup.”
“Ahhh, that explains the deer-in-headlights thing,” the guy said with a chuckle, then held out his hand to shake. “I’m Choi San from ‘Diego San,’ fellow noob stagehand.”
“Ah, sick, welcome to the City of Angels then. I’m Song Mingi. You said you’re new, too?”
“Yup,” San said, popping the ‘p’ sound. “I actually landed this gig thanks to some family connections. My second cousin- y’know Choi Jongho? He’s one of the rookie skaters this year, so his ‘rents hooked me up. Not sure if he even knows I’m here, to be honest.”
The two stood there, caught in the thrum of tools clanking and shouted directions, then the shorter man gave a tiny shrug.
“Well, anyway,” he said, “Guess we’re the blind leading the blind!”
“Could be lamer,” Mingi smiled at him.
“So true,” San said, backing away toward a stack of gear cases. “C’mon, I’ll help you figure out what goes where. If we break something, maybe we’ll get matching ‘Fired on Day One’ T-shirts.”
Mingi chuckled and obeyed, grateful for the company. As they returned to work, his gaze lingered for just a second longer on that same crew member from before, still kneeling near the ramp. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his movements seemed sure and efficient. Something about him held Mingi’s attention, not just the way he worked, but the subtle intensity behind it.
San, on the other hand, already moved on, pulling open a case of tools nearby after speaking with and receiving some directions from Taeyong. Therefore, Mingi blinked and turned back to the task at hand, refocusing on the job. Maybe he’d figure out who the mysterious guy was later. After all, there was still a whole tour ahead of them.