16. Two Faces
TWO FACES
JIN — AMSTERDAM
After rehearsal we went to an Indonesian rijsttafels restaurant for dinner.
The restaurant had pushed three tables together for us in a private room at the back, which was probably the only way to accommodate Pryzm without turning dinner into another public appearance.
By the time everyone had found a seat, we filled nearly the whole room with members, staff, and security, with Aidan and Liam taking the chairs closest to the door.
“Rijsttafel is a Dutch-Indonesian feast,” the host said when we were all seated. “You will find a large assortment of small Indonesian dishes, served in a banquet format developed during Dutch colonial rule.”
I sat across from Sang-hoon. That was a mistake.
Not because anyone would notice anything. We’d spent years sitting across from each other at meals, in dressing rooms, on airplanes. I knew exactly how to look at him without looking at him.
The problem was that after Paris, I knew more about his body than I’d ever known when we were simply working together.
I reached for my water.
“What exactly are we eating?” Haneul asked.
“Everything,” Eun-ji said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It will be in about two minutes.”
She was right.
The first servers arrived carrying rice, followed immediately by more with small dishes that began spreading across the table.
Then more dishes came. And more. Satay skewers glazed from the grill.
Beef cooked dark in a thick sauce. Chicken, vegetables, fried things I couldn’t identify, eggs stained brown with spices, pickles, peanuts, bowls of sauces in red, gold, and nearly black.
“Banchan,” Haneul said happily.
The Dutch woman serving us laughed. “Not exactly.”
Sang-hoon laughed, and my eyes went to him automatically.
He caught me looking. For half a second, neither of us looked away.
Then I became extremely interested in the beef in front of me.
It was rendang, the server told us, cooked slowly with coconut milk and spices until almost all the liquid disappeared. I took some with rice. The meat came apart under my fork, rich and slightly sweet at first, then hotter as the spices built.
“Oh,” I said.
Sang-hoon looked up. “Good?” I nodded and passed the dish to him.
Our fingers touched on the edge of the bowl. Nothing. An accident. Something that could happen between any two people at a crowded table.
My body apparently hadn’t received that information because my penis stiffened as I looked at Sang-hoon’s face and remembered the feel of his body against mine.
Across from me, Sang-hoon’s mouth twitched, and I kicked him lightly under the table.
His smile widened. At the other end, Min-kyu had discovered the sambal. “How spicy is this?” he asked.
The server started to answer, but he had already spooned a generous amount onto his rice. Everyone watched him take the first bite.
For two seconds, nothing happened. Then his eyes widened.
Haneul burst out laughing. “It’s not that hot,” he insisted. “You have eaten buldak spicier than this.”
Min-kyu wiped tears from his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting it,” he said.
He took a big drink of water and then continued eating.
I looked at Sang-hoon and we both began to laugh as well.
Eventually even Aidan was laughing, though Liam merely shook his head with the expression of a man who had predicted disaster and was pleased to have been proved right.
The dishes kept circulating. Chicken satay with peanut sauce. Vegetables cooked with coconut. Something sweet and sticky made with soy sauce. Fried potatoes. Cucumbers in a sharp pickle that cut through the heavier food. Every time I thought I’d found my favorite, another plate reached me.
It was strange and familiar at the same time. Rice in front of us, dishes being passed back and forth, everybody stealing from everybody else’s plate. Not Korean food at all, but the rhythm of the meal felt like home.
For the first time all day, nobody seemed to be thinking about the tour. Nobody was talking about call times or press or security. Nobody mentioned Paris. Nobody mentioned the photograph.
We were simply hungry young men eating too much food in Amsterdam.
Sang-hoon put another piece of rendang on my plate. “You liked this.”
“I can serve myself.”
“I know.”
His eyes met mine again.
There was nothing unusual about a stylist remembering what I liked. Sang-hoon had spent years knowing whether a collar bothered me, which shoes would start hurting after two hours, how much product my hair could take before I complained.
But this was different. Or maybe I was different.
I ate the piece of beef he’d given me. Under the noise of everyone talking and laughing, his foot brushed mine.
This time neither of us moved away. I felt the heat of his foot pressing against mine, and pushed back against it.
Electric signals rose to my penis, which tried to stiffen under my tight pants.
Because Sang-hoon had picked those slacks out for me to wear, I had the feeling he knew just what he was doing.
When I looked directly at him, he had a sly smile. So that’s the game we were playing.
When we got back to the hotel, we waited outside the door to my suite until everyone else had gone inside. I opened the door and Sang-hoon followed me in. We were kissing before the door was shut.
“You taste like spice,” he said. “Too much of that rendang.”
“But never too much of you,” I said. We grappled quickly with our clothes, tossing them on the floor.
“I’ll have to pick all this up later,” Sang-hoon said, as I fell back on the bed, naked.
“After you come to me,” I said.
This time, we moved more slowly, drinking in each other’s bodies. “You are so fit,” Sang-hoon said. “Sometimes I can’t believe how much you eat and yet you stay so slim.”
“Don’t you see how hard I work on stage?” I demanded. “That uses up a lot of calories.”
“We could use up some more now,” he said, and he rolled on top of me.
We moved together the way we had in the shower in Paris, this time with only our sweat lubricating us.
Both our penises were hard and fluid streamed out.
He slid down on the bed and began licking my penis, and tiny noises came out of me that I’d never heard before.
He took those as encouragement, and began sucking the tip of my penis. I had never experienced sensations like that when I took care of myself.
If Sang-hoon thought he was teasing me, he was right. But I loved it.
I couldn’t hold out for too long, and eventually I tried to tell him I was going to come in his mouth, but I couldn’t get the words out, and he wouldn’t let me pull away. I ejaculated, and he swallowed almost all of it. Then he sat up and wiped his mouth, and wrapped that hand around his own penis.
With a few strokes, he came on the bare skin of my thigh, and the warmth of it felt like it was falling directly into my veins.The orgasm wasn’t as amazing as it had been in Paris, but I didn’t care. I hoped to have years of those ahead of us.
Wednesday May 27, 2026
I woke before the alarm with Sang-hoon still asleep beside me.
Morning light filtered through the curtains of the Conservatorium Hotel, turning his hair almost chestnut instead of black.
One arm was flung across the mattress where he’d reached for me in his sleep.
His breathing was slow and even, the tension that had lived in his face since Cannes finally eased away.
I watched him for a long time. For five years I’d imagined waking beside him. I hadn’t imagined it would happen because someone had tried to kill me.
Carefully, I brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. He smiled without opening his eyes. “You always stare.”
“I do not.”
“You’ve been staring for at least three minutes.”
I laughed softly. “You counted?”
“I heard you stop breathing.”
He finally opened his eyes, still smiling.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I know.”
He reached for my hand beneath the blanket, our fingers finding each other automatically. The gesture was so ordinary, and yet so impossibly precious.
A knock sounded on the door. “Breakfast in twenty minutes,” Sun-hee-noona called. “Media bus leaves at ten.”
Our hands separated instantly. The room became a hotel room again instead of the safest place I’d ever known.
By ten o’clock I belonged to the world again. Hair, makeup, wardrobe. Before we walked out, I grabbed Sang-hoon’s arm and turned him to face me. “Your collar is off,” I said. I adjusted it and smiled, and I felt warmth all through my body. “See, I can take care of you, too.”
“Like you did last night,” he whispered, and I felt myself blushing.
The first interview was all five of us with a Dutch woman with highly teased hair, in a conference room at the hotel. She asked the standard questions about the concert that evening, what we’d be singing, what we expected of the Dutch audience.
Then she leaned forward sympathetically. “What got you through what happened in Cannes?”
“The support of the members,” I said. “And Starhouse staff.” I smiled. “Our fans have sent wonderful messages.”
Her photographer wanted the five of us to jump in the air together because it looked “energetic.” We did our best, though Tae was careful of his knee.
The second interview took place in the office of a glossy Dutch fashion magazine. Sang-hoon and Du-ri, the wardrobe mistress, accompanied me because Sun-hee-noona had briefed us this would be about clothes.
“You always look so fabulous,” the interviewer said. “Where do your clothes come from?”
“Starhouse has an in-house designer who creates our stage costumes,” I said. I pointed to Du-ri. “Our wardrobe mistress keeps everything organized.”
“But what about offstage? I’ve seen some fabulous photos of you. What designers do you like to wear?”
I knew nothing about the clothes I wore offstage. Sang-hoon usually accompanied me to a store, or a designer’s boutique, and picked out what I should wear. I looked to him and he nodded, and began speaking in Korean so that Grace could translate.
“K-pop and K-dramas have put Korean fashion on the global stage, turning idol outfits and character wardrobes into coveted looks overnight. As Jin’s stylist, I’m responsible for his look off stage.
Today he’s wearing a Solid Homme top and Kuho Jung trousers, and his sneakers are from Yoon Ahn’s collaboration with Nike. ”
The interviewer was impressed, and I was relieved. I would have said I wore a lot of T-shirts and comfortable slacks. I’d have to look at the labels on some of my clothes when I got back to the hotel.
“I can see you have a close relationship with your stylist,” the interviewer said. “You’re very lucky.”
I looked at Sang-hoon and smiled. “Yes, I think so.”
One last interview before lunch. I answered in English when I could and let Grace translate when the questions became complicated.
“You seem especially close to your team,” she said.
I smiled on cue. “We’ve been together a long time.”
“Who’s the person you rely on most?”
My heartbeat stumbled. Of course I wanted to say Sang-hoon. It came so naturally I almost spoke it aloud. Instead I caught myself. “Everyone,” I said. “My stylist, the makeup artist, wardrobe, tour management. Even the lighting techs who make us shine.”
The interviewer laughed. “That’s a diplomatic answer.”
Thank god I had years of training at Starhouse, coaching us on almost any question we could be asked. Never call someone a favorite, never act in a way to create negative headlines. Never tell the whole truth.
After lunch I had a radio appearance, conducted completely in English, and then all of us gathered for a promotional video for the Dutch concert promoter. I looked for Sang-hoon, and spotted him adjusting Tae’s jacket, completely focused on his work.
Then, as though he felt my eyes on him, he looked up. For one second we smiled at each other. No one else in the room noticed.
I hoped.
We sang a number, danced around the promoter’s logo, and then took a break. Grace appeared beside me while Wan-suk patted down the shine on my forehead.
“You’re a big hit with the Dutch,” Grace said. She turned her tablet toward me. Someone had posted a photograph from yesterday’s technical rehearsal, and the camera had captured me looking offstage.
An arrow pointed toward the edge of the frame. There stood Sang-hoon.
There was another photograph, and another glance. The caption read:
HE ALWAYS LOOKS FOR THE SAME STAFF MEMBER.
I laughed. Because everyone around me expected me to laugh.
Grace shrugged. “Fans create romances every week.” She closed the tablet. “It’ll be something else tomorrow.”
I looked toward Sang-hoon again. He was helping Woo with an earpiece. Completely unaware of what might be happening to us in the press.
Just before we left for the arena, Sun-hee-noona gathered us in the hotel lobby. “Same security procedures as Paris.”
Jason reviewed evacuation routes, and Liam reminded us to keep moving if anything unexpected happened. “One of us will be right there. Don’t worry about anything.”
It was all routine and professional. But it reminded me of Cannes, and how Sang-hoon had rushed into danger to rescue me.
As everyone began walking toward the elevators, Sang-hoon brushed past me.
“So handsome,” he murmured in Korean, too quietly for anyone else to hear. Before I could answer, he was already two steps ahead of me.
I spent the entire elevator ride trying not to smile.
Standing in the darkness before the first song, I realized something. For years I’d walked onto stages thinking about choreography. About vocals, about breathing.
Tonight my first thought was I wonder where Sang-hoon is standing.
I found him almost immediately in the wings. He gave me the smallest nod, barely visible, but enough.
The music began.