777 words.

I. 

MNET Asian Music Awards, December 2015.

The clock strikes twelve.

The night is glorious and glittering. Through black swaths cut lights of hopes and dreams. She’s drunk on adrenaline and barely can commit to memory the parade of people who greet her, try as she might. There are reporters and fans and every famous person she’s ever heard of and more; Big Bang and EXO and SNSD and Sistar pass by backstage and it’s safe to say that she’s dazzled.

In the waiting room they’re with other rookies. There’s Red Velvet (who are so chic) and Oh My Girl (who are so sweet), and the impossible-to-ignore blooming, chaotic cacophony that is Seventeen.

She does try to remember all thirteen of their names, but they’re all in the same smoked eyeliner and plaid suits, and they all have such endearing smiles and a warm confidence and uncomplicated laughter.

There’s one who looks tired. He catches her eye across the room and smiles, close-lipped. She smiles back, nodding in acknowledgement. He his head, as if to say, 'who are you?'. He is ever so handsome but there is nowhere to fit introductions here, before they’re given the signal that it’s time to go, now.

With each door they pass through the roar of audience grows and grows until the chilly December air wraps its cold fingers around her, but it barely registers for the sights to take in, the heady frantic energy and the screams and the twinkling lights dotting the crowd.

Six months ago she was Minatozaki Sana but now she is Twice Sana, reborn as a celebrity, and tonight there’s hundreds of eyes on her, and it is at once breathtaking and exhilarating and so, so terrifying in its enormity.

Backstage after the awards she’s talking and walking with Momo, and they’re goofing around when she collides into something solid and warm. She teeters sideways on her heels before there’s hands on her shoulders, giving her balance.

His hands. The hands of sleepy, smoky-eyeliner, close-lipped smile boy from earlier.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve been looking where I was going,” she says apologetically, automatically, taking a step back. His hands slip off her shoulders; she hadn’t noticed that they lingered for a breath too long. “Please forgive me, Sunbae-nim,” she says with a full bow.

“You’re Japanese?” he says, ignoring the topic altogether. The directness takes her unawares, the floor pulled out from under her for the jarring nature of it.

“I—yes,” she replies, perplexed.

“What’s your name?”

“Sana. Twice Sana,”

“Sana,” he repeats quietly to himself, giving her that same tiny smile. “You should watch where you’re going next time, clumsy Sana.”

“Yes, thank you, sunbae-nim.”

“It’s Wonwoo.”

“Thank you, Wonwoo-ssi.”

He chuckles, and she’s self-conscious because what is there for him to laugh at?

“You’re welcome, Sana-ssi,” he says, mimicking her formalities, before they’re swept away from one another in contrasting currents of obligation, and she glances back, only to find herself half-disappointed that he wasn’t looking, too.

II.

Golden disk Awards, 2016.

January. Nerves. Tension.

Scandal is close-cut for Twice, and it’s only when the audience applauds and applauds and applauds for Tzuyu’s acceptance speech that the tightness in Sana’s shoulders relents. Where was once joy is now stress and where should be excitement this time is only relief.

Backstage, there’s that same tired, intriguing boy from the MAMAs. He approaches her, and the storm in her mind calms, because this is something that is finally, finally removed from the anxieties that are braided into her career. After relentless hours spent in quarantine with only her members, managers, and staff, the relief of something, anything else is beyond welcome.

“Congratulations,” he says.

“Thank you, sunbae,” she says courteously, complete with a bow.

“Wonwoo,” he corrects. He steps closer to her, and she edges back only for her heels to bump against the wall.

“Thank you, Wonwoo-ssi,” she amends, blushing.

“How old are you?” He quirks his head the slightest bit, a thoughtful look in his eyes like he’s trying to figure something out. Trying to figure her out, perhaps.

“1996.”

“Me too.”

“Oh,” she replies, eloquence lost for her shyness. Her eyes are too familiar with both of their shoes by now.

“So we should be friends.”

Up she looks now, her eyes fixing to his without hesitation. He doesn’t falter; it’s as if he’s been waiting, waiting for her to look at him. A delicate, glowing softness spreads warm in her chest, and she knows now before anything else how full of possibility this is.

“Friends,” she echoes, the words ready on her lips and full of promise. His smile spreads wide, this time.

It feels right.

Wonwoo and Sana meet at an awards show. By request on tumblr.