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I'm pissed. But I don't know whom to direct my anger. We just finished our first of a two-day concert in San Francisco. I'm sweaty as fuck, out of breath and dog tired. Adrenaline courses through my veins, leaving me shaky like a leaf in a breeze. It usually takes me at least a couple of hours to settle down, but tonight, I have a feeling it's going to take me longer.
I should be happy. Our first tour has been successful so far, ending tomorrow night before we head back to Korea for the next leg. We’re going home with a full heart and loads of memories because our fans showed up and showed out. We were well received in our very first major music festival, and the media exposure has been insane. Every stop from our short North American tour was louder and more electric than the last. We sold out every stop and even managed to do a live showing in theatres worldwide. I'm physically drained but overall, our performances had held up.
The company's experiment and foray into performing in front of a big audience worked. We showed them we can do a tour albeit a short one, less than a year into our debut. It didn't come without any criticisms of course, but we knew that going in, so we were more than prepared. Haters are always going to be loud but we’re managing just fine.
I should be happy, over the moon, in fact.
But I'm boiling with anger and I don't know how to tamper it down.
Which is why, I left everyone in the dressing room in search of a dark corner somewhere so I can try to get my shit together. Nothing worse than taking it out on a poor soul that comes my way.
I take a long pull from the water bottle the staff handed me on my way out. I hid my head under a towel. At least, no one can see me from here. I chose it for how isolated and dark it is. I've been sitting here for at least 15 minutes now, breathing heavily with my eyes closed. My in-ears still hung around my neck and the drying sweat is sending shivers all over my body.
I should go back, but I'm not quite ready. I'm still mad, to the point that I want to throw shit on the wall.
I rub my eyes. Soon, the staff is going to look for me. I figured that I have at least 5 more minutes of isolation before a search party is organized on my behalf.
I hate when I get like this. I hate when I get so consumed with anger that it eats at me for hours. It’s a rare occasion, but I have my moments. Usually, I seek out Juhoon when I’m in an ass mood. But not this time. He won’t be able to help.
I know the exact moment it happened, too.
During one of our songs, I was supposed to be sitting beside him or in his vicinity. But I lost my head for a minute. I was completely amped up. By the time I realized it, it was too late. I ran towards the couch; James was already there. I slid and played it off as if I was showing off my stage diving skills, which is so far from the truth it’s practically in another country at this point. I was supposed to be there. Instead, I ended up where I usually end up in this seemingly one-sided stupid thing I got going on with Juhoon.
On his feet.
The playback wouldn’t show the pissed-off expression on my face because I know how to hide that shit from everyone. I know how to fake it. No one would know exactly how irritated I was. And even so, everybody would just assume it was because I lost my place, made a mistake. I’m the only one who would know why I’m pissed. And it has nothing to do with the performance. I’ve told the guys that we’re not expected to be perfect on stage. We can do a million rehearsals if we want to, but it doesn’t prevent mishaps. The only thing we can do is minimize the impact with a sleight of hand strategy, which is what I tried to do tonight. Thankfully, the stage was slippery enough for me to slide. Otherwise, it would’ve been catastrophically bad.
No, the source of my irritation is from somewhere else. There’s this gnawing sense of jealousy that consumes me, a feeling of unfounded possessiveness towards Juhoon. It happens like clockwork. Every time someone comes near him or when someone holds his attention, I lose all common sense. I really need to shut this shit down. Because what the fuck?
I expel a loud breath.
"Martin?" Managernim calls out.
"Yeah?" I reply, muffled by the towel covering my face. "I'm back here."
"Are you okay?" I hear his footsteps that seem to be going in the wrong direction.
"I'm over here." I say, voice still raspy.
"It's so dark out here," he responds. He turns on the flashlight from his phone. "Say something?"
"Here," I respond. He's backtracking towards my hiding place.
He finds my corner easily, his phone shining brightly on my head.
"You've got ten minutes to get ready." He tells me while he’s looking at his watch. “You still have to do the ‘Hi-bye’ thing with the fans, then we’ll head back to the hotel.”
So, I stand up; my limbs trembling from adrenaline.
"You haven't answered me, though," he says after a minute or two of silence. "Are you okay?" He stops me for a second. "I've never seen you like this before."
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just exhausted." I shrug him off. "Let's go."
We walk back into the dressing room. Everyone looks all packed and ready to go. I hand my in-ears to one of the staff for cleaning and storage. Without thinking about it, I took off the shirt I was wearing and wiped myself off with the same towel on my head.
"Martin," managernim starts, mildly frustrated. "Go get changed in the washroom, please."
I ignore him and proceeds to grab the hoodie I was wearing during the performance. Unfortunately, it’s on the couch close to where Juhoon is sitting. He’s looking at me, as if trying to capture my attention. I avoid looking in his direction. The hoodie is a little damp, but it’ll have to do for now.
I shut myself in the washroom and quickly changed. Though I've calmed down a little, I can still feel anger simmering underneath.
My phone pings.
Are you ok?
It's Juhoon.
He rarely sends me a personal text. Usually, our interactions occur via the group chat. I stare at the message for a beat or two, not clicking on it so he won't know I've read it. He does it occasionally when he wants to either play a game, go for a walk, or play ball.
I pocket my phone and finish changing. My hair is still wet, and I'm still a little sweaty, so I didn't bother putting on my jacket. I spritz a little bit of cologne at least, then head back out.
"Are you ready?" Managernim asks.
"Yeah," I say, popping a lozenge to help ease my throat.
I walk out of the dressing room, not waiting for anyone.
"Hey, bro, wait up," I hear Seonghyeon follow me. I keep walking.
"Bro," he calls out again. "What the hell?" I hear him mutter, confused as fuck.
I head to the direction of the receiving line for the fans, then plaster on a smile. Coers will help me forget if only for a few minutes.
________________________________________
We get to the underground parking. The driver is already waiting for us. He opens the door, so I throw myself at the very back of the van, put my seat belt on and close my eyes.
"Hey, are you okay?" Seonghyeon asks. We didn’t really get to talk much while we were out meeting and saying goodbye to our fans, so he takes advantage. He sits beside me, putting his seat belt on as well.
"Yeah," I mumble. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Okay? You don't seem like yourself though."
"I'm fine. I'm just going to shut my eyes. Wake me when we’re there?"
I hear everyone take their seats as well, the sounds of the metal buckles clicking in place surround the small confines of the van. I've killed the usually high-flying energy we have after a show. Normally, we would be talking over each other, rehashing the performance. We'd argue about which American fast-food restaurant we should try next and treats from the convenience stores we should pick up to bring back to the hotel.
"Sure, man."
I lean my head against the window. Inhaling and exhaling until my breaths even out. Sleep will not come for a while and because I feel kind of heartsick, it would be further delayed. I'm also starving but I'm too much in my head to eat anything.
I hear my phone ping again. I ignore it.
Whatever it is, it can wait. I have no energy to look.
On the glass window, I can see Juhoon's reflection. He's looking down on his phone, not scrolling but he appears to be waiting. A couple of minutes later, he sighs and tucks his phone in his hoodie. The van moves forward, out into the city and back towards the direction of our hotel.
____________________________________________
He's very quiet and subdued. It’s making me anxious.
I already knew something was wrong as soon as we finished our set. He attempted to stand the farthest away from me during the hi-bye session but since I could sense something’s off, I followed him and stood next to him.
He didn't say a peep while we waited for our fans who were lucky enough to be VIP ticket holders. He had on his sunglasses while we wait, sombre but took them off when the fans started trickling in. Then, like a switch was flipped on, his face opened to his signature smile. I could tell it was fake. There was a slight tremble to his lips, as if he was forcing himself to smile. He greeted everyone graciously and unless you know him, you won’t know something is bothering him.
He ignored a couple of messages I sent him. For my peace of mind, I’m going to assume the concert tired him out, more than usual at least. Honestly, the fans were incredible, loud and electric. The kind of reception we like. I don’t know what happened tonight but I’m going to try to corner Sean to see if he can tell me. Martin usually talks to Sean about a lot of things. Topics that he won’t discuss with me. Thankfully, Sean has been my designated roommate for this leg of our trip, so we’ll have time.
The group chat pings with a message from managernim, letting us know about the dinner situation already waiting for us at the hotel. My stomach rumbles. I’m the hungriest after any extreme emotional upheaval, so it makes sense that I’m ready to chew my own arm in hunger.
American fast food is something else.
If not for the heavy sweating and all the cardio my body goes through every night, I swear I would’ve already gained a few pounds being on this side of the globe.
I turn to look at the glass window to my right. From this vantage point I can see his reflection, slumped against the window. I can only guess that he’s fast asleep. He had on his sunglasses again.
I don’t tell him often, which I regret, but his energy is incredible. He could be performing, doing rehearsals or creating content. It doesn’t matter. He gives it his all every time. I admire that about him. He’s also the most creative person I know and the most passionate about his art. His devotion to improve and to elevate has no limit.
Which is why I associate our new song with him. It describes him to a tee, constantly moving forward, not looking back. He takes criticisms under advisement, but he doesn’t let it dictate his creative processes. During one of our sit-down interviews, we were asked to give each member a word that describes them perfectly. I mentioned, “motion” for him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite articulate it properly while the spotlight was on me. I felt bad afterwards, because I really wanted him to know how much I love the song and how I understood it on a much deeper level. It’s about always moving forward, always improving, and innovating.
I know at times he gets frustrated with me. Most days, when the two of us get into our deep talks in the middle of the night, I mostly listen and offer my two cents. I rarely share anything about myself but that's just because I don't think I'm interesting enough.
Truthfully, I dislike the side of me that has my emotions under lock and key. I’m a Capricorn who’s supposedly a nurturing individual by nature but somehow afflicted with being cold. I hate that I want to be the caring person that I know myself to be, but I suffer from self-preservation against my will. Emotionally closed off, but ironically emphatic. Some days, I see how much I hurt him by not being as open as he is, free to share his feelings, free to touch people whenever he wants to. I want to tell him that it’s not for the lack of trying. Martin is a very affectionate person. He's not shy about it either. He's always watching every single one of us, making sure we're okay.
I’ve been told that I’m a haven of sorts. Martin and James have spoken about it in interviews. That my quiet presence calms them in ways they could not explain. But eomma once told me that while other people exude contagious energy, some people - like myself, absorb them. So, when they’re having a rough time mentally or emotionally, they sought me out. I’m only more than happy I could help in one way or form.
But now, there’s a different type of energy emitting from him. It’s the sad and angry type that I don’t quite know how to deal with.
Maybe it’s the overthinker in me, but I think I’m the cause of his irritation this time. I mean, I’m not entirely sure but judging by how he’s avoiding me, the bad mojo I’ve been feeling around him might just be directed at me.
The van descends the ramp in the underground parking, so I start gathering my stuff in preparation. I’m tired. Hungry, too. My insides are a mess of emotions, a mix of adrenaline and a growing sense of unease.
When the door opens, I stand to the side and wait for him.
He comes out with the stoic expression on his face, once again, with sunglasses covering his eyes. He barely looks my way before proceeding to the hotel entrance.
What the hell?
“I know, right? What is wrong with him tonight?” Sean speaks beside me, looking at Martin’s retreating form.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No, he just said he’s tired. He barely talked the entire ride which is so not him.”
We walk side by side trying to catch up.
“Did something happen? Any bad posts about him online?”
Sean pauses and thinks for a minute, then shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He was already in an ass mood after the performance, so I’m not sure what his deal is tonight.”
I thought about our performance tonight. He was on fire like usual. Fully engaged with the fans, rapped on point and harmonized like his life depended on it.
I sigh. “Anything major that happened during our performance that I missed?”
“Other than the part where he was supposed to be beside you on the couch? Nothing. He was just his usual self.”
We both stop by the door, then look at each other, seemingly conversing with our minds.
“But that’s just a minor mistake. Why is it affecting him so much?”
Silence descends upon us.
He slid on the stage which, to be honest was a badass thing to do. He did it so effortlessly as well, like it was part of our choreo. He ended up rapping his part with ease. Honestly, his performance tonight was on another level.
“A mistake that ended up being one of the highlights of the night - no, the entire tour. So, what’s the issue?”
Sean stares back at me. “I don’t know, hyung. Might have something to do with how he was supposed to be sitting beside you?”
I shake my head. “But it’s a non-issue. It ended up being an iconic move!”
We start walking forward again.
“I don’t think he’s thinking that far ahead or how that move made him look. I think he’s mostly hung up on the fact that he was supposed to be on that couch with you.”
We get to the bank of elevators along with the remaining staff who are also with us. The company booked an entire floor for convenience. The production team and security that came with us, wardrobe & make up artists are all from Korea. It’s just easier for us to get ready if the entire team conjugated in one place.
The room Sean and I share connects to the others’ suite. Theirs is bigger, obviously. Keonho’s hands are injured so they’ve given him as much space as possible.
“You want the shower first?” I asked Sean.
“Do you mind? I feel gross.”
I drop my stuff on the bed. “No, not at all. Go ahead.”
Restlessness is making my leg shake. I need to talk to Martin, but I don’t know how to lure him out of his funk, so I send him a quick text.
I’m a little wired.
Wanna go 4 a walk?
I wait for a few minutes, resisting the urge to chew on my thumb.
When he didn’t send a reply, I shoot a text to James.
Is Martin busy?
I see the dots jumping as he types in a response.
James: Shower
Me: can you tell me when he’s done? Don’t tell him I’m asking.
James: ???
Me: just don’t tell him.
I leaned back on the bed, tired and wired at the same time. These few weeks had been a whirlwind. Malaysia, Paris, North America, then back to Korea for our 1st Anniversary. And it’s not going to let up either. Other than a couple of weeks off, we’re booked right through till the end of the year.
Life has been amazing and jam packed with first time experiences for all of us. It’s nerve-wracking, thrilling, and so satisfying all at once. I’m always resisting the urge to pinch myself daily.
Tonight’s show was nothing short of outstanding. We’ve been accustomed to following Martin’s lead, which is sometimes difficult to do, because that guy has boundless energy on stage and knows how to work the audience as if he’s been doing it for years. Mind-boggling sometimes but I guess he’s dreamt about it and have wanted it all his life, so it’s like a natural progression of things for him. An instinct to demolish his performance every single night.
My nerves have calmed down a little but since he’s not responding to my messages, I decide to let it go. Maybe he must work it out himself, figure out what’s eating him. However, some part of me feels that it’s wrong to just ignore it. He’s been so supportive of us and encouraging whenever we make a mistake. He refused to let it get to us and forces us to move on. So, for me to just let it be doesn’t feel right.
Sean walks out of the bathroom in a robe provided by the hotel, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.
“Your turn,” he says.
I sigh and force my creaking bones to stand up.
“Hey, can you see if you can get anything out of Martin?”
“Still not responding, huh?”
“No, which is weird. And it’s making me antsy.”
Sean offers me his placating smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Right, but it’s not him to be this quiet after a performance. He’s usually full of energy.” He nods in agreement.
What I don’t say is that I avoid him when he’s amped up. Sometimes, I can’t handle the vibrations coming from him. I’m sure Martin’s weirded out why I’m reaching out to him now.
“You go shower and we’ll head back to their room to eat. He’ll probably be over whatever’s bugging him by the time you’re done.”
______________________________________
Everyone was already seated with their food by the time Sean and I entered their suite. While James and Keonho has an animated conversation about the performance tonight, Martin is quietly eating his fries. Chewing mindlessly while scrolling on his phone. There was an empty chair beside him, which Sean is heading towards, but I stopped him subtly by placing a gentle hand on his arm.
He throws me a brief look of understanding before redirecting his attention to the chair beside James.
“What’s for supper?” Sean asks the three seated at the small dining room in the suite.
“Five Guys,” Keonho responds with his mouth full of fries.
I sit beside Martin. He doesn’t look up and continue to eat his fries. I grab my share and arrange the food in front of me.
After a few bites of the burger, I finally got tired of his silence. I take the phone from his hand and pocket it in my hoodie. I also don’t look at him and start eating again.
He sighs, reaching for his drink and pull a long sip. “Whatever. It’s dead anyway.”
No surprise there. He has a habit of draining his cell battery, then not charging it right away. He ends up stealing my phone most days.
“Bro, that stage dive was badass,” Sean addresses Martin.
Thank you, Sean for breaking the ice.
“Uh huh,” he agrees. Noncommittally nodding.
“Good thing the floor was slippery, huh? Otherwise, that would’ve been embarrassingly bad.”
They all laugh.
I don’t, because I can tell he’s a little sore about it.
“That was really cool,” I add. “You should include it to the list of things you do on stage. You know, make it a regular thing.”
He snorts.
“I’m serious. Did you hear the fans when you did that? They freaking loved it.”
“Maybe,” he says under his breath, not an ounce of enthusiasm in his tone.
More evidence that he’s out of sorts tonight and it’s starting to bother me more than it should.
I nudge him with my elbow.
He looks my way in response, eyes completely blank.
“Want to go for a walk after?” I ask.
He replies with a shoulder shrug.
“Can I come?” Keonho pipes in.
“No, this is twinski activity only,” I say, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “Besides, you’re supposed to be getting as much rest as possible to help your healing process.”
He pouts. “Whatever, I’m tired anyway.”
They start gathering their trash, I'm still working on my burger, so is Sean for that matter. Martin barely touched his.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
“I finished my fries, so I’m good.”
“Eat your burger,” I say, giving him a stern look. He’s terrible at eating dinner. He would gobble everything in sight during the day, but he seems to be allergic to eating after dark. Not sure what’s up with that. He specially needs it after performances, but he’s been eating like a dang bird at night.
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, mom. I’ll eat my burger.”
I smile briefly.
We start gathering our trash once we’re done.
“Are we going for a walk?” I ask.
He breathes out, sounding a bit exasperated. “Where would we even go?”
“Just around the hotel. There’s a park behind that’s still part of the grounds, so I think we’ll be okay there.”
“Fine,” he replies. Then proceeds to stand up.
I make sure I have my key card so as not to disturb Seonghyeon when we get back. Chances are, he’s going to crash as soon as he gets back to our room.
I follow Martin out of their suite to the elevator.
The hotel sits on top of an elevated land, so the view once you get to the grounds will leave you breathless at this time of the night. There’s a mild chill in the air, salty and clammy at the same time. Must be the bay nearby.
“So, what’s with you tonight?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but I can see he’s mulling a response.
After a pause finally looks my way, breeze rumpling his hair.
“It’s nothing, just having an off night.”
“Yeah, I get that, but why? What brought it on?”
He looks away again. “It’s stupid and I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Come on, Edwards. Spill, we’re already out here. You might as well tell me.”
"I was supposed to be on the couch with you." He sulks.
I'm still confused. Why is he letting it get to him?
"And?"
"I was supposed to be sitting beside you." He's avoiding my eyes, fidgeting with the laces of his hoodie. His voice is a little timid, shy, almost.
My eyes squint. Stupidly lost.
“Just let me be sour in peace tonight; I’ll be fine by tomorrow morning.”
And he’s not even lying when he says it. One of the things I admire about him is his ability to quickly turn things around. He doesn’t hold grudges, doesn’t wallow and doesn’t let any grievances against him get him down. Once he decides he’s over it, he doesn’t look back; he moves on.
He pulls on his hoodie, walking towards one of the benches that lined the perimeter of the lawn. He lays on the first one he sees, which looks tiny with his long posture. I follow him and sit on the ground in front him, my back against the stone bench. The grass is a little dewy, but I don’t care.
“It’s so quiet here,” I murmur. “Too bad there’s light pollution. The skies would probably be a sight to see.”
“I’m just…I’m frustrated,” he says in a quiet and aggravated tone. “And it’s not only because I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, but because it’s one of my favourite things to do in the tour.”
Resisting the urge to smile in amusement, I reposition myself so I’m facing his supine form on the bench. It sounds like it’s time to make an attempt at making him feel better.
“You wanna know what I love about being on stage with you?” I wait for him to look my way, then continue. “I like when you flex your vocal prowess especially when you switch notes. Your voice becomes raspier, aggressive. You transform into a different performer, like someone possessed. You single-handedly change the style of our music when you switch up. And as cliché as it may sound, you’re born to be on the stage.”
He turns to me, quietly waiting for more, so I do. “It’s a privilege to perform with you because no one can know what it’s like to watch you evolve, to watch you hone your craft. No one sees the number of late nights you spend by yourself in the studio or to see your frustration when nothing is working. Only us, only me. We have front row seats and man, I know it’s scary how fast we’re moving, but we’re all on the same ride, you know?”
I see a small smile forming on his lips, still tentative but it’s there.
“The thing is, this is our first attempt at touring and from where I sit, I say, you’ve been killing it every night.” I reach for his hand, rough from writing lyrics, from playing the guitar. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve always been fascinated with how easily his hands dwarf mine, easily swallowed by his long and strong fingers.
“It’s not going to be the last time you make a mistake on stage, man. If you let small shit like this get to you every time you perform, you’ll give yourself an ulcer.”
As I try to let go of his hand, he holds on tighter and I let him. He plays with our fingers for a few minutes. It’s not weird, at least, when it's just the two of us. I feel a little guilty but there are things Martin and I don't share or show with the team or in public for that matter. We have an unspoken understanding, a closeness that we don't want anyone misinterpreting. So, for the time being, any forms of comfort we offer each other that we wouldn't otherwise offer to anybody else, is between us and God.
"You feel better?"
He contemplates for a few minutes then with a sigh, he lets go of my hand. "A little," he says. "Like I said, I'll probably be fine tomorrow."
"You want to head back? Maybe play Minecraft?" I offer him a conciliatory smile. He returns it at least.
"Sure, but can we go back to your room?"
"Bro, you're always in our room." It's true. No matter who he's rooming with, he follows me wherever I go, even if I'm rooming with managernim. As soon as he's done with whatever he's doing, he comes looking for me. It's sweet. In some ways, he’s like an overgrown toddler that follows me around.
“I’m switching rooms on the next leg,” he says smugly. “Don’t care with whom.”
I reply with a smile. Like I said, an overgrown toddler.