Page 28 of Teach Me K-Pop

“Videos? What kind?” As if he doesn’t know.

I shrug, trying to be casual. “Music videos. Some fan made stuff. Maybe an episode or two of FLY…”

He covers his face as he laughs. “Oh. Oh no. Why would you do that?”

“Because I wanted to learn!” He stops laughing, like he’s surprised. So I keep going. “I wanted to know more about your group. More about you.”

The blush is instant, spreading from the tips of his ears to his throat. It’s adorable. He’s beautiful.

“What did you find out about me?” There’s a hint of anxiety in his question. Like he’s worried I’ve seen something I didn’t like, or that might change the way I think about him.

“Well, first, I discovered that you have a lot of very passionate fans who dedicate a lot of time to curating collections of clips about extremely specific things about all of you,” I say and he’s smiling again.

“They are amazing. They are so good at what they create. I love to see them. We all do.” He prompts me for more. “What else?”

“I don’t think I understand any of your music videos,” I admit. Every single one I watched left me with more questions than answers, the concepts way too abstract for me.

Nikko laughs loudly, his head thrown back. When he takes a breath, he leans in close to the screen, speaking conspiratorially. “I do not think I do either.”

I find this hilarious, but it also makes me feel significantly better. While he’s right there, I tell him something else true. “I also learned that you’re incredibly talented.”

He pulls back, putting space between himself and the computer as he tugs the collar of his shirt up to hide behind. It’s ridiculously cute.

“And, perhaps most importantly, you make a great pirate.”

He groans, but lets the shirt slip back into place. “That was a fun day. But I did not like the bird.”

“I don’t know,” I say, grinning. “I enjoyed the parrot. I thought you really made it work.”

Nikko rolls his eyes. “Ryo named it Pasta. I think he brought it to the dorm with him.”

I might cackle a little bit at that—the mental image I have of the tacky plastic parrot, now named Pasta, apparently, hanging around the dorm where these six 20-something guys live. I’d seen pictures of their living space in a video, and I do not recall it looking particularly hospitable to any kind of additional residents, even of the faux-feathered variety. The easy way he mentions Ryo now is nice. It feels like he’s more comfortable, because he doesn’t have to worry about slipping and mentioning details he didn’t mean to. Maybe this is a good thing after all. Maybe the best thing that could have happened, even.

That reminds me of something I have been wanting to ask him, since I couldn’t figure it out based on anything I’ve seen online. “Okay, I have to ask this because I keep wondering. Which of the guys is the zombie fan?”

“Tang!” He laughs again, and I love the sound of it so much. “He likes those movies. And talking about what would happen if there was a…” He trails off and I recognize that look, but this time I think he actually is missing a word and not trying to debate about what he can and cannot say.

“Apocalypse?” I guess.

“Yes! That.” Even while he’s shaking his head like he thinks his friend—his brother—is crazy, his fondness is still so apparent. But then he’s serious again, gazing at me through the screen, but it’s so intense I can feel it like some kind of physical sensation. “I am happy I can say things now. I want to be able to do that.”

“I want that, too,” I reply, without even thinking about it. An automatic response that echoes the relief I feel, as it seems we are back to normal, but a new and improved version. It’s more than I could have hoped for. “I want to know.”

Nikko smiles at me, a gradual upturn of his lips that makes his whole face glow and my heart trip over itself. “I will tellyou.”

?

NIKKO

“He knows,” I announce, closing the hotel room door behind me before walking straight to my bed and falling face-first onto the mattress. The room smells like that sakura candle that makes me sneeze, and I try to turn away from where it’s burning.

I hear Lux set his phone on the nightstand and shift to look at me.

“Who knows what?” he asks, primly folding his hands together like one of those fake psychologists on television.

I groan into the duvet. He is my best friend. Shouldn’t he just know what I am referring to all the time? “Jase. He knows who I am.”

Lux makes a noise that he’d swear wasn’t a snort, but it definitely was. “Isn’t that what you wanted? You spend hours talking to him and walk around with those heart-eyes all the time. Seems like that’s the kind of progress you’d want to make.”

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