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The lights dimmed as the final notes of illumination faded, and EJ felt the thunderous energy of the Manila crowd shake the stage. It had been two years since they’d performed here, and the audience hadn’t lost an ounce of their fervor. The deafening cheers reverberated in his chest as he darted offstage with the others, the heat of the spotlights giving way to the frantic cool of backstage chaos.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Tamako-san’s voice cut through the whirlwind of stagehands, stylists, and equipment. EJ barely had time to catch his breath before his hands were working on the zipper of his jacket, its fluffy hood brushing his face one last time before he tossed it to the nearest stylist.
The rack of clothes rolled toward him, and he grabbed the top set instinctively—blue dress shirt, black vest. The pieces were familiar enough not to raise alarms. Fingers flying, he yanked the shirt over his head, the cool fabric brushing against his flushed skin, and slipped the vest on. The fit felt a little different, but there was no time to second-guess it. Nico’s voice—breathless and hurried—echoed nearby as he struggled with his own change. EJ caught a glimpse of him through the chaos: white ushanka discarded on a chair, jacket flung onto the floor, his usual calm replaced by the same focused urgency they all wore in these moments.
“Sixty seconds!”
Tamako-san reappeared with a flurry of hand signals, ushering them toward the stage entrance. EJ didn’t look at Nico again until they were climbing the stairs into the blinding wash of stage lights.
It wasn’t until halfway through Deer Hunter that something felt off. Nico had stepped forward for his lines in the second verse.
(Yeah, I'm a predator was right, EJ thought).
Nico’s movements were sharp and fluid, and the crowd’s roar surged to a new peak. It was then that EJ noticed—the glint of black mesh under Nico’s open jacket, a faint glow like starlight. His heart stuttered, and he nearly missed his next step. That wasn’t Nico’s usual look.
But there he was, commanding the stage in what was supposed to be EJ’s sheer top, the fabric clinging to his shoulders and chest as he moved, catching the stage lights like a second skin. EJ’s own vest felt heavier now, the tailored lines more constricting than comforting. The realization hit him like a sudden gust: the tops had been switched. And Nico… well, Nico looked good. Too good. The audience was eating it up, and EJ couldn’t help but wonder how many fans were capturing this exact moment.
There was no time to process the mix-up. They finished the set with their usual precision, each move rehearsed to the point of muscle memory. By the final note, the crowd was screaming, their energy spilling over the barricades in waves, and EJ’s pulse was still hammering as they bowed and left the stage.
---
Back at the hotel, the adrenaline had finally begun to taper. EJ sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by the aftermath of a room service feast. The bedside table was a chaotic pile of Filipino junk food: crumpled wrappers of Choc-Nut, torn bags of Clover Chips, and a precarious stack of Choco Mallows. Amid the clutter, EJ had snagged a bag of Piattos, balancing it on his knee as he crunched through the sour cream and onion chips absently, scrolling through social media. The fan edits were already flooding in: slow-motion captures, filters galore, captions in multiple languages. He hesitated before typing Nico’s name into the search bar. It wasn’t like he was looking for anything in particular. Just… for science.
The first fancam he opened hit him square in the chest. The video was crisp, focused entirely on Nico as he jumped into position, his hand sweeping down to caress his inner thigh as part of the choreography, every movement deliberate and magnetic. The sheer mesh shirt clung to him in all the right places, revealing glimpses of toned muscle under the stage lights. The comments were as chaotic as the crowd had been—
m*llon: " getting unfiltered thoughts.... IS THAT WANG NICHOLAS IN A SHEER MESH TOP"
pr*sm: "WHOS STILL ALIVE. I NEED A SECOND"
no*h: "that’s the slutty waist!!!"
gh*st: NICO PLEASE HUNT ME. I AM A DEER.
CLOUD EJ-97: “that’s my man!”
EJ swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. It was… an impactful look, to say the least. Another crunch of chips, and he tried to refocus, but his thumb hovered over the replay button longer than he cared to admit. For science, of course.