Stylist {j.h} A BTS Fanfiction - ON HIATUS

다섯

Her

I pulled the mask higher up my face as we exited the car. I slipped a pair of polaroid sunglasses on as I scanned the enormous amount of fans standing around the central station. I had known this was coming. My friend, Kwon Chai*, had tried to prepare me for this. Sadly, he was riding in a different car than I with the other backup dancers. I put in one of my earbuds and tried to act confident as I followed the managers through a narrow path carved by security. People crowded in to catch a glimpse of who was so important to need airport security.  

Halfway down the meandering walkway of people, I caught sight of the stars everyone was here to see: BTS. They were ahead of my little group by several yards, masks up and ignoring the crowds. All of them were impeccably dressed in some of the most expensive and fashionable clothing on the planet. Many of them, like V, were decked out in expensive brands like Gucci from head to toe.

I felt someone's eyes burning a hole through the back of my skull. I glanced about discreetly to see who it was. The head stylist, an older woman that simply went by Jina, was glaring at me with smoldering, dark eyes. They were as hard as glass and just as sharp. I had no doubt she would cut me with them if she could. She had been at the forefront of those who had opposed my last-minute promotion and deeply resented my rushed promotion. 

I felt heat rising in my face. I shivered and lowered my gaze. I continued walking as if I hadn't seen her. 

I try to shake the stressful feelings following me by studying the fashions worn around the airport. Not only were the seven singers draped in fine clothing, but their individual styles stood out starkly against one another's. It left each member looking unique yet still recognizable as being part of a group. I glanced around at the staff I was traveling with. The other stylists, the camera crews, even the back-up dancers, all seemed to be dressed to impress.

I sighed. Why one would want to dress up for a long airline flight, I had yet to discover. Compared to everyone else's high-end clothing and formidable auras, I felt small and unimpressive in my old Nike hoodie and blocky white sneakers.

My gaze flashed sideways at a tall security guard. He barked something in English to the people in front of me and gestured at the luggage checkpoint. I had no hope of hearing what he said from this distance. I waited patiently until word passed back through the ranks. I eagerly scanned the line for the few friends I had managed to make while working for BigHit. I had to stand on tiptoe to see over the head of the crowd. No luck. I slumped back down on my heels, slightly disappointed but not surprised. The line inched forward at an agonizingly slow pace. I carefully made my way in the direction of someone I thought recognized.

I nearly tripped when I saw that it was him.

He looked good. No, that was too small a word. Striking was a better fit. I was strangely pleased to see his shoulders were relaxed and his face was calm. He and the other members had been so tense during the concerts.