Chapter Text
The plastic alarm clock on Woojin’s desk wasn't just ticking; it felt like it was actively mocking him. The digital display blinked a cold, menacing 4:15 PM. The stadium gates for Louis’s solo concert were scheduled to open in exactly two hours, & the venue was a forty-five-minute transit ride away under perfect conditions.
Unfortunately, perfect conditions were a luxury Woojin had not been granted today.
Woojin stood in the center of his chaotic bedroom, surrounded by the remnants of what was supposed to be a meticulously planned outfit.
He was a legendary fanboy in the fandom—the type who ran a dedicated streaming lane, coordinated cup-sleeve events, & spent his entire paycheck on seasonal merchandise.
Today, he was supposed to wear a custom-made, hand embroidered reproduction of the high-collared designer jacket Louis had debuted during his Gravity promotional cycle. Instead, he was currently staring at a complete catastrophe.
"No, no, no, please don't do this to me," Woojin groaned whinily, his knuckles turning white as he violently tugged at the silver zipper running up the side of the jacket.
With a loud, sickening crack, the heavy metal tab shattered completely under his grip, leaving the tracks hopelessly jammed at an awkward angle right across his ribcage. The heavy fabric bunched up, trapping him halfway into the sleeve. Panic spiked through his chest like a sudden jolt of electricity. He couldn't go to a front-row VIP seat looking like a half-wrapped parcel, but every second he spent struggling against the thick fabric was a second stolen from his travel window.
"Hey, calm down before you rip the whole thing apart," a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from the doorway.
Ryul, Woojin’s long-suffering roommate, was leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over a black hoodie. A slow, incredibly focused smirk played on his lips. While Ryul didn't quite understand the absolute madness of fanboy culture, he was a good roommate, & he had spent the last three nights listening to Woojin blast Louis's vocal tracks through the thin apartment walls.
"Ryul-ah, it's completely stuck!" Woojin wailed, looking over his shoulder with glossy, wide eyes.
"I'm going to be late! I'm going to miss the opening VCR!"
"Move your hands," Ryul commanded softly, walking over with quiet, deliberate steps. He didn't offer empty words; instead, he reached into his pocket & pulled out a handful of oversized safety pins he had grabbed from the laundry room. He carefully snipped the inner lining of the jacket just enough to wiggle Woojin's arms free, quickly replacing the broken metal zipper with a neat, solid row of pins anchored from the inside. "There. It'll hold. Now get moving."
Driven by pure relief, Woojin lunged backward to grab his bag, but his heel caught on a loose power cord. He stumbled violently into the edge of his nightstand, tipping over a heavy glass mug of iced americano. A thick, dark wave of cold coffee splashed directly across the front of his pristine, white cargo pants.
"You have got to be kidding me!" Woojin wailed, his voice cracking with pure, dramatic frustration as a massive, unsightly brown stain bloomed right across his thigh.
Ryul let out a soft rumble of a laugh, shaking his head as he tossed a handful of paper towels directly at Woojin's chest. "No time to change, man. Just dab it & run. Here—don't forget your purple flashlight thing."
Woojin ignored the damp chill against his skin & lunged for his official neon-purple lightbar, but as he slid the battery compartment open, the small plastic locking clip snapped off entirely, dropping beneath the heavy wardrobe. The battery cap was completely loose now, meaning the slightest shake during a fan chant would send the batteries flying across the arena floor.
"Fine. Tape. Give me the packing tape!" Woojin choked out, his vision blurring with stress-induced tears.
Ryul snatched the roll of heavy-duty packing tape from the desk, wrapping it ruthlessly around the handle of the lightbar until the plastic was firmly sealed. "Go, go, go," Ryul teased softly, shoving the taped lightbar into Woojin's hands. "If you miss this front row, I'm never hearing the end of it."
Woojin shoved his phone into a portable power bank, completely failing to notice that the charging icon didn't light up because the cord was slightly frayed at the base. He pocketed his digital ticket information & lunged out the front door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
....
The moment Woojin hit the street, the universe delivered its next brutal blow. The gray summer clouds overhead split wide open without a single second of warning, unleashing a torrential downpour that completely saturated the air within seconds. He hadn't brought an umbrella because the morning weather report had explicitly promised clear skies, & within less than thirty seconds, his carefully styled hair was plastered completely flat against his forehead, dripping water down the bridge of his nose.
He sprinted toward the nearest bus stop, his boots sloshing through the rapidly forming puddles. Just as he reached the curb, a massive city bus roared past the intersection without slowing down, hitting a deep trough of accumulated water right beside the sidewalk.
A massive, dirty wave of street water erupted upward, showering Woojin from head to toe. The safety-pinned jacket was suddenly heavy & waterlogged, & the coffee stain on his pants was now thoroughly mixed with muddy street grit.
"I’m just trying to see Louis," Woojin whimpered softly to himself, wiping a thick layer of dirty rainwater from his eyes as he pulled his lightbar closer to his chest to protect it. "Please, just let me get to the station."
When he finally dragged his soaking-wet frame down the concrete stairs into the subway station, the digital display boards above the turnstiles were blinking with flashing, bright red warning text.
Subway Line 2: Temporary Service Suspension Due to Track Flooding.
A collective groan echoed through the crowded station from hundreds of other commuters. For Woojin, it felt like an absolute death sentence.
The Olympic Hall was on the entirely opposite side of the city, & without the main transit line, his travel time was instantly doubled.
Desperate & feeling the minutes slip away, Woojin ran back up the stairs into the pouring rain, frantically waving his arm at the passing traffic to hail a taxi. It took fifteen agonizing minutes before a yellow cab finally pulled over. Woojin scrambled into the backseat, his wet clothes instantly soaking the leather upholstery as he gasped out the address of the venue.
"It’s going to be a heavy fare, kid," the driver warned, shifting the car into drive. "The rain has caused accidents all along the main expressway. Traffic is completely gridlocked."
The driver wasn't exaggerating. Within ten minutes, the taxi was completely stranded in a sea of red brake lights, the windshield wipers slapping back & forth in a hypnotic, frustrating rhythm. The digital clock on the dashboard read 5:15 PM. The gates were officially open, & the venue security was notoriously strict about closing the VIP verification lines exactly thirty minutes before showtime.
"Sir, please," Woojin begged, his lower lip trembling as he leaned forward between the front seats. "Is there any shortcut? Any back road? I have a front-row ticket. I've waited six months for this night."
"There's nothing I can do, son. We're boxed in on all sides," the driver sighed, gesturing toward the endless line of motionless cars stretching out into the gray mist.
Woojin looked down at his phone to check the map, only to feel his stomach drop into absolute freefall. The device was completely dead. The frayed charging cable had failed entirely, leaving him with a black screen & absolutely no access to his digital QR ticket code. The sheer weight of his bad luck felt like a physical blow, threatening to shatter his resolve right there in the back of the cab.
"How far are we from the park?" Woojin asked, his voice dropping into a low, desperate pitch.
"From here? About two and a half miles," the driver replied, checking his side mirror. "But running in this rain is—"
Before the driver could even finish his sentence, Woojin slammed a handful of cash onto the center console, grabbed his taped lightbar, & threw the taxi door wide open. He sprinted out into the blinding downpour, abandoning the gridlock to take his chances on foot.
....
The run through the city streets was a blur of pure, unadulterated physical agony. Woojin’s lungs burned with every sharp breath, his heavy, waterlogged cargo pants scraping painfully against his thighs with every long stride. His boots squelched loudly with every impact against the slick concrete, & the safety pins inside his jacket poked sharply against his skin, leaving tiny, stinging pricks along his ribs. He didn't slow down for a single second, navigating past startled pedestrians & sprinting across intersections just as the traffic lights shifted.
He was a complete, chaotic disaster—drenched to the bone, splattered with mud, smelling faintly of old coffee, & clutching a heavily taped purple lightbar like a weapon. But his mind was entirely locked onto one single image: Louis on stage.
The solo artist was an absolute, unyielding perfectionist, a performer who poured raw, uncompromising energy into every syncopated choreography line & demanded absolute precision from his live vocal tracking. Woojin had spent hours analyzing Louis's stage presence, completely enamored by the quiet, intense confidence the artist projected behind the scenes, & he refused to let a storm or a dead phone keep him from that front-row view.
When the glowing, geometric architecture of the Seoul Olympic Hall finally broke through the curtain of rain, Woojin’s legs were trembling so violently he could barely hold his weight. He staggered up the wet plaza stairs, gasping for air as he approached the bright VIP verification tents. The digital clock above the entrance read 5:52 PM. He had exactly three minutes before the gate closed.
"ID & ticket code, please," the staff member said smoothly, her voice clinical & detached as she held up a digital scanner.
"My phone... it died on the way," Woojin whiezed out, his chest heaving painfully as he frantically searched his wet pockets. He pulled out his physical residence card & a crumpled, damp piece of notebook paper where he had written down his reservation number the night before, his fingers shaking so hard he nearly dropped them into the mud. "Please. I have a front-row seat. My name is Jang Woojin. You can check the master registry."
The staff member frowned, looking at the soaked, muddy fanboy with an expression of deep skepticism. "The system requires a digital scan for VIP entry, sir. Physical verification takes time, & the queue closes in two minutes."
"Please!" Woojin wailed cutely, his voice cracking dramatically as he dropped all his remaining pride right there at the turnstile. He looked up through his wet, dripping hair, his wide eyes glossy with pure, desperate tears. "I ran over two miles through the flood to get here. My roommate Ryul safety-pinned my clothes together. I just... I just need to see Louis. Please check the list."
The sheer, ridiculous dedication of the drenched fanboy seemed to crack the staff member's corporate exterior. She let out a heavy sigh, typing the reservation number manually into her terminal. After five seconds of agonizing silence, the machine let out a sharp, happy beep, & a green light flashed on the screen.
"Verification successful. Seat Row A, Number 4," she murmured, handing him a heavy plastic VIP wristband & a paper ticket slip. "Hurry inside, they’re about to dim the house lights."
Woojin let out a loud, breathless shriek of pure joy, his shoulders dropping all their tension as he lunged past the barrier, running down the heavily carpeted corridor leading into the main arena bowl.
The contrast inside the auditorium was staggering. The cool, air-conditioned space was completely packed with thousands of roaring fans, the air vibrating with a deep, low-frequency bass that shook the concrete floorboards. Woojin made his way down the stairs, ignoring the wet squelch of his boots as he navigated through the standing floor sections until he reached the very front row, his hands gripping the heavy velvet-draped barricade right at the center tip of the extended runway stage. He was so close he could see the individual condensation drops on the stage monitors & the faint shimmer of powder on the backup dancers' props.
The arena lights suddenly slammed off, plunging the entire stadium into pitch-black darkness. A deafening, earth-shattering wall of screams erupted from the crowd, thousands of neon-purple fanlights instantly blinking to life & transforming the massive room into a glowing, electronic ocean. Woojin raised his taped lightbar high into the air, the heavy plastic weight feeling perfectly secure in his palm despite the missing clip.
The massive center LED screens began to display the opening VCR a gorgeous, cinematic sequence of monochrome visuals that built up the dramatic concept of the album. As the final frame shattered on screen, the ambient tracking faded out, replaced by a soft, beautiful acoustic piano melody that sent an instant hush over the entire crowd.
It was the opening notes of Vanilla Days.
A single, brilliant white spotlight slammed down on the center stage lift as it rose, revealing Louis standing in a cloud of thick, low rolling fog. He looked fiercely attractive, wearing a sharply tailored, iridescent cream suit that caught every shifting hue of the light. His expression was cool, focused, & entirely unshakeable the epitome of the precise, dedicated artist who ran his production meetings with total authority. He raised his microphone, his sharp eyes sweeping across the front row with a quiet, commanding presence that instantly locked the audience in his grip.
When his live vocals cut through the sound system, the sheer purity of his tone made Woojin let out a soft, whimpering moan of pure adoration. Louis's voice was perfectly stable, delivering the delicate, bittersweet lyrics of Vanilla Days with an effortless resonance that completely filled the soundproofed space. He launched into the fluid, contemporary choreography, his movements incredibly sharp yet deceptively smooth, his long lines cutting through the white smoke as the backup dancers mirrored his blocking with flawless precision.
As the track built toward the second chorus, Louis began to glide down the long T-shaped extended runway, his footsteps confident & light on the polished wood. He sang right through the rising crescendo, his stage presence completely dominating the entire arena as he approached the very tip of the stage extension right where Woojin was standing.
Louis stopped directly in front of Woojin’s section, his breathing controlled & rhythmic as he hit a sharp, elegant pivot in the choreography. He lowered his gaze slightly, his intense, focused eyes locking directly onto Woojin for a prolonged, undeniable second. He took in the entire sight of the dedicated fanboy the soaked hair, the safety-pinned custom jacket Ryul had salvaged, & the mud-splattered white pants.
A rare, incredibly subtle smirk played on Louis’s lips—a quiet, secret acknowledgment of the sheer, unyielding madness it took for a fan to look that wrecked just to stand in his front row. He leaned into the final vocal run, his voice soaring over the arena before he spun flawlessly on his heel to return to the main formation.
Woojin completely lost his grip on reality, his knees going weak as he wept soft, breathy moans of pure, unadulterated happiness right into the velvet barricade. He clutched his purple lightbar to his chest, his internal purr of absolute contentment vibrating through his ribs. The broken zipper, the coffee stain, the bus splash, the dead phone, & the two-mile sprint through the flood completely evaporated into nothingness, leaving him entirely safely locked inside the beautiful, perfect sanctuary of Louis’s performance.