again? again! ⋆⭒˚.⋆ l. jooyeon
small time bassist and perfectly average stoner lee jooyeon seeks your help in organizing his band's very lowkey dive bar concerts, but as they start booking more venues and more eyes turn to the long-haired guitar player, your professional relationship starts to become unsteady. notes: control freak!reader (control freaks who smoke to feel normal - RISE UP) obviously has mentions of weed, i have been needing more stoner!idols bc living in korea makes me feel like im constantly grounded and i miss smoking on a back porch with my friends, i thought i'd start with jooyeon bc he seems like he'd be the easiest to convince to try it haha wc: 3.1k
the first time you agree to help with their shows, you don’t expect much.
jooyeon had asked in the least professional way possible: half-serious, half-giggly, leaning against the counter of your favorite coffee shop while waiting for his drink.
“you’re organized, right? like, more than me?”
“i think everyone is more organized than you," you say, giving him a long look across the counter.
“perfect,” he said, grinning like it was settled. “you should sell tickets for us.”
and, like fate, a week later you’re sitting behind a folding table in the corner of a dive bar that smells like cheap beer and lemon cleaner, a stack of tickets in front of you along with a roll of neon wristbands you had to pick up yourself because jooyeon forgot.
the boys are loud and sloppy, but endearing. they don’t really tune their guitars properly until 3 songs in. gunil tries to flip his drumstick in the air and loses it, so he has to go running after it in between songs. jooyeon keeps making dumb jokes into the mic between songs that don’t really get any laughs. but, somehow, the crowd actually calls for an encore by the end.
you can see why people like jooyeon. he’s magnetic - he's sweaty, and a little messy, but in a way that feels like he belongs on a stage, no matter how small.
when he’s not on stage, though, he’s kind of a disaster.
after their set, he wanders over to your table, still buzzing.
“how’d i do?” he asks, craving the validation and leaning too far across the table, long hair damp with sweat.
“you forgot half the lyrics,” you look at him disapprovingly.
“that was an artistic choice,” he throws you a bright smile.
“you tripped over your amp.”
“i was trying a new joke!”
“you broke a string.”
“passionate performance,” he insists, grinning. “besides, the girls in the front row loved it.”
“you’re insufferable,” you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
he just laughs, steals one of the wristbands from your pile, and wraps it around his own wrist like a trophy.
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later, when you’re packing up the leftover shirts and stickers, he’s outside, passing a joint with seungmin and gaon. he catches your eye through the doorway, and holds it out toward you with that same lazy grin.
“shift’s over,” he calls. “want a hit?”
you shake your head, but you’re smiling.
and maybe that’s the start of it. not the weed, not the music, not even the dumb jokes.
but the way he makes all of this - the late nights, the sticky floors, the bad lighting - feel less chaotic, and more like a place where you should be.
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you weren’t necessarily supposed to be their manager.
you were supposed to be the one who counted crumpled bills at the ticket table, taped up hand-drawn flyers, and carried extra sharpies in your bag because jooyeon always forgot them. you were supposed to be a friend, a helper, background noise.
but somewhere along the line, the band got traction. their spotify singles started creeping past a hundred thousand plays. venues stopped being sticky-floor bars with busted speakers and started being actual clubs with stage lighting.
and you became the person answering the emails, negotiating the rates, handling the merch designs.
jooyeon had once sent a reply to a venue asking if they were interested that literally read “sounds lit. can we get free fries in the dressing room?” and it became very obvious that if they wanted to be taken seriously, it had to be you.
and you never meant to be good at it. but you are. you keep spreadsheets, budgets, tour calendars. you book them shows that make them look bigger than they are. you even set up a new line of merch that actually sells out.
and the boys know it. they thank you every chance they get. sometimes junhan pats your shoulder with a smile, or gaon buys you snacks during load-in. but jooyeon, he’s always been special.
every time you tell them about a new show in a new city in a new venue they’ve always wanted to play, he just grins, grabs you around the waist, and hugs you until all you can think about is him, how he smells. how warm he is. then he starts the yelling, “you’re insane! what would we do without you?!”
you try not to let your thoughts linger too much on any of it.
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with bigger shows comes more attention.
for example, the fans.
at first it’s cute: regulars who dance too hard in the front row, people scribbling the band name across their notebooks and shoving them toward you to get signed. but soon, it shifts.
girls with hand-painted signs. screaming louder when jooyeon leans into the mic. crying when he jumps down and sings a line inches from their faces.
and jooyeon . . . loves it. he feeds on it.
one night in daegu, someone actually throws their number onstage, scrawled across the back of a receipt. jooyeon picks it up, laughing.
“what’s this?!” he shouts into the mic, waving it in the air. “you think i can read your handwriting while i’m trying to play?”
the crowd screams. he sticks it in his back pocket.
later, you find it sticking out while you’re helping them pack up.
“seriously?” you mutter, tugging it free.
“what?” he asks, big eyes looking at you like he’s searching for something.
“are you gonna call her?”
he shrugs. “nah.”
“then why keep it?”
he flashes that maddening grin. “maybe i like knowing i could.”
you crumple the paper and throw it in the trash. he doesn’t stop you.
and he doesn’t stop grinning either.
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with the chaos of the new success you find yourself drawn more and more to junhan.
it’s not necessarily intentional, but you and him end up hanging around each other more during shows. he’s steady, calm, the kind of guy who never panics when something goes wrong - like when the cable blows mid-soundcheck and jooyeon is pacing in circles like the world’s ending.
you and junhan slip outside sometimes before or after sets, sharing a cigarette or passing a joint in the quiet. it’s easier with him. he doesn’t demand. he doesn’t take up all the air.
but the first time jooyeon catches you two leaning against the van, smoke curling into the night sky, his whole face changes.
“what’s this?” he demands, voice sharper than you’ve ever heard it though he tries to make it seem like a joke.
“a joint,” you deadpan.
“where was my invite?” he asks, smile tight.
“you were inside flirting with your fan club,” you joke, your smile looking the same.
he opens his mouth, closes it again, then mutters, “whatever,” and stomps back inside.
junhan chuckles under his breath. “he’s jealous.”
“he’s ridiculous,” you mutter.
but your stomach twists anyway.
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it starts to seem like the bigger they get, the bigger the gap between you and him feels.
he’s everywhere at once - on stage, in photos, laughing with fans, soaking up all that messy, wild love. and you’re behind the scenes, spreadsheets and checklists, trying to make sure none of it falls apart.
sometimes you catch him looking at you mid-show, but you tell yourself it’s nothing. he looks at everyone.
and sometimes, when you’re standing by the soundboard and the crowd is chanting his name, you wonder if you’ll ever stop being the person just outside the spotlight.
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in busan, the crowd is the loudest it’s ever been.
you’re exhausted, your throat sore from yelling at the sound guy earlier, but when the lights dim for the encore, you can’t help but smile.
jooyeon comes back out, grinning like a maniac, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt sticking to his back.
“you guys still alive?” he shouts, and the venue erupts.
then - softer, too low for most to notice - he says into the mic, “this one’s for the person who makes sure we even get to play these shows.”
your stomach flips.
the boys kick into “AGAIN? AGAIN!” - one of their highest-energy, loudest songs. jooyeon is all over the place, throwing himself across the stage, but when he sings, his gaze finds you and it holds for a little while, just enough to feel like it's on purpose.
and you hate yourself a little for wondering, for hoping, that maybe it is on purpose.
the crowd screams. he grins.
and you?
you pack up the merch boxes a little harder than necessary, trying to bury the thought before it buries you.
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after the busan show, you’re running on fumes. the band is wired, sweaty, laughing, half-dead and half-high off adrenaline. you’re just trying to get merch into boxes before the venue staff kicks you out.
jooyeon keeps circling near you, like he wants to say something, but every time you look up he ducks away - talking to staff, ruffling junhan’s hair, chugging a water bottle.
finally, you snap.
“are you gonna hover all night or actually help?” you ask, slamming a box closed.
he blinks. “i was gonna carry those out.”
“then carry them.”
he grabs the box, muttering, “you’re so bossy sometimes.”
“someone has to be.”
the tension lingers. you don’t know why you do this to yourself.
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later, when everything’s loaded into the van and the others are already inside, he catches you by the wrist before you can climb in.
“wait.”
“what?” you sigh, tired.
his grip is warm, a little too tight. “did you… hear me? on stage?”
“you were screaming into a microphone for forty-five minutes. yes, i heard you," you try to make a joke but it just comes out mean.
“no, i mean -” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “the part before again? again!”
your chest knots, you shrug. “yeah. i heard.”
“and?”
you shrug, forcing your face blank. “nice shoutout. the crowd probably thought you meant your mom.”
he stares at you, incredulous, like you’re purposely missing the point. maybe you are.
“you know i didn’t mean my mom.”
“then who?” you challenge, pulse racing.
his mouth opens, but no sound comes out. for once, jooyeon doesn’t have a comeback.
you climb into the van before he can finish.
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when you start the drive back it’s quiet. junhan asks if you want to split a cigarette at the next rest stop, and you say yes, just to feel something normal.
jooyeon sits in the far back, hood up, staring out the window.
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outside the gas station, the night air is sharp. you’re leaning against the van with junhan, smoke curling into the sky. he’s rambling about a riff he wants to try out tomorrow, something easy, calm, grounding.
you laugh at something he says, flicking ash off your cigarette, and that’s when the van door slams.
jooyeon storms out, eyes flashing.
“seriously? again?”
“what?” you ask, startled.
“this,” he gestures wildly between you and junhan. “you sneaking out with him like you’re - i don’t know - like you’re- “
junhan raises his eyebrows. “like we’re what?”
jooyeon glares. “you know what. it’s weird.”
you exhale slowly. “jooyeon, we’re just smoking. chill.”
“don’t tell me to chill,” he snaps, stepping closer. “you don’t see how it looks?”
“looks to who? the five of us on this tour? who cares?”
his hands fist in his hoodie. “i care!”
the words hang heavy. junhan takes the hint and stubs out his cigarette. “i’ll, uh… go grab snacks.”
leaving you two in the dark.
“what’s your problem?” you demand, crossing your arms.
“my problem is you acting like it doesn’t matter!” he bursts out. “like i can just stand there while you laugh with him and -“
“you laugh with everyone, jooyeon! girls throw their numbers on stage and you keep them for fun!”
he flinches, eyes wide. “that’s different.”
“how?”
“because none of them are you!”
the silence after that is deafening. your pulse is in your ears. his chest rises and falls like he just screamed his throat raw.
you whisper, “jooyeon…”
he shakes his head, backing up a step. “forget it. i shouldn’t have - just forget it.”
he turns like he’s going to storm off, but you grab his sleeve.
“don’t just drop that on me and walk away,” you tell him, brows furrowed and heart racing.
his jaw clenches. his eyes flick to yours. and then, voice softer, “i dedicated that song to you. because i wanted you to know. because i’m… so fucking bad at saying it.”
your throat tightens. “saying what?”
he swallows hard, hair messy around his face.
“that it’s you. it’s always been you.”
you don’t answer right away. you can’t. the weight of it knocks the air from your lungs. you stare at him, searching for the joke, the punchline. but there isn’t one.
he’s not grinning. he’s not smirking. he’s just raw, open.
“jooyeon . . .”
“i know i’m an idiot,” he rushes out, voice cracking. “i know i flirt too much, and i mess up, and i don’t make it easy to trust me. but when it’s you and junhan, i hate it. i hate it because i want it to be me making you laugh. it should be me standing there with you.”
you drop your gaze, heart pounding. “do you hear how insane you sound? you’ve got girls crying over you every night.”
“i don’t want them.” his voice is low, firm. “i want you.”
the words slice through the night air, sharp and terrifying and impossibly tender.
you can’t breathe and you can’t look at him, but you can’t drop his sleeve, your mind is going too fast.
but before you can answer, the van door slides open. gaon pokes his head out, oblivious.
“yo, we’re ready to leave. hurry up.”
jooyeon scrubs a hand over his face, mutters, “coming,” and yanks his arm free, brushing past you.
you stand frozen, chest aching, wishing that cigarette hadn't burnt out so you could take a long drag of it right about now.
but right now you don’t know if you’re more afraid of believing him, or of not believing him at all.
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the rest of the drive back from busan is too quiet.
usually, the van is chaos. jooyeon with his feet on the dash, junhan and gaon bickering over aux, somebody in the back seat laughing too loud at a dumb meme.
but tonight, everyone seems to read the room. you're driving, like always, hands tight on the wheel, eyes fixed on the dark highway. the boys passed out one by one after the show, mumbling themselves into silence. all except him.
you can feel jooyeon’s stare in the rearview mirror, where he chose to sit in the back instead of next you like he always does. his gaze isn't constant - it's just there in flickers. a glance when he thinks you won’t notice.
your jaw is tight. you keep your focus on the road.
because if you meet his eyes, you’ll remember the way he said it after the show, out behind the venue, still buzzing with adrenaline, words slipping out before either of you were ready:
it’s always been you.
you didn’t know what to say. so you said nothing.
and now, the weight of it sits heavy in the air.
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by the time you pull into seoul, dawn is a thin gray line on the horizon. you park in front of the boy's apartments and kill the engine.
no one moves at first. the guys groan, stretch, stumble out with backpacks and instrument cases. the van empties until it’s just you and jooyeon.
you sit there, gripping the wheel, pretending you need another moment before unloading.
he doesn’t move either.
“you’re not gonna look at me?” his voice is low, rough from smoke and no sleep.
“why does you always need me to?” you fire back. it comes out sharper than you mean, angrier than you want.
he scoffs. “right. pretend it didn’t happen. classic.”
that gets you. you turn, finally meeting his eyes.
they’re tired, rimmed red. but clear. too clear.
“jooyeon…” you start, then trail off.
you think about all the reasons you’ve been hesitant. he’s wild, unpredictable, a magnet for attention. you’re the one who keeps the calendar straight, who remembers to order new merch before the old runs out. you live in the margins, not the spotlight, you thrive on control, so why invite chaos into your life when you know you can't control it?
and yet - is love something you should try to control?
why couldn’t he be something that just is, outside of everything you try to always have a handle on?
the thought hits you like a jolt, and before you can second guess, you’re moving.
you climb awkwardly over the console into the back row where he’s slouched, surprise flickering across his face as you sit next to him, facing him but not yet looking at him.
for once, he doesn’t say anything. he just watches. waiting.
you take a breath, grab his hoodie strings, tug him forward, and kiss him.
it’s messy, unpracticed, but sweet. his hand comes up to steady you, fingers curling at your waist. you feel him exhale against your mouth, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
you pull back first, searching his face.
“i don't want to pretend it didn't happen” you admit, voice unsteady.
he smiles - small, exhausted, relieved, and genuine all at the same time, “thank god.”
the van door slides open then, and suddenly the rest of the band is there, frozen mid-step.
junhan squints. “seriously? in the van?”
“damn, finally,” gaon says, deadpan, pulling out his guitar case from inside the van like he expected this all along.
seungmin whistles. gunil mutters, “knew it.”
your face heats instantly. you try to shove off jooyeon, but he doesn't go easily and he’s grinning now, wide and unbothered, like this is the best morning of his life.
“shut up,” you snap at the others, scrambling out of the open door and past all of them like you have somewhere to be.
jooyeon just leans back, smug, calling after you, “don’t act like you didn’t start it.”
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outside, the sky is pale with a hint of morning mist. the city is waking up and despite the chaos, despite the noise, there’s a strange calm in your chest.
because maybe it’s messy. maybe it won't last.
but for once, you think you're okay with letting go of total control for a little while, just see where this could go.