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Seungcheol stands in the aisle and collects each member’s passport as they pass, circumventing the staff from doing the very same. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them with important documents, it’s that what if they flew sixteen and a half hours only for someone to be denied entry into the States at customs after losing their passport and being sent back on the plane, or being detained, or being put in jail, or would the Korean embassy even care, or—okay, Seungcheol doesn’t trust them.
“Uh, that’s a really vital stack of papers you’ve got there,” Hansol says. He holds out his dark blue booklet, different from Seungcheol’s own dark green or Junhui and Minghao’s maroon. The flesh underneath his nails turns pink from the strength he uses to pinch down, and Seungcheol has to yank hard in order to wrench it out of Hansol’s grasp.
“I know,” Seungcheol says, adding one more to the pile. “That’s why Jihoon’s holding on to them.”
Jihoon unzips his flamingo print fanny pack and shoves them all inside, the spines of all thirteen passports lined up neatly as if sitting on a bookshelf.
“Hyung, put your tray back up,” Minghao says once their paperwork is all safe in Jihoon’s hands. He bangs the inside of Mingyu’s armrest twice, the first time making Mingyu flinch upright, the second time hitting the button to straighten his seatback. “I told you not to play with the seats until after we’re in the air,” Minghao snaps.
Mingyu pouts and kicks the seat in front of him childishly, making Seungkwan press pause on the video playing from his tablet.
Seokmin’s surprise at Seungkwan ripping out the earphones is drowned out by the glare Seungkwan sends over the top of his head rest, louder than any sound a human voice can make. “Yah, Kim Mingyu, if you do that again during the plane ride, just you wait…”
“Wait for what? What will you do to me?” Mingyu contests, scrunching up his face. It turns into a contorted expression after Minghao reaches over and yanks the belt of his seat restraint until the metal buckle digs painfully into his hip. He tries to yell but gets bopped underneath the chin, and ends up biting the inside of his own cheek instead.
There’s a satisfied quirk to Seungkwan’s lips when he turns back around, settling into his seat so that Soonyoung and Seokmin can watch over his shoulders.
Seeing him so pleased with himself, combined with the chittering laughter emitted by Seokmin, Mingyu cocks back a foot to aim another kick at the seat in front of him, but he’s stopped by Minghao’s hand covering his.
Mingyu yanks back his hand to cross his arms, sinking down into the flimsy airplane cushions, curling up his body in the already cramped space. He jabs at the monitor in front of him, even if his fingers on the screen have way less effect than his foot on the back of the chair. There’s dozens of movies and television shows to choose from, but he’s too busy scrolling through all of them with rapid fire finger prods to read their titles.
Beside him, Minghao gives him another look and Mingyu drops his hand, sighing dejectedly. “That really hurt,” he says quietly, head turned away from Seungcheol so only Minghao can hear. Just from probing the broken skin with his tongue, Mingyu winces, and he knocks his head back, closing his eyes.
“Sorry,” Minghao whispers. He rubs his knuckles over the side of Mingyu’s forearm, takes his hand into his own and runs a thumb over each finger. “It’s going to be a long plane ride for all of us, and I know you’re not patient about waiting. Just think of it as the first time in ages that you can get 16 hours of uninterrupted sleep.”
“There’s movies to watch though.” Mingyu pushes his lips sideways, drawn in a tight ring. It lasts only a moment before they’re both laughing, hitting each other’s arms without any real force.
“We’re moving!” Wonwoo announces in a hushed voice, peering out the oval window with his cheek plastered to the glass pane.
“Taxiing,” Junhui says in Chinese, reaching over Wonwoo’s head to lift the plastic blind higher so that he too can see the movement below. Air traffic controllers in neon orange and yellow reflective vests wave bright orange batons in large swooping arm movements, fading from sight as the plane pushes away from the gate.
Wonwoo’s palms cover his knees when the plane comes to a halt again, wheels pausing at the head of the runway and pilots waiting for clearance for take off. The tips of his long, thin, fingers press inward at his tibia. He takes one breath, the novel he’s been working on sits in the seat pocket in front of him, he takes another breath, his phone and headphones are in the pocket of his jeans, he takes one more breath, and all the air seems to be sitting uncomfortably in a giant pocket in his stomach. He presses his lips together and forces down the queasiness. They’ll be so high up in the air he won’t be able to see the ground past the clouds, but millions of people flew on planes every day and they all lived. Mostly.
His stomach retches at the thought, and Wonwoo has to take a sharp inward breath to prevent everything inside him from spewing outward instead. The grip he has around his knees tightens again, before the fingers on his left side are loosened and his patella tendon replaced by a warm hand, larger and rougher than his own. He looks sideways to Junhui, who continues to peruse the aircraft safety card while mouthing each word to himself like it’s Hangeul practice.
Wonwoo opens his own mouth to say something, but doesn’t have the words, and closes them again. Without looking over, Junhui squeezes his hand, his fingers in the spaces between Wonwoo’s own. That action is like a pin, puncturing the bubble of nausea swelling inside of Wonwoo, anchoring him to something even if it’s not the ground. In the midst of the roaring air from their rapidly increasing speed, the rattling of the walls, the upward tilt of the nose of the plane, Wonwoo clings back tightly. If he’s going to be stuck for sixteen hours in a death trap way up in the sky, at least he won’t be alone.
The airplane ascends through several layers of clouds before the seatbelt indicator is turned off, at which point Seungcheol lists sideways, head lolling back onto Jihoon’s shoulder, legs covering Mingyu’s thighs and feet digging into Minghao’s lap. It’s a good thing Jihoon’s in charge of their things because Seungcheol’s hand rolls over the edge of his seat, nearly hitting the floor, and soon all that remains is his snoring.
“Soooo,” Junghan drawls, pulling down his tray so he can rest his elbows on it. His hands cup his face, and he looks to his left with his lower lip jutted out. “What do you normally do on longhaul plane rides like this?”
“Read,” Hansol says, lifting up his notebook and tapping the cover with one chewed fingernail for emphasis. “Or write. It’s usually either of those two interspersed with eating and napping.”
Junghan frowns. He hadn’t thought to bring a book with him, and there’s nothing he wants to write about. “Jisoo? What about you?”
Jisoo takes out an earphone and points at the screen in front of him. “Watch movies until I fall asleep, sleep until it’s time to eat, eat until I’m finished the meal, repeat. You should nap now, since you have the chance. You were so tired inside the car and at the airport.”
“That’s boring,” Junghan complains. On his first long distance flight like this, he doesn’t want to waste it away with his eyes closed and mind unconscious the entire time. He swivels toward his right. “Junghan’s baby Channie, what are you doing?”
Chan doesn’t even look up, engrossed as he is in his video game, headphones covering his ears. The thrum of the engine and airflow muffles their voices in the first place. Junghan huffs and leans over the aisle, stretching his arm as far as it will go, armrest digging into his ribcage. It’s to no avail; Chan’s curled up into Soonyoung’s side, and the gulf of space between them won’t even let Junghan’s fingertips scrape against the fabric of Chan’s sleeve. He half hopes that Jisoo or Hansol will have seen his futile attempt, as embarrassing as it was, if only to grab their attention. Junghan is disappointed to find both of them as focused as ever on their own entertainment.
“Fine,” Junghan mutters, too quiet to be heard. His knees fold up to his chest and he leans back for a nap. “Your loss not being graced by my presence, anyway.”
When he wakes there’s a blanket covering him and an unopened bottle of water capped by an empty plastic cup standing on his seat tray. He blinks, doesn’t feel that dehydrated, and snuggles back into the comfortable spot on Hansol’s shoulder.
✈
Hansol is the one who suggests Top of the Rock. “It’s got the best view,” he gushes, “seriously, if you want to see the New York City skyline, that’s where we have to go.”
It turns out the place where they’re performing isn’t really in New York City, it’s not even in New York State. Newark, New Jersey doesn’t have the same prestigious ring, but they’re in America, on an entirely different continent, and there’s still hordes of screaming fangirls. Their hotel is in Hoboken, and all that separates them from the Big Apple is the Hudson river, crossed via tunnel.
“It’s a little further from the venue, but this way you can tour the city,” manager hyung explains. “Use the time well, since it’ll be the last break you’ll have until September.”
Instead of striking fear into anyone’s hearts, his words rouse excitement. When they get dropped off at the Rockefeller, their cars are vibrating from the energy contained inside, each member with a sense that they’re on top of the world. It’s compounded when they reach the top and get to take photos of the view, looking out over the rest of the city. The city is gorgeous under the blazing sun, and Hansol walks the perimeter, pointing out the One World Trade Center to the south, Central Park to the north, with Junhui and Jisoo hanging onto his every word while the others snap photographs furiously, impatient to return to a place with wifi to send them on to their families.
“Don’t wander too far,” Seungcheol bellows, craning his neck up over the others. He wags a finger at Hansol, who lifts a hand in acknowledgement. It’s not like he’s going to get them lost, they have maps and there’s too many of them to get that far anyway. Still, he slows his pace and hangs out in front of the giant glass panes, staring out at the tiny people and yellow taxis bellow. They must look like that too, when they’re walking below, or when they’re on stage and their fans are three rings of a stadium away. Tiny specks, moving of their own accord, each person’s life simultaneously significant and very very small.
“How’s this seat?” Junhui asks, plopping down on the red tiles as well.
“A little too firm, but nicely sunbaked.” Wonwoo smiles, but it’s more of a grimace. From a plane straight to one of the tallest platforms in the city, it must be his lucky day to be dealing with all of these heights. Forget hovering on a horse where the ground’s still in sight, Wonwoo can’t imagine the plunge from way up here.
Apparently it’s not high enough for Jihoon, who’s pitched on Mingyu’s back in a piggyback ride, and who hollers, “Group photo,” when Soonyoung’s call for it goes largely unheard.
“Come on.” Junhui holds out a hand to help Wonwoo up and keeps his arm firmly around Wonwoo’s shoulders while their backs are to the beautiful scenery below. The peak of the Empire State Building is just off-center in the shot, but it looks purposeful and balanced. They take another one with Central Park in the background, the ramble and lake prominent among green foliage.
As a group they make an excursion to the bathrooms, and by the time the last of them are out they’ve stretched out to take a hefty bit of space. “Stick together,” Seungcheol warns, arm looping around Seungkwan’s elbow. Jihoon allows Mingyu to hold onto the hem of his shirt, even, so that each of them is attached to someone when they take up half a block on the sidewalk.
The trouble with dominos is that if one falls, it takes everyone else with it. In this case there are only two tiles, the ones pulling up the rear. Wonwoo slips on an untied shoelace stumbling down. Junhui’s yanked backward by the hand around his wrist, and he bends down to tie Wonwoo’s shoes while Wonwoo pats off the dust on his knee.
By the time Wonwoo’s fingers have wound their way around Junhui’s wrist again, the others are long gone.
“Um. They went straight, right?” Junhui can’t spot Mingyu’s head towering over the others, surprisingly. He jumps up and down to confirm, but there’s really no sign of the Seventeen members anywhere.
“I thought they turned right…” Wonwoo said. He chews the knuckle of his free hand. “Let’s get to the intersection and see.”
Even at the lights there’s no sign of anyone, and Junhui dampens down his panic. “Look, that sign says 5th Avenue, right? Isn’t that an important street? I’m sure if we follow it we’ll get to where we’re supposed to go.”
“Where are we supposed to go? We’re not lost right? They’ll probably be stopped somewhere just waiting for us?”
“Times Square, I think? I might have been taking a selca when Hansol was talking about it though, so I could be wrong.” At this Wonwoo tugs on Junhui’s ear, pulling on it with no real intention to cause pain. “Hey, where were you? It’s not like you know either.”
“My nose tells me it’s this way so let’s walk. If in ten minutes we don’t see anyone we’ll try to call someone.”
“Can you imagine the long distance bill?” Junhui trails off, dragging Wonwoo forwards.
In ten minutes they don’t see any of the other members, but they do stumble across a picturesque building, perhaps once white but now weathered into a creamy beige color.
“This is nice, what is this? A museum?”
Wonwoo shrugs. There doesn’t look to be a sign as far as he can tell, only giant colorful banners with thin lettering that makes no sense. There are several carved marble sculptures of people Wonwoo doesn’t recognize, as well as huge stone pillars supporting the façade of the building. People in huddles of twos and threes enter and exit from the main doors. It sure looks like a museum. “Here,” he says, holding out his phone.
Junhui takes it from him and looks down at the camera app.
“Take a picture of me with this lion,” Wonwoo requests, grinning. He imitates an open-mouthed lion roar while Junhui snaps several shots of the action, before taking back his phone to admire the way the photos turn out. “Ah, I’m so majestic.”
“I don’t know if now is the time.” Junhui bites his lip. “Should we go inside?”
Wonwoo re-latches onto Junhui’s wrist. “No, if they were here they’d be smart enough to wait outside right?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of warm today, and there might be air conditioning inside?” Junhui’s logic is abandoned at the footsteps of the New York Public Library, and the rest of him is dragged further south down 5th Avenue, on the west side of the road where shadows cast by taller buildings lengthened with the movement of the afternoon sun.
Another ten minutes and something is Very Very Strange. “Do you notice anything…different…about these shops?” Junhui asks.
“They’re stacked on top of each other? Oh! OH!” Wonwoo snaps his fingers. “The shop fronts have Hangeul on them!”
“Hansol did say there was a Koreatown here,” Junhui remarks. He’s staring at a Kyochon Chicken like they’re still in Seoul, instead of America. All thoughts of looking for the others are abandoned as they follow their noses and curiosity. Exo-sunbaenims’ faces on glossy magazines in a bookstore display, the fresh aroma of pastries from a Tous Les Jours, they even come face to face with a cardboard cut-out of Kim Soo Hyun staring at them from inside The Face Shop.
It takes just one look at a photo of a stack of kimchi pancakes to get Wonwoo whining, “I’m hungry.”
“Really? Do you want to eat here?”
“Leave Korea to eat Korean food in the United States? Somehow that doesn’t seem right…” Wonwoo leans over to look inside one of the restaurants, which is mostly empty. “Besides, how would we pay them? Wash dishes?” He jokes.
“Ah. Actually, when my mom visited, she brought me American money ‘just in case’. We can probably use our cards here too but I can buy you something to eat…”
Wonwoo’s jaw drops. His hand slips down Junhui’s arm to clasp around Junhui’s fingers, tugging him along to the Burger King he had spotted half a block back. “Hamburgers. Right now. Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
He proudly uses what little English he learned in school to order both of them burgers, fries, and one coke one sprite. They eat at a counter, legs swinging off the bar stools and ankles tangled together.
✈
Everyone’s too busy taking photos of all the flashing lights, giant logos, extravagant entranceways into broadway musical theatres, and huge fancy storefronts to notice Wonwoo and Junhui are missing until it’s nearly dinner time.
“Is she just asking for money?” Mingyu asks, perplexed. He sneaks a shot of the woman dressed up as the Statue of Liberty, green face-paint and all, while her attention is turned on a girl no older than seven. “Wonwoo-hyung, come look at this. Wait. Wonwoo-hyung?” He scans the area, turning his head back and forth quickly and spotting none of Wonwoo’s messy black hair. “Hey, Hansol-ah, have you seen Wonwoo-hyung?”
Hansol looks up from where he’s taking low angle shots of the billboards, then looks at Chan, and finally back to Mingyu again. “Wonwoo-hyung? He and Junhui-hyung were just behind us, right Chan?”
Chan cranes his neck. “Yeah, but I don’t see them any more. Let me ask Soonyoung-hyung.”
“Junhui and Wonwoo? Weren’t they right…there…? They’re… not there. Wait, where are they?” Soonyoung taps Jihoon’s shoulder. Jihoon spins around on the ball of one foot, and does a running jump onto Mingyu’s back for more height. Still no sign of either of them. Jihoon is not one to press the panic button, but he figures Seungcheol might have been told that they wandered off to the bathroom or something (knowing Junhui), so he asks, and the entire trip blows up.
“What do you mean no one knows where Junhui or Wonwoo are?” Seungcheol has them gathered in a circle.
“Relax, they’re probably fine. Since they’re both missing, they’re probably together, right?” Minghao consoles.
“But what if they’re not. What if they’ve been kidnapped?” Junghan whirls on Jisoo. “Will the Americans ask us for a ransom? I’m not sure we have enough money.”
“Should we tell manager-hyung?” Seokmin asks.
“Trust those two to get lost,” Seungkwan complains.
Seungcheol’s face hardens. “Absolutely no one can tell manager-hyung. Well, not yet anyway. Let’s look for them first so we don’t alarm management. Hopefully this whole thing goes away and it really just turns out they’re in the bathroom. I am not failing as a leader on our first real trip out of the country.”
“Okay, should we split up to look for them?” Jisoo asks. “Hansol and I can each take a group since we both speak English.”
“No! No splitting up! I’m not losing another one of you! My ducklings! Where are my lost ducklings?” Seungcheol cradles his head in his hands and squats in the middle of the intersection of 42nd and Broadway, surrounded by ten alarmed faces watching his descent into panicked breakdown with a mixture of fear and amusement.
“Uh, I guess we can comb the area as a group then.”
It’s dark by the time they circle back to the main square, having walked up and down all the nearby streets fruitlessly.
“Maybe we should call it quits and ask manager-hyung to help. Has anyone tried calling one of their cell phones?” Hansol wonders. He crosses one leg over his knee, looking down over the bustle of tourists and New Yorkers alike, passing from one side to the other. They’re sitting on the steps surrounded by a light up American flag, all eleven of them wondering how they were going to face management, or worse, if either Junhui or Wonwoo were well and truly lost for good, their parents.
“It wasn’t a first option because of the phone bills, but I’m willing to sacrifice the money if it means we can contact either of them,” Junghan says. He pulls out his cell and looks down at the 10am with confusion. Oh right, he hadn’t adjusted for the timezone difference on the plane.
“Hey wait, is that them?” Minghao calls out. He straightens up where he’s standing, no longer leaning back against the rails, pointing out over a sea of people. “It is them! That’s their clothes.”
Sure enough, it’s Junhui and Wonwoo, hand in hand. Junhui’s holding onto a soft drink cup, chewing at the straw, while Wonwoo’s other hand hikes his bag strap up higher on his shoulder.
“Wen Jun Hui!” Minghao calls out in Chinese, waving an arm frantically above his head.
“Where were you guys?” Soonyoung demands.
“I don’t know,” Junhui says honestly. “We just came through a market-like set up, and saw the lights here…”
Junghan’s voice is shrill. “We’ve been looking for you for hours!”
“Well we’ve been looking for you guys since we left the first building we were at,” Wonwoo says.
“Wait what? You guys have been lost since the Rockefeller?” Jisoo’s eyes widen.
“Oh.” Junhui turns sideways. “They forgot about us. They didn’t even notice we were missing.”
Wonwoo shrugs, and steals Junhui’s soda. There’s little left save for ice, but he sucks up as much melting liquid and remaining sugary soft drink as he can. He doesn’t have it in him to complain. There’s a burger and fries in his belly, he’s regained access to their hotel room again now that they’ve found Jihoon, and in his phone he’s acquired an entire camera roll full of new photos taken from their grande vadrouille around midtown. But really, he’s been fine all day. After all, he’s had Junhui’s hand in his own.