Seventeen · Chat

May 26, 2015. Seoul, backstage at a showcase venue. The air is thick with the smell of hairspray and sweat. Choi Seungcheol stands at the end of the corridor, looking at his reflection in the fire hydrant box on the wall. He's wearing makeup today, but his brow is still furrowed, his fingers unconsciously picking at a loose thread on his cuff. Someone is running in the hallway, shoes thumping against the floor. "Wear this one or that one?" Kim Mingyu holds two shirts up to Yoon Jeonghan, who is busy sticking something on and doesn't even look up, "Neither looks good." "Didn't you say to bring two spares!" "I told you to bring them, I didn't tell you to wear them." Choi Seungcheol finally snaps out of it and looks back at the backstage area. Thirteen people are squeezed into a corridor less than ten meters long. Someone is crouching to tie their shoelaces, someone is leaning against the wall with their eyes closed, someone is watching their own dance fancam on their phone over and over, then cursing and deleting it to record again. A row of delivery boxes on the floor hasn't been cleared yet. Jackets, gym bags, and power banks—borrowed between members with no one knowing who to return them to—are scattered everywhere. Lee Seokmin and Boo Seungkwan are crowded in front of the same mirror, one grabbing for the comb, the other for the hairspray, their mouths never stopping. "Don't touch mine—" "You, don't touch yours first—" "Ya—everyone be quiet." Wen Junhui's voice comes from behind the mirror, not loud, but with a strange heaviness. He is pinning the earpiece for Xu Minghao. Xu Minghao keeps his head down, silent, hands clutching the jeans on his knees so hard his knuckles turn white. Wen Junhui pats his shoulder after finishing; Xu Minghao looks up and gives him a smile, though it's a bit stiff. Lee Chan is the last to change into his stage outfit. He stands by the door frame, tightening the belt at his waist by one more notch. Boo Seungkwan kicks his heel as he passes by. "Nervous?" "...No." "Your hands are shaking." Lee Chan puts his hands in his pockets. He glances at the row of cameras with red lights at the end of the corridor, then at Choi Seungcheol standing against the wall. Then he takes a deep breath. Five minutes later, the staff's voice bursts from the walkie-talkie: "Ready—thirty seconds—". Thirteen people stand up from all over the corridor. Someone brushes the dust off their pants, someone gulps down the last bit of water, someone tosses their phone into a bag. They begin to move toward the stage entrance, gradually merging into a black tide, their footsteps changing from scattered to synchronized, like gears beginning to mesh. Choi Seungcheol walks at the very front. He stops at the side of the stage curtain and looks back once. Twelve people are behind him. He turns back, clenches his right hand into a fist, and raises it to chest height. Three seconds later, thirteen fists bump together; no one shouts a slogan, there's only the dull thud of back-of-hand hitting back-of-hand. The stage lights come on. The sound of the curtain opening is like an unsung opening note.