HERO.

“yeah, right.” noah laughed for two reasons, and two reasons only. everything was ten times more humorous intoxicated (even blue), and he was still a sweet talker despite the potent alcohol in his system. to say the least, it was amusing; blue was amusing. someone who matched him glass for glass and didn’t parental control his bad habits. he lifted another serving of the clear and tasteless beverage, pointing at blue as he simpered, “because you’re special, i’ll let you call me nico. a-and—“ a hiccup. “i won’t even insist on calling you red and making out-dated pokemon jokes.”

everything was funny. shit-faced hilarious. when noah laughed too hard, too much, he sounded as if he was giggling. a peculiar blend of snickers and hiccups from glossy lips and scarlet cheeks. (the infamous asian glow.) “i beg to differ but because you’re my mate i won’t argue with you. you’re mr. wor-worldwide attractive.” he was drinking too much and enjoying himself much more that noah couldn’t control the twists of his tongue. all he said slurred.

crown connections aesthetics ; noah & daeun. 

 “she guessed my favourite colour first try... but between me and you i didn’t even have a favourite colour until she yelled out yellow!! she was hella excited ‘n smiling like a kid. so i told her she was right, and i haven’t seen yellow the same since, it’s in everything. i could probably live in it now.”

noah didn’t handle things well. to be exact, he didn’t handle two things well: lying and exes. but to be exact again, he rarely spoke, so how could he efficiently train his tongue to twist the truth? and he only had one ex, the others didn’t count. they were mere flings, temporary fun on nights temporary happiness was a bottomless round of vodka and no schedule requiring his presence in the morning.

in simpler terms, a bad idea. ideas, though, noah wasn’t good at those, either. (harder it was to count his faults than his talents.)

limbs committed on fleeing, confrontation was yet another notch to add to the ever-growing list of noah han’s cons. (it rhymed, how morbid.) he wasn’t partial to arguments, and he got in his fair share for someone who considered his being as a pacifist. he passed a fist while others landed theirs below his ribs, a straight jab to his gut and an undercut to his jaw. bruises marred his body like a painter to their canvas.

but no one was going to hurl any punches — hopefully.

security and relief surfaced in the form of a young lady and a drink disproportionate to her hand. so noah traded the goblet of vintage, red wine for a sparkling glass of flavoured water with a slice of lemon on the rim. “this is for me, and that’s for you. cover me!”

( ... )

a knock on the door only briefly caught her attention, but the voice that quickly joined pulled her away from the mirror. a voice she hadn’t heard for over a month now. the uneasy feeling that seemed to be a permanent residence in the pit of her stomach grew more prominent. all eyes were on her, but she was only focused on the door. her eyes met haeyeon’s briefly before she opened the door and slipped into the hallway.

“hi.” her arms were crossed in front of her chest, partially to cover up her ridiculous outfit, more-so to keep some kind of barrier between her and noah.

and suddenly the permanent ink needled into his complexion was more fascinating. (no.) it was less hurtful to stare at. all fifteen seconds of bravery vanished, and noah was a hollow shell. not a single word scorched on the tip of his tongue. so, it was like this. distance was a crater, and daeun’s arms over her chest was a stance he knew all too well. but not from her, no.

maybe that was why it hurt more, a straight jab to his heart.

they should have started like so: cautious. not resulting in a month of not talking or seeing one another. it was difficult using someone else to fill a void. when they left, only the hole remained. without daeun, he was empty.

noah always was, but the past few weeks were dreadful. old quotes were true, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. he could only blame himself, point the fingers at here, here and here. (face, heart, most notoriously his mouth for his final words to her.)

how long was he standing there, picking at his tattoo as if he saw it for the first time in years? he let his eyes drift on anything and anywhere, but they themselves refused to fully look at daeun. he wasn’t ready; he was a coward.

“hi,” he mimicked because it was easy — it was simple. a tentative step, testing the waters with bare toes. where does he begin — how should he begin? apologizing, noah didn’t know the first thing about it.

but he would try nonetheless. “i wanted to talk to you about what i said on the phone.” slowly, gauging for a reaction without directly looking at daeun. yet he caught her from time to time, confirming all he remembered about her. she wasn’t easy to forget. and noah didn’t want to forget.

( ... )

“you will?” the surprise bursts out of her before she can disguise it as something else–like relief and gratitude. she’s staring openly now, mouth agape. “i mean, thank you!” shouldering off her backpack, she digs inside for the folder bursting with sheet music and a well-loved notebook filled with dog-eared pages and sticky notes poking out every which way. “here, i wrote a couple of songs–not that they’re all completed or anything since i somehow alwaysget stuck in the middle and end up scrapping or re-writing them.” hand slipping into a hidden pocket inside her backpack, she pulls out a usb shaped like a minion from despicable me and offers it to him. “although it took me a long time to compose this one, it’s probably the most complete of all the things i’m offering up for evaluation today. still…it’s not…” she huffs, blowing a strand of hair from her face in frustration, “…something’s missing? but it’s all i have for now. i’d like an honest opinion because people are breathing down my neck since i was given nearly a month to come up with the composition and it’s still not ready and i just?” she throws her hands up and sighs, “i was this close to giving up until, you know, ilwoo oppa suggested i ask you for help and, well, here i am…so, take a listen? please?”

mina is the type of person noah skirts the perimeter of. in simpler terms, he stays away from. yet out of some fragment of luck (good or bad is relative), he finds them drawn to him. they surround and blossom in marigolds on a lawn dying and pathetic.

maybe he’s their omen. some people are attracted to danger, to the unpredictable and noah is all of that. face value and deeper. he likes to jog the idea he’s made of bad fortune, sadness, loneliness and alcohol. he is far from wrong, too.

there is nowhere in him built for people like mina. like daeun. yunyeong. ilwoo.

in his minimalistic studio, couches of black leather, surfaces in ivory and walls of some wooden, soundproof panels, mina stands out in her discomfort. in her determination to smile and reap familiarity in foreign territory. noah manages a small chortle, charmed by her attempt to break ice, to find common ground on sleepless one.

“sounds like a plan to me.” promises aside, mina can do him some good. she can tease his mind, wake the quadrant of his brain frazzled of compositions, prod for lyrics or notes to release and make sense on paper and in the air. maybe mina can kickstart a new era for him. songs of spring falling in love with summer. a holy matrimony of chirping birds and fluttering butterflies.

or maybe he can wave the flag for hers.

“when you reach number one, i’m expecting my due.” a challenge in shape of a jest, and noah wonders peculiarly when has his sense of humour been so sharp, so smooth like the blade of the knife. it cuts tension.

he smiles watching mina fumble in excitement, cherry blossom fingertips disappearing then holding perhaps a lifetime of work, of ideas and dreams, of pieces of herself and inklings of her soul. so noah takes the (cute) usb carefully. in betwixt his fingertips is her heart, he must be cautious. he treats it like glass, not fragile but valuable. (or a little of both, that’s a good thing.) people like mina are far too delicate for the world. the kind that has to be protected valiantly.

but noah doesn’t coddle; that’s not him. “i’ll take a listen.” or two or three or even four. nowadays, he’s rusty. nowadays, he has no vision or inspiration. after working on two of his own songs, noah is parched of daydreams, of heartful whispers. “and tell you what i think.” hope sparks when he wakes his computer from slumber, tapping on the space bar of the keyboard before he plugs in the usb and waits for a pop-up to surface.

a few clicks then silence before music ebbs like ocean waves at the finale of a long summer day. noah has no expectations, but he listens as he said he will; he doesn’t just hear but also feels the notes swirling in his veins, through a stream of blood. he feels chimes prance on nerves, skipping with faint laughter in a childhood vignette. and when it ends, noah doesn’t know, and he’s caught in a rainfall of flower petals, each one he touches sings with serenity, creating a path under his feet.

words are long overdue but silence remains. a second time isn’t necessary as his mouth disappears against his palm and continues to say nothing until, “you did this yourself? it’s pretty good, but it is lacking something. do you have any lyrics for this?”

mistakes followed noah from america to korea. they shadowed him, gaining size at night where demons were persistent, where voices were stronger, louder, chanting. (“you ruined it. you ruin everything.”) shrill, nefarious and all-consuming.

he couldn’t sleep.

the demons were having a feast, devouring his heartache with gluttony. it was apparent on his face, drained of colour — drained of life. food was tasteless on his tongue then bubbled in his stomach as he was being put together. he ignored the complaints of his stylists about the tangles in his hair and cuts on his jaw from finally shaving. (“this is your job, quit bitchin’,” he snapped when it was too much.)

everyone was too much.

in them, noah saw his fault. it leered in eyes of coal surrounding him. he could practically hear their thoughts — hear their persecutions and laughter. his knee thumped, legs desperate on fleeing before his brain could even process it. but he wasn’t thinking, he was relying on his heart. and that always got him in deep shit.

always.

noah jumped from the chair, nearly toppling it over when he was a variation of finished. (“yah, i’m not done with your makeup.”) he didn’t linger to soak in the rest, slamming the door behind him and effectively cut off being cursed at. nothing he wasn’t used to. he sweared plenty to himself night after night when he considered giving daeun a call.

what if she wouldn’t answer. she never did because he never contacted her even once to mumble an i’m sorry for being a headass.

hands dug in pockets, he drifted like a wisp of a person through narrow corridors of white. staff paid him no mind, and he ignored the idols who did bow to him. he wasn’t there to make friends or fans; he was there because he had no choice. somehow, the predicament worked out.

to his benefit, that remained to be seen.

with holly’s voice in mind, less harsh and more subdued, noah’s footsteps trickled to a stop in front of a door. he raised his knuckles, scratching the tattoo of a bird in flight on his neck as he waited for a response to his knocks. time was eternity as voices emerged then the shuffle of chairs and feet on the ground.