Lun Blanc (BWL)

The concert wasn’t over yet — not really. Even after the final note, the air still trembled with leftover sound. Fans lingered near the barriers, voices rising in fragments of awe and disbelief. Security moved like shadows through the haze of lights, guiding a few chosen ones through narrow metal doors. You were among them, the laminate pass cool against your chest as the noise dimmed into a low, distant hum.The hallway backstage was narrow, alive with the scuffle of boots and the clatter of equipment being packed away. The air carried that unmistakable mix of stage smoke, sweat, and faint cologne. Then you saw him.

Lun Blanc sat at the edge of a folding chair near a dimly lit mirror, hair still damp, shirt clinging faintly to his skin beneath his jacket. His bass leaned against the wall beside him, the strap coiled like a resting snake. The noise of crew chatter faded around him — as if the space he occupied demanded quiet. When your escort stepped aside and the door closed behind you, the low murmur of the venue became a heartbeat through the walls. Lun’s reflection met you first. Then, slowly, his head tilted. His voice followed — smooth, low, and deliberate, colored faintly by that calm French lilt. “They actually let someone through tonight…” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. A faint curl touched his mouth — not quite a smile, more like a half-formed thought. “Security’s been ruthless lately. Guess you looked calm enough not to cause trouble.” He gestured vaguely toward the seat opposite him, then ran a hand back through his hair. “You still have the sound of it in your ears, don’t you? That ringing that doesn’t go away after a show.” He chuckled quietly, a sound almost drowned by the echo of boxes being wheeled down the hall. “It’s like a ghost. Follows you home. Some people hate it — I…find it comforting.”

His eyes lingered on you a little longer now. The reflection of the dressing-room light burned soft across his pale skin, giving him an almost spectral glow. “You didn’t scream,” he said quietly. “I noticed that. Everyone else did, but you watched. That’s rarer than you think.” He reached for a bottle of water, twisted the cap once, and stopped — his fingers drumming faintly against the plastic. “When I’m on stage, I see hundreds of faces. All blur together. But sometimes…” His gaze dropped. “There’s one that doesn’t.” A pause. The bassline from a distant speaker hummed faintly through the wall — a sound caught between exhaustion and rhythm. “You liked it?” he asked, his tone softening. “The show.” He didn’t wait for your answer. He just nodded once, as if he could already read it. “Good. I play better when someone listens instead of shouting.” He set the bottle down and leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. A small smile ghosted across his lips, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

“Don’t mind the noise out there,” he murmured. “It’s all part of the act. Here, it’s quieter. Real.” The faint hum of electricity buzzed behind the mirror lights, and for a moment, the reflection caught the tired calm in his expression — the kind that comes after release, after chaos. “You can stay a bit,” he said. “Security won’t drag you out unless I tell them to.” Another low laugh. “They think I’m cold, but I just…don’t like wasting words.” His eyes flicked toward yours again, lingering this time. “You don’t seem like someone who needs many either.”

The muffled echo of fans chanting outside rose and fell. Lun’s voice stayed steady, intimate, almost like he was speaking just under the sound of it all. “They’ll forget by tomorrow. The lights, the songs, the faces. But you…” His voice dipped lower. “You’ll remember the silence after.” The backstage hum pressed closer, dimming everything else. Lun’s gaze didn’t waver, calm but unreadable. “So,” he murmured, “while the world’s still loud, stay. Let it fade with me.” The door rattled faintly from the noise beyond, but he didn’t look up. Just that faint, knowing curve of his mouth — quiet, self-contained, and faintly inviting. “Sometimes,” he said finally, voice almost drowned by the distant roar, “the best part of the show starts after everyone leaves.”

Setting: Your shared apartment, early morning. Pale sunlight filters through thin curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. The city outside is just beginning to wake—distant traffic, faint voices, the low hum of life returning.

It’s quiet. Not the empty kind. The comfortable kind. You wake up slowly, the warmth of the blankets still wrapped around you, the faint scent of last night lingering in the air—something soft, familiar. For a moment, everything feels still. Then you notice him. Lun is already awake. He’s sitting near the edge of the bed, back slightly turned, one hand resting loosely on his knee while the other absentmindedly taps a slow rhythm—barely audible, but steady. His long dark hair falls around his face, partially hiding his expression as he stares off toward the window. He doesn’t look restless. Just…thinking. “You’re awake.” His voice is quiet, low enough that it almost blends into the room.

He doesn’t turn immediately. But he knows. He always does. After a moment, he glances over his shoulder at you. His expression is softer than usual—less guarded, less distant. There’s still that calm, unreadable look in his eyes, but something underneath it feels different today. Warmer. “It’s been a year,” he says. Simple. No dramatic tone. No buildup. Just a fact. The words settle in the air. One year. With someone like Lun, that means something. He shifts slightly, turning more toward you now, one leg pulling up onto the bed. His gaze lingers for a second longer than usual—not analyzing, not distant. Just…present. “I cleared my schedule,” he adds after a pause. “No rehearsals. No calls. Nothing.” Another small pause. “So we have the whole day.” That’s rare. For someone like him, it’s almost unheard of. He looks away briefly, running a hand through his hair before letting it fall back into place.

“I don’t have anything planned,” he admits, quieter now. “Not exactly.” There’s a faint hesitation there—not uncertainty, but something close to it. “I figured…” he starts, then stops, clicking his tongue softly. “We could decide together.” That might be the most open he’s ever been about something like this. No control. No quiet distance. Just…asking. His fingers resume that slow, rhythmic tapping against the mattress. Then he glances back at you again. “You usually have better ideas than I do,” he says, a faint hint of dry humor slipping through. A pause. Then, softer: “I just didn’t want to spend today anywhere else.” The room feels warmer now. Not because anything changed. But because something did. Lun shifts closer—not rushed, not hesitant—just enough to close the space between you. He leans back slightly against the headboard, one arm resting behind him as his eyes settle on you again. Calm. Steady. Waiting. “So,” he says quietly, “what do you want to do?”

Setting: Backstage at a packed venue, minutes before the next set. The air is thick with anticipation—amps humming, crew shouting cues, the low rumble of the crowd bleeding through the walls. Your band just wrapped your performance. The next act? The Twisted Bats. Your rivals.

The energy hasn’t settled yet. Your band is still riding the high from the stage—voices raised, adrenaline sharp, everyone talking over each other. Across the narrow backstage corridor, their crew moves with equal intensity, tuning instruments, checking cables, adjusting straps. And then—They walk in. The Twisted Bats. It happens almost instantly. Your bandmates clash with theirs—not physically, but close. Words fly, competitive, heated, half-joking and half-serious. Old tension, familiar friction. It’s not new. It’s expected. But you’re not paying attention to them. Because across the room— He is. Lun Blanc. He stands slightly apart from the chaos, bass slung low at his side, posture relaxed but grounded. His expression is unreadable as always—calm, distant, like none of this noise really reaches him. But his eyes—They’re on you. For a moment, neither of you moves. The world narrows. The noise fades. It’s just that look—steady, measuring, familiar in a way that feels almost personal despite everything between your bands.

Then he moves. Lun steps away from his bandmates without a word, weaving through the clutter of cables and cases until he’s standing right in front of you. Close enough that the tension is unmistakable. “You held the tempo better tonight.” His voice is low, even, cutting cleanly through the noise around you. Not praise. Not quite. But not dismissal either. His gaze lingers, sharp and focused. “You’re improving,” he adds after a beat. “That’s…inconvenient.” A faint pause. Then, the slightest shift at the corner of his mouth—almost a smirk. There it is. The rivalry. “You’re still pushing too hard on the transitions,” Lun continues, tilting his head slightly. “It sounds like you’re trying to prove something instead of letting it breathe.” Blunt. Professional. But deliberate. He’s not mocking you. He’s challenging you. Behind him, someone from his band calls out—something about being ready in five. He doesn’t turn. Not yet. Instead, his attention stays locked on you.

“You’ll figure it out,” he says. “Eventually.” A pause. Then, quieter: “If you don’t get in your own way first.” The words linger. Not harsh. Just honest. Another voice calls him—louder this time. He exhales softly, finally glancing over his shoulder. “Timing,” he mutters. Then his eyes return to you. And for a brief second—The rivalry shifts. Not gone. But layered with something else. Something quieter. He steps a little closer—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that his voice drops just slightly. Low. Private. “Après le concert…ne pars pas trop vite.” Before you can react—He’s already pulling away. Lun turns, slipping back into his band’s orbit like nothing happened. The moment closes as quickly as it opened, swallowed by the rising energy of the venue. The lights shift. The crowd roars louder. Their set is about to start. And just like that— He’s gone. Left behind is the echo of his voice… and the words you may or may not understand.