#mar.writing

Friday night lights are blinding. 

You walk into the stadium with your heart beating wildly against your chest, hearing it pounding loudly against your ears over the cheering crowd. It’s a warm night — the first of the summer, and the stars shine brightly in the night sky. There’s a soft breeze, so light you can barely feel it crashing against your skin, carrying both scents and sounds as you let yourself become immersed in your surroundings. The air smells like pretzels and candy, scents reaching your nose as you walk deeper into the forming crowd. There’s loud rock and roll playing the background, probably coming from one of the many speakers, setting the atmosphere ablaze, tying everything together into one cohesive scene. 

The timing isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t have to be. Your feet walk like they have a mind of their own, moving like following an invisible compass, pulling from an imaginary thread that leads you directly to him. And it’s almost as if they do, and as if he too had been a participant in the strange game of push and pull, because his eyes find yours in the midst of a sea of people. 

You refrain from gasping, because as you rest your eyes on him, you’re sure Jung Jaehyun has been pulled out from some romantic comedy, somehow way too good to be true. Standing in the middle of the playing field, under the bright lights illuminating the entire stadium, with his football uniform made a mess of dirt and grass and his hair disheveled from taking off his helmet, he’s a dream in and out of himself. It brings a slight tingling to the tips of your fingers, goosebumps running down your back when he smiles, eyes shining brighter than any fire in the starry sky. 

Smiling at him, you let your feet resume their way as you forget about everything else that isn’t him and the way he’s looking at you, blocking everything out but the way his smile grows wider with every step you take in his direction. He looks happy, happier than you’ve ever seen him, looking at you as if it was you who put the stars in the night sky or who composed the force of the sun. As much as for you there’s only him, standing front and center in a still frame, for him there’s you, and he’s sure everything else in the picture is only but a background image. 

“Hey,” he says as you finally reach him, surprise laced into his tone. He’s smiling wide, one hand holding his helmet on the side while the other has a tight grip on a plastic water bottle. “I thought you wouldn’t come.” 

“Yeah, me too,” you respond. You stick your hands in the front pockets of your jeans, trying to conceal the shaking of your fingers. “For a second, I really wasn’t going to.” 

Jaehyun takes a step closer. There’s cheering in the background, laughter and hollering. He can hear his friends singing loudly, celebrating a victory in the same way he would if he hadn’t seen you. Having you there, in front of him, is victory enough. 

“What convinced you?” He asks, nerves almost completely masked by his excitement. “Was it the thought of me in a uniform? Johnny has been saying I look like a Vogue model with my hair all disheveled like this, so I really wouldn’t blame you.” 

You laugh, nudging his shoulder with your hand. 

“No, you idiot,” you say, voice breaking in between the laughter. “But I really couldn’t miss this, not when me being here meant that much to you. You don’t look bad with your hair looking like that, though.” 

His smile seems to soften at your words, though you’re not sure if you’re seeing it correctly or if it’s merely a trick of the light. Your heart swells, beating rapidly at the thought of having such an effect on him, and a part of you really wants it to be a mix of both. As much as you’re trying, there’s no way you’re feeling about him now. 

“Not bad?” He laughs, and you see him blush under the reflectors. “I think it looks really sexy.” 

“Okay, now you’re just letting it get to you,” you joke. “At least you have your trophy now, right? That’s what’s sexy.”

He takes another step closer, and you’re close enough to touch. People walk past all around you, forcing you to get even closer, hands flying to his chest on instinct alone. Jaehyun doesn’t seem to notice, or ignores it if he does. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Yuta smiling at him, but it all becomes background noise as he sets his attention back on you. 

“It’s because of you, you know,” he says, voice soft. You hear a small thud, and when his hand comes to rest on top of yours, you can tell it’s his helmet finally falling to the ground. “The plays, the trophy - it’s all for you. Every single thing I do, I do thinking of you. I simply can’t get you out of my head.” 

You smile. “I thought we were just friends.”

“We’ve never been just friends,” he smiles. He pauses for a second, looking up to the sky and pursing his lips, as if deep in thought. “We were also roommates. And we were teammates that one time in Ethics class.” 

“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, rolling your eyes and feeling his fingers lacing with yours. He tightens his grip, softly squeezing your hand. His hair falls against his forehead, pressing against the damp skin. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, a blush rising to his cheeks as he looks at you. “Okay, and, to be fair, I was also in love with you, and I think you might have also liked me back this entire time, with you occasionally eating the food I made for you and all.” 

“That’s the only possible explanation when I kept doing it despite getting food poisoning that one time you made spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“You’re just exaggerating,” he laughs. Neither of you have noticed you’re leaning closer to each other with every passing minute. “You loved my special spaghetti and meatballs.”

“I did not!” You smile. And you’re sure your world stops still in its tracks when your nose touches his, everything around you disappearing and your entire surroundings becoming the warmth of his touch and the tenderness in his smile.  “But I did love you… I guess.”

“I hope you still do,” he whispers, and you hear him, loud and clear, despite all the chaos unfolding all around you. “Because I’m crazy in love with you, and I just can’t hold it in anymore. Do you know how hard it was for me to see you looking so fucking beautiful in the morning and not being able to kiss you as soon as I saw you? I’m about to take matters into my own hands, this can’t just stay as it is!” 

“Probably as much as it was for me to see you with your hair like this, looking like a goddamned Vogue model and not being able to kiss you as I walked into the stadium.” 

“Fuck, you really are way too good to be true.” 

And he’s kissing you, softly and gently, a small and quick kiss under the blinding lights, holding you to his chest and pressing you against his form. Your eyelids flutter closed as you kiss back, a thousand lights going off on your head, just as part of your imagination as of reality, a perfect mirror of the ones shining bright all around you. You can feel him smile against your lips, giggling so softly you don’t get to hear it; you feel it, vibrations traveling down your body as you smile right back, feeling your heart beat so loudly you’re sure it’s about to go out of your chest. 

“Hey, could you possibly repeat the Vogue thing around Johnny before we leave.”

“Anything for you, stud.” 

“God, I love you.”

The tapping of his feet against the cold, faux tiled floor produces no audible sound over the music coming from the speakers, but it’s still noticeable to him. He tries to keep a steady pace, even counting along to the beat as he plays the same words over and over inside his head. It’s his own voice speaking back at him, words a mere reminder, and, if he were to be completely honest, part of the reason behind his nerves.

He had promised you, on the very first day he met you, that he’d help you shine. That he’d make you succeed. Part a rush of the moment, part wanting to impress his boss and part a reassurance for himself, his promise had been easy to make. Then. And it’s not that he doubts himself, or you, but, at the end of the day, he’s a 24 year old making his debut in the music industry. And it’s hard, of course, because even when he’s not the one performing, it’s still his words that are being sung. 

Doing what he does is harder than people usually think. Jun’s lyrics are heart-felt, authentic, with his entire soul poured on the paper and ready to be dissected by whoever got to listen to the songs he wrote. He surrenders it to the artist, basically giving up any kind and sort of hold he has over the feelings he’s just reflected, giving them away for someone else to interpret them the way they want. The way they can. And as difficult as it is sometimes, it’s part of the job, and all that he can hope for is for them to be interpreted in the most authentic way possible. It’s hard, definitely, but after years and years of trying, he knows that having them expressed are way better than keeping them in.

Following the loud bang of a drum, he looks around as he keeps the pace with his foot. The entire room smells like entrapped smoke, and warm coffee, and it looks somewhat like it too. There’s a thick, almost translucent layer of fog-like smoke hanging on the air, slowly rising to the ceiling as minutes keep passing. There’s also a big arrangement of paper cups, both full and empty, resting on all possible surfaces around him, almost reflecting the passing of time in their placement; 8 in the morning on the desks, 2 in the evening on the equipment luggage, and a few hours past midnight on some parts of the floor. 

The practice room is a dimly-lit space, with a few round, orange and yellow glass lamps hanging on the ceiling and set a few meters apart, barely even enough to illuminate the entire room. In the evening, the last few rays of sunshine manage to break through the high set windows, reflecting on the tinged glass and breaking upon the dark purple walls in bright, warm shades of orange. 

He hasn’t been there a lot, only a few days since he had arrived for the first stop of the tour, but as he sets his eyes on it, he can’t help but think it almost resembles a sunset. He can see the colors, the exact same ones that paint over the sky just as the night is about to fall down, and it serves to help him ease a little bit. Sunsets, even the ones reflected upon the walls of a world tour practice room, are the same all around. 

“Why are you still getting it wrong? It’s all about the groove, man,” Josh whines. He’s sitting on a small wooden stool, his guitar propped up on his knee. 

“I don’t know, Josh, I’m the one that wrote this riff and for some reason I just can’t play it correctly again!”

“Beginner’s luck,” Chan comments, not really involved in the argument, but never one to pass the opportunity to strike a joke. He looks down to tune down his guitar once Mingyu turns to give him a stare. 

“That doesn’t make sense, I’ve been doing this for years.”

“Well, it certainly doesn't seem like it! Just try to make it groovy!”

He’s still getting used to the band. 

They’re a nice group of people; kind, loud and boisterous, but that’s just every band he knows. Having worked in the label for years, he’s used to seeing bands come and go, submitting his songs with no much more room for interaction left other than a Jun, they liked it! coming from his boss on the good days (the bad days are different, a little less remarkable, but they’re the ones he tries not to think about). This, his first time on the road with one of them, is a completely new experience, and if it wasn’t for finally seeing his dream beginning to get on track, it’d be one that would probably have him shaking in fear. 

But they’re warm, laid-back and easy to talk to, which he appreciates, knowing he’s not the best at initiating conversations... or maintaining them. He had felt intimidated at first, looking into a group of rising rock stars from the outlook of someone who’s just as into their world as he’s out of it, standing somewhere between the line that divides the outside and the inside. But he’s entering, just walking in and slowly stepping his toes on the water; and he’s doing it by the side of people he’s glad he can finally get to call his friends. 

“Jun, could you possibly tell Mingyu he’s been playing the wrong note the entire time?” 

“Yeah Josh, I already know I’ve been playing it wrong.” 

“Please stop fighting so we can practice!” Soonyoung says from his spot on the drums, backed up with a nod from Vernon, the bassist looking surprisingly bored at the altercation.

“Can you tell him to play the right note this time? And remember, make it groovy!”

He hadn’t heard the door opening, but you’re walking in the room just he finally tears his gaze from Josh’s bright red guitar. You turn to give him a smile, one he quickly returns, before turning back to the two bickering guitarists. He turns to look at the set playlist, with his name carefully penned down below all fifteen songs, and he tells himself that, despite his nerves, he might just be perfectly ready for the tour to start. 

“Are you okay? You looked a little distracted today.” 

The diner is quiet. 

There’s really not much movement, with only another customer besides him inside the small establishment. He can focus on the clinging of his spoon as he moves it around in his cup, light, creamy bellows of steam rising as the aftermath of the ripples he creates on the dark liquid. The coffee really isn’t great, tasting a bit tangy against his tongue, even after he had added a small packet of sugar to try and ease the bitterness of the beverage. If he focuses enough, he can even make out a light buzz coming from the neon lights advertising the diner in the street, sound low but crisp against the pouring rain. 

It’s cold, and a part of him really regrets coming to the diner straight out of practice without going to his room first. He had just needed to write, and to do that, he needed silence. He runs a hand up and down his left arm, the coolness from his rings perceivable even through the thick wool of his shirt. 

He looks up, the ripples inside his cup long forgotten. 

You’re standing in front of him, looking just as tired as he feels, with a completely different stance than the one you usually show inside the practice room. Or on the stage. It’s relaxed, at ease, a little shy, even, and he can’t help but wonder if, behind the whole rockstar facade, maybe the two of you aren’t really that different. 

You take a seat in the chair in front of him, the laminated red seat squeaking as response to the movement. 

“Huh?” He lets out.

“At practice,” you move, trying to get comfortable in the cold, plastic chair. “You looked a little distracted. Everything okay?”

Jun shrugs, smiling softly. “It’s just nerves, I think.”

It’s not the first time you’ve seen Jun smile, but it’s the first time you’ve seen him smile like that. And, in complete honesty, it was the first time it had been completely directed at you. He had always been a little quiet, ever since he was first introduced as the “new song-writer” by the label director, and, because of the chaos that naturally ensued whenever surrounded by the entire band, your interactions with Jun had been few and far-between. 

Here’s what you’ve managed to learn about him in the months you’ve known him: he likes to be alone when he writes, but he can also do it when sitting as far away from the speakers as possible. He likes drinking his coffee with both sugar and cream, and even if he doesn’t drink too much of it, he always finds a way to spill even a little bit, be it on his shirt or somewhere near his notebook (which has been the cause of many scares inside the practice room). He keeps a pen in his shirt pocket at all times, whether it be for writing down an incoming idea wherever he found or for clicking the seconds away whenever he got nervous. 

And he’s surprisingly shy about his lyrics, even when he sounds completely confident in them. You can tell, whenever you’re given them to sing them, that they are words he’s proud of; words that came from his heart as bits and pieces of the most beautiful poetry you’ve ever read. And they’re always accompanied by a small, shy smile and the slight reddening of his cheeks. 

“I know what you mean,” you say. You call the waiter just as Jun takes a sip from his coffee, not missing the slight purse of his lips as he swallows down the warm beverage. “I’m nervous too.”

“You don’t seem to be,” he comments. He looks back down at his coffee, hand still making circles with the spoon. “Whenever you sing, it’s like you’re completely used to it. It feels as if it were something you’ve always done, something you know like the back of your hand. And still… I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like you’re thrilled by it, even more so every day.” 

Jun looks up at you, hiding his words behind a smile. You don’t notice, too busy ordering a cup of chamomile tea to make anything of the way he’s staring at you from the other side of the table. 

“It’s amazing what putting on a brave face can do, then,” you answer. “I love being on stage. It’s just nerve wracking to think about it when I’m not there. It’s like Mingyu not being able to get his own riff right unless he’s playing in front of a live crowd.” 

“Oh, please don’t remind me of the riff incident. Joshua’s voice hasn’t left my head the entire day.” 

Rain continues falling. You can hear some melody coming from the speakers, which, even when it feels completely unfamiliar, makes Jun’s sway to the side as he rests his head on his hand. Maybe he knows it. 

“I hope it’s not a bad sign,” Jun mentions, pointing to the window with his thumb. “Starting the tour with a little bit of rain.”

“Seungkwan was talking about that earlier, too,” you say, thinking back of the keyboardist’s words from before you left the practice room. “But you know, if anything, I think it might be a good sign.” 

Jun purses his lips, head moving to the side. His fingers move across the table, fiddling with the empty sugar packet he had used. The bright pink paper shines bright against his hands, fluorescent yellow light reflecting from outside. It captures his eyes, and yours, and for a brief second, the both of you are stuck on watching how the packet’s shadow grows whenever Jun moves it around his fingers. It reminds you of him with the pen, a mere distraction. Or maybe just a way for him to set his ideas in order. 

You can tell he’s still a bit hesitant about the interaction, not knowing if they’re nerves at talking about the tour or just nerves at talking to you. As soon as he looks up from his hands, you give him a smile. 

“It’s a bit of a fresh start, isn’t it? And I think, right now, that’s what we all need.”

As much as Jun wants to say he’s not surprised at the turn-out, his eyes are wide open at the influx of people coming through the doors. 

His heart beats loud against his chest as he looks down at the stage, empty of people but perfectly set with an array of instruments that are only waiting to be lit alive. The entire place is full of chatter; the ever-growing excitement of a crowd begging to be enchanted by an unknown performance. Up from his spot at the balcony, he can’t make out what they’re saying but he doesn’t miss how they’re saying it: and the pure excitement in their voices draws a chill from his spine. 

It’s a scene like the ones he’s been hearing about for years. Like the ones he’s been dreaming of witnessing, of being a part of it. And now he’s in one, not only as an spectator, but as the man behind the words. 

“It’s amazing, don’t you think? Or as Josh would say, incredibly groovy.” 

Seungcheol, the band’s manager, asks as he walks into the balcony. Him and Jun went way back, much more than anyone else in their group besides the band themselves. They were the new generation, the young dreamers at the office that were only waiting to be given a shot to prove themselves. They had been hired at the same time, both meant to work with a completely different artist that had ended up not taking them because of how young they were. 

They had built up their experience together, and it had been those late-night talks at the label’s office that made Jun able to call Seungcheol his friend, powered through by cheap coffee and tired conversations full of laughter. And they’re only part of the reason why Jun always refers to Seungcheol as a long-lost brother more than a newly found friend. 

“It’s almost sold out!” Seungcheol continues. He’s wearing a dark pin-stripe suit, as he always is whenever he’s on official business. His hair is slicked back, and his usual pair of gold wire-frame glasses rest on top of his nose, specs perfectly clean. “People keep walking in and walking in and walking in! It’s almost as if they’re the freaking Rolling Stones and not a band barely making their debut. Is that Hoshi or is it Charlie Watts on the drums?”

“It’s the Monday night show, it’s a guaranteed success,” Jun mutters. He knows Seungcheol would be able to see past his facade, to make out the true meaning of his words. Three years after meeting him, there isn’t much he can hide from him. “I’m happy for them, though. The first night’s important.”

“Yeah, me too,” Seungcheol smiles. “Vernon’s been freaking out in the backstage since he started hearing the crowd coming in. He’s just staring at his bass and Hoshi’s about to smack his head with his drumsticks.”

“They’re gonna do amazing. If Mingyu gets his riff right, that is.” 

“And everybody’s gonna love the songs,” Seungcheol says, pressing a gentle palm on Jun’s shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed he was shaking. “If only they knew the stud that wrote them. I bet they’d even like looking at those nice bell bottoms you’re wearing. Since when do you like purple pants?” 

“I bet they’re gonna prefer looking at Mingyu,” Jun laughs before Seungcheol does, and it almost distracts him from his surroundings. “Or even Josh. And Minghao gave me the pants, by the way.”

“Or even Josh,” Seungcheol laughs, shaking his head as he looks away from his friend. 

“Groovy,” Jun says. 

“Groovy,” his friend responds. 

Jun’s nerves have calmed down by the time the lights fall down. 

A half-empty beer bottle looks over the crowd, sitting immediately next to the balcony’s railing. He notices an entirely new atmosphere now that the room is only barely lit, as if the lights falling had only served to heighten the people’s emotions. It’s almost as if they’re in a different place altogether, with expectating hanging high in the air and out of everyone’s reach. 

The Moonwalker they had walked in, just a few hours before, barely resembles the Moonwalker they’re in right now. 

It had been lit by the natural light coming from the windows, bouncing over the wood-covered walls and reflecting over the little trinkets that served to adorn them. They had been the highlight of the place, attracting the eyes of everyone that entered to the rows and rows of pictures and memorabilia. What was that hanging over the bar, Bob Dylan’s hat? Jun had only been more impressed by the bright neon sign that spelled the bar’s name right on the center of the stage, after seeing it on newspaper cuttings for most of his life. 

A few days back, when Seungcheol had told him of the gig they had landed the band through a friend of his girlfriend (bless you Lily!), Jun almost couldn’t believe his words. The bright blue cursive sign had been the first thing that had come to mind, consuming his thoughts as a sort of finish line at the end of a marathon. It wasn’t only the bar’s trademark, it was also the backdrop of some of the most amazing debuts in modern rock n’ roll history. And now, looking at it shining brightly against the low-lit room, a part of him still can’t believe he might be about to see one of them with his own two eyes. 

He had heard of concert nights on the Moonwalker the same way he had heard the stories of the great mythic heroes. He had seen pictures the same way he had learned of iconic places and happenings. He remembers spending entire nights finding motivation in the dream of listening to his songs being played in the exact same place some of his favorite songs had been presented, of them finally finding their home within the same crowd that had once listened to The Byrds and Carole King. 

And as you walk onto the stage, commanding attention with each step, Jun is sure tonight is going to become one of those. And that it’s his songs that will be sung back by the crowd, resounding against the walls and enveloping the entire place in their meaning. 

The band had already been introduced by the club owner, but no one had actually turned to pay attention until you had walked on stage. You’re met by countless excited bellowings, a smile on your face forming at the sudden attention. 

“We hope you enjoy the show!”

The rest of the band follows, and Jun is struck by a thought. Words materialize in his head as if prompted by the first few notes, threading together into a complete, coherent phrase. It’s a phrase Jun knows. He might have heard it from someone, or read it from somewhere, and it’s stuck in his brain the same way the bridge of the song you’re singing once was. Or maybe it was just something someone had once told him. 

He knows that there are moments in an artist’s life that will define their career. Moments that let you know how it's gonna go. A preview of sorts. And he knows, looking at you shining under the spotlight, that he’s just witnessed something big. 

The entire crowd has gone wild at the music, and Jun knows it’s only the beginning. 

For now, he just smiles, and like the people dancing down below, he lets himself go. 

The party is in full-swing by the time Jun walks in. 

The house itself is small, one story and a few rooms that hold a big part of the party-goers. He can tell it’s usually used as a holiday residence, not exactly a place of staying but merely a place of passing, because every single thing that’s visible doesn’t really have a function different from simply looking good. The entire place is covered in small, colorful trinkets that look like they’re part of some random collection that everyone always sees but no one actually ever looks at. 

It’s truly a rock-star’s house, because, really, nothing about it makes sense. 

Countless bookshelves rest against the colorfully draped walls, an array of uneven, colorful wallpapers shining under the light of the multiple glass chandeliers, but not a single book is visible to the eye. The floor itself is a great quality wood, but everything’s hidden below a series of fuzzy rugs that somehow match the randomness of the wallpapers. 

The music changes slightly as he keeps walking, an entire ensemble of genres, styles and decades all the product of a number of record players playing simultaneously all over the house. All of them are playing a completely different thing, but somehow it all blends into one cohesive beat. Jun could go into the technicalities behind it and say it’s probably in the beats per minute, or could maybe go somewhere into the meaning behind the lyrics, but for now, he just lets himself get immersed into the scene. 

The party doesn’t resemble anything he had lived before, or even heard of. And it’s full of people. 

The entire team (band and staff alike) had been invited to an after-party held by some music executive that’s friends with the owner of the club. It happened every monday after the show, they had said, entertaining executives, artists, and club-goers alike. And no one really cared who was which as long as there was music playing all around them. 

“Jesus, is that Billy Joel?” Seungcheol asks as he walks closely behind Jun. The two of them and Minghao, the band’s stylist, had been the last to leave for the party, having to stay behind to finish the last of the arrangements that followed a successful concert at the Moonwalker, with the rest of you leaving with some of the club’s crew. “Guys, I think that’s Billy Jo- jesus, he’s talking to Chan and Seungkwan.”

“Of course he’d be talking to Chan and Seungkwan, they probably went right to him when they saw him,” Minghao says. “Hey, can you see Vernon around?”

“He’s probably sitting somewhere next to the drinks or something. Or maybe he’s outside, I think there’s a live band playing somewhere out there,” Jun comments.

“Damn, should’ve booked us too for that, right?” Seungcheol says, laughing with the words.

“Don’t you rather just enjoy the party and forget about performing for a bit?” Minghao questions. Out of the corner of his eye, Jun can see Seungkwan and Chan walking away from the group of people they had been talking to, probably on their way outside for some fresh air. “The guys seem to be having a great time. Let go for a bit, Cheol! Let’s enjoy this whole rockstar life even if it’s just for tonight!”

He can hear Mingyu’s laugh coming from somewhere nearby, even if his eyes can’t locate the tall guitar player. He’s surprised he can hear him, with how low his laugh usually is and how high the music is playing, but once Seungcheol points him out in the crowd, he’s only a few steps away. He’s entertaining a large group of people, with Joshua smiling by his side, the both of them holding two glasses of what looks like beer. 

It’s no surprise the two of them would like to be around the growing crowd, with how easily they seem to be able to strike a conversation with whoever walks by. He had known them to be sociable, in comparison with some like Vernon, Minghao or himself. It’s still a bit surprising, though, how in control they seem to be of a conversation held with people they probably didn’t know five minutes ago. 

“I’m gonna go find us something to drink,” Seungcheol says, patting Jun on the back before walking away with Minghao closely following his steps. 

And Jun is left alone. Still, in a house full of people, he sticks his hands in the front bottom of his purple jeans. They had really been Minghao’s suggestion, along with the slick yellow button up and a pair of red boots. It was comfy, and Seungcheol had assured him he really did look good, so he hadn’t dwelled much on it when leaving the hotel room. 

He debates joining Mingyu and Joshua’s crowd for a second, but the growing scent of tobacco and beer has him making his way to the door after he raises his hand in a greeting. Josh manages to signal him to the backyard before Jun leaves, and he wonders whether he’s simply pointing in the direction of the live band, or Vernon, or you. 

As he walks outside, bumping bodies with a never-ceasing crowd, he discovers it’s the later. The outside of the house is just as impressive as the inside, or, as he finds once he begins to look around, even more. 

The entire yard (or at least the part that’s closest to the house) has been decked in continuous rows of fairy lights, hanging from the trees like a mere reproduction of the constellations shining up above. There are at least five campfires, all surrounded by people holding guitars or dancing along to the songs being played by a live band nearby. Their silhouettes are reflected on the ground, a product of the blazing fire, and it’s almost like they’re dancing with the people themselves, more than being a plain reflection of them. 

It’s almost like a scene taken right out of a move, only livelier than any he could ever think of. 

Jun finds you with your back against a tree, sitting cross-legged on a furry carpet, completely enthralled in the music. There’s a series of carpets draped all over the grass, the exact same kind he saw inside, completing the part of the scene that connects both places. As he walks over to you, he wonders where the rest of the band is, with you being alone in the backyard, until he sees Seungkwan and Chan, still hanging close together, sitting a few feet away with what he assumes is another group. A part of him is thankful at the seeming privacy, finding a bit odd how comfortable he is in the middle of a growing crowd when just a few minutes ago he had felt overwhelmed by the loneliness behind it. But then he turns to look at you, smiling carelessly even with your eyes closed, and he knows it’s not a product of the environment.

It's because of you.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” Jun says, making sure to fall as carefully as possible as he sits down next to you. “Tonight was amazing. Truly, got me tearing up at all.”

“You’ve got your own lyrics to thank for that, mister,” you say, followed by a laugh. You’re still in your concert outfit, although wearing a pair of sneakers as opposed to the platform shoes that had been paired up with the colorful overalls. “I’m pretty sure you weren’t the only one tearing up tonight. I think Hoshi even cried a bit himself.”

“He probably cried at the crowd making tiger claws back at him more than he did at the lyrics.” 

“Yeah, Vernon told him not to do it but he did it anyway!”

“Where are those two, by the way?”

“Somewhere next to where the band is playing,” you answer. You close your eyes as you speak, resting your back against the tree. “I just wanted to get away from everything. Sometimes it’s fun to just observe from a distance.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve been looking at life from a distance for so long, sometimes I forget what it is to actually be living it. I guess it makes for some interesting lyrics though, so it’s been kind of worth it, at least in that way,” Jun says, smiling at you even when you don’t see him. He moves closer to you as he hugs his knees to his chest, feeling the top of your shoulder brush against his. “I think coming with you guys on tour might change that.”

“It’s the rock-star life, huh?” You smile, and Jun can’t help but notice it’s a mirroring of his own smile. In some way, it looks just as vulnerable. He looks away when he feels his cheeks heat up. “You know, you’re much different from what I thought you were when I used to see you at the office.” 

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. I just know I really like talking to you. Every day, I really look forward to being around you,” you laugh, and when he turns to look back at you, you’re finally looking at him again. “You’re a breath of fresh air, Wen Junhui.”

“Says the rock-star,” he laughs. He’s smiling, holding his knees as close to his chest as he can manage as he tries to hide his fluester in his body language. Not that it’s working, anyways. “I’m just some guy.”

“You’re the most interesting guy I’ve ever met.”

You shake your head, and by the way your eyes set on the sky, Jun isn’t completely sure if you’re talking to him or if you’re simply talking to the stars, trying to set your story in the skies for the entire world to see. It makes him smile even wider, anyways. 

“I wonder which one shines brighter. From down here, they look almost the same. But maybe it’s just the distance that taints our perspective,” you mutter, pointing to the lights on the trees. 

“I’d like to think it’s the stars,” Jun comments. “When I was a kid, I always enjoyed watching them. I’d find patterns and have them in my head for weeks as a sort of picture out of a coloring book. Somehow, the stars always seemed to have the answers to every single question that would run through my head, even when miles away.”

“You speak like that and call yourself ‘some guy’,” you laugh. “It’s always poetry coming out of your lips, and I’d listen to every single bit of it.”

The conversation stops, but silence never envelops the both of you, because there is music all around. And there are people dancing, so when you lose focus on each other and gian it in your surroundings, their movement is everything you see. It’s almost as if they’re dancing for the two of you to watch, and neither of you notice the moment your head comes to rest in Jun’s shoulder, way too immersed in a ballet of silhouettes to make anything out of the sudden movement. 

“I hope tonight was good,” you say. “It felt different from other nights, and I don’t know what it was. I’ve never felt that way when performing at home. It felt almost magical, standing there, under the limelight, in front of all those people. Maybe it’s just me, though.” 

Jun shakes his head, muttering a soft no as an answer. You turn to look at each other when he starts speaking, still as close as before. But now he gets to look at you as he speaks. 

“I can’t begin to imagine what you must have felt. I’m not familiar with that side of the gig,” he says, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. Somehow, the beer he had drank back at the club was still making his blood run wild through his veins, cheeks reddening at the eye contact. “I wish you could’ve seen it from my eyes. Listened to it through my ears, felt what I felt the moment you started singing. I’ve never seen you shine any brighter.”

"You’ve been attending our concerts long enough. Well,if the fifteen person presentations back home even count as concerts.”

“I’ve been to all of your concerts,” he laughs. “And believe me, tonight was really special.” 

“It’s the Moonwalker’s magic,” you say, and Jun turns to look at you. “You saw the place, it was special. It made it special.”

And he doesn’t know if it’s the effect of the lights shining above your head, or the remaining adrenaline coursing through his veins, but he’s sure he can hear his heart beating against his chest. He can hear it over the loud music, thumping so hard his mind goes blank, falling closer to you as he begins to lean in. 

Because even when far away from the Moonwalker, he’s still smiling the same. He feels just as happy, somewhere in the backyard of a stranger’s house. The place is special, for sure, but only as much as you made it. 

“It wasn’t the Moonwalker that was magical. It was you.”

And you can hear him, because even when the world around you is spinning completely out of order, his smile is still front and center in your eyes. He’s smiling at you and everything else only but circles around it. 

As a new song starts playing from a record player far away, Jun kisses you under a thousand fairy lights. You’re still not sure of which one shines brighter -the artificial lights or the stars high above- but as Jun’s hand finds yours over your lap, you decide you don’t really care. 

A part of you would really like to think nothing had changed after the kiss. 

In reality, the two of you had been so flustered he had ran back to Seungcheol and Minghao while you went to find Vernon and Hoshi, refusing to say anything about the moment to any of them. It was part of some unofficial and unspoken deal, sealed with only a look, sparing the both of you of any kind of conversation immediately afterwards. It had been a product of the moment, of adrenaline and slight tipsiness combined with a romantic scenery, and nothing else. 

That’s what you told yourself the entire night, even when questioned by Seungkwan about the sudden giddiness in your smile and the change in your gaze, slightly unfocused on the world in front of you, as if something more important was playing inside your head. As if that something was the memory of the feeling of Jun’s lips against yours, leaving your skin tingling as an aftermath of his touch. As if that something had been the way he had smiled at you right after, looking as if the affection you’d just shared was as unbelievable to him as it was to you. 

In all honesty, Jun’s kiss was more than one of the many that were shared that night by the people around you. It wasn’t just a product of the moment, of adrenaline and slight tipsiness combined with a romantic scenery, because the way you had looked at each other just before your lips connected had been a long time coming. That was the product of months of unknown pining; of you looking for him as soon as you entered the office, and of him not being able to take his eyes off you as soon as he saw you walking by. It was a product in the exchange that came with you singing for the world the words he had shared with you in messy scribbles over coffee-stained paper, something about the entire thing feeling growingly intimate the thought ran through your head. 

Because even when he wasn’t writing songs for you, or about you, he still trusted you with them. In your eyes, that was worth more than him signing one of them with your name on top of the page for everyone to see. And while you were sure it wasn’t an act of love (or at least not yet), you couldn’t deny it always opened the door for that possibility to walk in. Or for you to walk towards it, at least. Just like his songs, and for months on end, Jun had always been there. 

Well, at least up until the night he kissed you. 

You weren’t sure if it was intentional or fate making a cruel joke out of your feelings, but Jun had been avoiding you. As much as he could be avoiding you in the span of a few hours, at least. 

“Wanna sit with me on the bus?” 

You can’t really tell what Vernon’s wearing. He’s sitting next to you on the curb in front of the bus, a pair of sparkly sunglasses resting atop of his nose. He’s wearing a yellow hat that matches the color of his shoes, but that doesn’t really go with any of the other pieces of his outfit. 

“Aren’t you gonna sit with Hao?” 

“Ah, I don’t know,” Vernon drinks from a styrofoam cup he has on his hand. It’s the same as yours, so it’s probably to-go coffee from the hotel’s restaurant. “He’s been trying to talk about some outfit ideas he had during the concert last night. He called it a revelation or something. I’m pretty sure Seungkwan could be of more use to that conversation than me.”

You don’t really want to sit with Vernon. And it’s not that you don’t enjoy his company, because out of everyone in the band, he’s always been the one you’re closest to. But somehow, you know sitting next to Vernon will prevent you from any chances of even talking to Jun in the next six hours until you reach the next spot. You’re not sure if he’s even actually avoiding you, but you don’t really want to be correct. 

“Are you kidding? You wear this kind of outfits and you think you don’t have a sense of fashion? Vern, if anything, you’ve always been the Mick Jagger amongst all of us.” 

“Okay, those stage outfits were chosen by Minghao, it wasn’t really me putting together those suits and - whatever he has me wearing all the time.” 

You roll your eyes, playfully. 

“Although, I guess I could use this chance to keep him from putting me in another sparkly overall like the one from last night.”

“But you were such a star! It looked pretty nifty if you ask me.” 

“Keep going and I’ll tell him to find the most ridiculous hats for our next concert, just you wait!”

The rest of the band starts walking out of the hotel, Chan’s laughter pulling your attention from Vernon. As they walk next to you, you decide to ignore Hoshi’s tiger print overalls and Mingyu’s conversation of how he had met and talked to George Harrison at the party once Joshua had walked away from him.

“I don’t believe George Harrison would ever like to be entertained by your presence, Gyu. There were definitely groovier people to be around last night.”

“It’s not my fault you decided talking to Seungcheol was more important than stickin’ around, we literally see the guy every day.”

“Hey, I’m your manager!” Seungcheol wines from the hotel door, walking behind a groggy Seungkwan.

“Yeah, we literally see you every day,” Mingyu retorts. He has one foot on the bus steps, only turning to argue with the eldest. “Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing you so often, with all your random hair-do’s.”

“Can it and get in, we’re late anyways. Everyone keep steppin’!”

“The only reason we’re late is because you couldn’t stop talking to your girlfriend on the phone,” Mingyu lets out before climbing in, somehow managing to avoid getting yelled at yet again. 

You get up after Vernon, following him into the bus as soon as Mingyu, Josh and Seungcheol had gotten in. You’d seen Seungkwan, Hoshi and Chan passing by, and quickly found them sitting together near a small kitchen area. 

The bus itself isn’t much different from others you’ve seen, with rows of faux leather seats set one after the other along the central aisle. All the way to the back there’s an area with what looks like a small bed, a door leading to a tight bathroom and a small kitchen space consisting of two cabinets and a microwave. And every single thing is either muted yellow or a dark orange, making the entire espace look probably smaller than it actually is. It’s comfortable enough, though. 

“Hey, Vern, come here,” Minghao calls from one of the seats. He’s resting his back against the window, with his feet on the couch and his knees pulled close to his chest. A small notepad rests on top of them, having only looked up from his sketches to greet the bassist. “Let me show you what I’ve been thinking of. I swear, the setting of the Moonwalker gave me so much clarity on what I want to put all of you guys in for the rest of the tour.” 

“Hao, give Josh a groovy Bob Dylan inspired hat!” 

“You wear the damn Bob Dylan inspired hat if you want, see how groovy it looks on your head.” 

Vernon looks at you to give you a small smile before sitting down next to Minghao as you walk past, stealing one of Hoshi’s snacks before plopping down on the seat behind him. You shift in your seat, hearing the slick material of the seat squeaking against the courness of your jeans. You quickly look at the small smiling daisies Minghao had painted with black markers all over the light surface, making for an interesting pattern when looked at from far away. Your fingers trace over the figures as you rest your head on the window, closing your eyes until you feel someone coming to sit right next to you. You had quickly placed your book on the seat when sitting down, but you find it on top of Jun’s lap as you see it’s him who’s by your side. 

“What an interesting thing to be reading!” He exclaims, looking at the beat up copy of On The Road. “You’re a Kerouac fan?” 

“You’ve read Kerouac?” You ask. 

Jun smiles. “Of course not,” he says, before breaking into a laugh. He doesn’t give you the book back, but turns it to read the back cover. “Read to me? It will keep us both entertained.” 

Without focusing too carefully on it, you can hear the distinct crisp sound of Joshua’s guitar coming from the front of the bus, and can make out the first notes of the Stairway to Heaven solo. It sounds better than you’ve heard him play, most likely the product of constant practice. But it all disappears when you turn to look at Jun. 

Smiling at you, Jun lets you straighten up on your seat before placing his head on your shoulder as he hands you the copy. You’re surprised by how familiar it feels, and feel your lips curling up at the memory of doing the exact same thing the night before. 

And you know that things have changed from the kiss, because now you’re not able to ignore the feeling in your chest that arises when Jun takes your hand in his. And you can only wonder if he feels the same, because he lets out a soft sigh the minute you tighten the grip, nuzzling his cheek against the fuzzy fabric of your corduroy jacket. 

Smiling at his touch, your eyes start glazing over the print as you begin to read. 

“I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up…”

The dinner lounge of the second hotel is much fancier than the first one. 

The entire place looks like it’s been draped in velvet, every single ridge looking as smooth as a crease in the fabric. There’s a combination of wooden panels and wall-height mirrors adorning the walls, only interrupted by the golden frames of the windows. A dome rises on the center of the center, a thousand red roses painted in a mosaic of tinted glass, while the rest of the ceiling is covered in the exact same wood as the walls. The tables are all draped in expensive looking tablecloths, placed carefully under meticulously set tableware, and they’re accompanied by tufted chairs, all of them in matching red. The dark colors in the scheme makes the entire place look dim, despite all the chandeliers shining bright against up above the clients’ heads. There are candles decorating the tables, along with fresh roses matching the ones in the dome, but they serve more as a simple ambiance decoration than an actual light source.

And, even though the city they had been in had been just as big as the one they’re in now, and the budget had not changed in the slightest, the shiny grand piano that sits at the center of the small wooden stage at the back of the restaurant had caught Jun’s eyes as soon as you had walked in for dinner. 

It was supposed to be a group dinner, but Mingyu, Chan and Minghao had gone sight-seeing, Vernon had fallen asleep and Seungcheol had stayed back in his room to rest (and, probably, talk to his girlfriend on the phone while eating something from the room service). At the end, it’s dinner of five instead of a dinner of ten, and while it would have been nice to share it with everyone, the company you had was more than enough. 

“This place is groovy! Oh, Seungcheol went all out with this hotel,” Josh exclaims as you sit down at a table neighboring the windows, all five of you immediately drawn to the exterior scene. “I’d say he did an excellent job booking if it weren’t for the fact I’m rooming with Hoshi.”

“Hey!” The younger exclaims. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent roommate. Best you’ll ever have, you’ll see.” 

“Yeah, I’ll start thinking that once you pick up your dirty socks from the floor after taking them off, that’s not groovy at all.”

“Jesus, can we not talk about Hoshi’s dirty socks while at the table, that’s fucking gross.”

“You’re just overreacting, and please just stop saying groovy,” Soonyoung says, rolling his eyes and picking up the pastel pink menu from the table, locking his eyes on the cardboard. “Anyways, this one burger looks way too nifty to pass it up.”

“I was thinking of ordering the same thing,” Seungkwan says, closing the menu. 

“Have you seen the kind of restaurant we’re in? Order a pasta, or a salad, not a plain burger, go with the groove.” 

“Do you think we’re Seungcheol, Joshua? If you had asked for his card like we told you, maybe we’d be buying pasta and wine for the five of us without you having to tell us about it!”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re scary when you’re angry?” Joshua asks, probably deciding on a burger as well as he imitates Seungkwan and places the menu back on the table. 

“Only sometimes,” Soonyoung responds, smiling. 

You’re not listening to their argument, though, with your chin resting over your hand and your gaze lost somewhere in the movement of a stranger. 

It’s funny how being in a completely different country, in a city a million miles away, there’s some sense of familiarity behind simply watching people walking by. You’re not sure if it’s just the mere action, or maybe a combination of the movement in a similarly urban setting, with the lights reflecting upon the crowd as a sort of kaleidoscopic filter, but it never feels entirely too different. 

“Do you want to play a game?” Jun asks, whispering right into your ear. He’s leaning close to your body, sitting between you and Joshua. You can make out the scent of his cologne as he scoots even closer to you to point to a stranger outside the window. “Like when we counted the number of headlights on the highway on our way here.”

You nod, words suddenly stuck on your throat as soon as you see Seungkwan looking at the both of you. Because truly, it was oh so very easy to get lost in the moment whenever Jun was around, and the thought has you smiling as soon as you notice. It’s oh so very easy to get lost in him. 

“Okay, we’ll make it interesting. Whoever wins buys the other a cherry cola!” he says, his voice still sounding just as soft. If he’s aware of Seungkwan’s stare, he doesn’t show it. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. “Let's spot all the people that look like they’re dressed by Minghao after looking at the Moonwalker, starting… now!”

But his words have you laughing, so deeply you can feel it in your chest as you throw your head back. He looks at you, a care-free smile etched all over your face, and he can’t resist the laugh that forms at the center of the stomach, completely imitating your actions as the rest of the guys simply observe. And it’s amazing, because somehow, you have found just enough comfort in the presence of each other to be able to forget about everyone else. It’s not shy smiles and nervous laughs when in public, but full on grins and bursts of laughter. 

The thing no one notices though, completely distracted by the boisterous laugh, is Jun placing his hand on your thigh under the table, thumb moving in delicate circles against the fabric of your jeans. He doesn’t spare a second thought on it, finding way too much comfort in your closeness to make it a conscious action. And you aren’t even surprised on how natural his touch feels by now, because, somehow, it feels like coming home. 

Or maybe they do, but they just smile at the sight. There’s something enthralling about watching two people falling in love, bit by bit, gesture by gesture. It’s a tell behind the warmth of a smile and the fondness of a look, and while it’s not entirely common, it’s too beautiful to disrupt. 

“Josh, have you really been looking at your reflection this entire time?” 

It’s late, and everyone but you and Jun have left the restaurant by the time the piano player arrives.

You’ve long since finished your meal, having shared a large plate of spaghetti and meatballs after Jun had said he wasn’t even that hungry anyways. You had ordered two cups of coffee and a shared berry panna cotta, way too lost in making conversation about everything and anything to actually notice the passing of time. In reality, it’s only when the coffee has run cold and the musician has started playing that you notice an hour has passed since the guys had left for their rooms. 

The song is not one you recognize, but apparently does, judging from the movement of his fingers against the table. He’s looking at the musician while he runs his fingers on the tablecloth like it’s some sort of invisible piano, making sure to get every single movement right in a tempo that perfectly matches the one that’s being played. You’re not sure if he notices, but his body has begun to sway ever so slightly, somehow matching the movement of his fingers.

The place is the same, yet it feels like a completely different one, even when the only thing that has changed is the music. It’s almost atemporal, like it could be night and day at the exact same time, as if it was simply something out of a dream. 

“Do you know this song?” 

Jun nods. He keeps his eyes on the musician, and a part of you wonders if it’s because he wishes that were him. 

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites,” he answers, smiling. “I used to play it when I was growing up, back when I was learning. I remember how excited my parents were when I finally got the movements right after years of practice. I guess a part of their excitement that day was a part of what made me fall so in love with music that I decided it was what I wanted to do with my life.” 

“How did you learn to play the piano? Seungcheol says you’re really good, and yet, you’ve never played with me around.”

“My mom’s a piano teacher. She used to give classes at this one prestigious school in our neighborhood, and I would hide behind the kitchen door and listen whenever she had a student,” Jun says. “I always liked how it sounded, so one night I just sat down on the piano and started playing. My mom started giving me classes the very next day.” 

“And what about composing? How did that start?” 

You had ordered a refill for your coffee and drink from your cup as Jun starts talking. 

“I don’t know, maybe with school, or maybe just with books in general. I was always dreaming, thinking about stories. Sometimes I couldn’t get the ones I was learning about out of my mind, and before I knew it, there were so many scenarios being born in my head that I simply had no idea what to do with them.” 

“So you started writing them.” 

Jun nods. “After some time, they started turning into songs. I would be looking at the lyrics and would suddenly start hearing a certain tune playing from the back of my mind. It was only a matter of time until I realized what I kept writing were songs rather than just tales, and they started meaning something more to me. Music makes the world go round, but it’s the lyrics that give it meaning.” 

“Said like a true poet,” you say, a soft laugh leaving your lips as you raise your cup to then once more. “I can tell your lyrics mean a lot to you. I know it probably sounds a bit silly, but I can feel it, you know? The emotion behind them. The words come alive before they’re even in my mouth.”

“Sometimes I can’t really tell what I’m feeling until I turn it into a song. The words come from a place so deep inside I can’t reach them on my own, but have to turn onto a pen and a piece of paper to know what they are,” he finally looks away from the musician. He’s still smiling, softly, gently. “It's a little weird. They feel both so deeply personal yet completely different from myself, as if the Jun that exists in the songs is a completely different person from the Jun in the real world.”

You fall quiet. You try to make sense of Jun’s words in your head as he reaches to grab a hold of your hand, but they’re way too beautiful, too meaningful, for you to tamper with. So you feel your heart grow warm at the passion behind them, looking at the man in front of you like he had just painted the stars upon the night sky. 

“Will you dance with me?” 

“Jun, no one is dancing.” 

“And when have you let that stop you?”

Setting the napkin over the table, Jun gets up from his seat. He stretches his arm out at you, offering his hand, his silver rings reflecting the light upon its touch. And he looks at you, eyes sparkling brighter than ever under the restaurant’s delicate lightning, completely absorbed in the way your body imitates his movements.

You let Jun lead you through the sea of tables, all the way to where the little stage is located. There’s a small space that has been left between the stage and the neighboring tables, and you wonder if maybe dancing is what it’s meant for, despite not being used for it. But Jun is quick to replace your thoughts until they’re only about him, pulling you close to his chest and letting his hand rest against your waist. 

“Just focus on me and I’ll focus on you,” he whispers, moving to talk right against your ear. “Hold me a bit closer and forget about everything else.” 

Pulled flush against his frame, you let your hands fall on his back, closing your eyes as you allow him to sway you to the rhythm of the music. He moves in a way that almost has you wondering if maybe you are flying, but you’re not sure if it’s because of his dancing or if it’s just because it’s him. 

You recognize the song the minute Jun starts singing the words. It’s soft, so much you wouldn’t have heard him if you hadn’t been standing so close to him, basically hugging him flush against yourself. It’s Love Is (The Tender Trap) by Frank Sinatra, and you smile at the similarity between the lyrics and the feeling in your stomach. 

He gives you a twirl and it’s like there are a thousand butterflies flying within you, knowing there really is no getting out, because there is no denying something that manages to make you feel so wonderful. He smiles at you and you’re sure you’re falling in love with Wen Junhui, thinking of the way his kiss had made you tingle once upon a starry night. 

“Keep on steppin’, you’re falling behind!” 

Jun laughs, turning back to face you. The breeze ruffles his hair as he moves, thin strands falling onto his forehead. The sky is a bright blue and the sun is shining with all its might, but Jun’s light blue button up and beige bell-bottoms still rustle in the wind. 

“It’s not my fault you walk that fast,” you say, quickening your pace to catch up with him. He moves smoothly as you meet him, circling your waist with his arm and holding you next to him as you walk. 

“Ah, that’s more like it,” he mumbles as he resumes his walk. His pace is not as fast, looking so much more at ease as he looks around at his surroundings. 

It had been Jun’s idea to spend your free day walking around the city, after Mingyu and the rest of his expedition crew had talked about their experience over breakfast. Some of the other guys had left earlier, excited about going to whatever stores they had seen on the bus before reaching the hotel, leaving you and Jun to simply stroll around and see what you find. 

“This is nice,” he mentions. “It’s been a while since I felt this relaxed.” 

“It’s nice you can feel relaxed in the middle of a tour,” you say, giggling. “But I get what you mean, having a break in the schedule, even if we’re only starting.”

“I think you’re the only rockstar I’ve met that actually uses the word schedule in their daily vocabulary.”

“Yeah, but that’s because I’m the only ‘rockstar’ you’ve met. I mean, besides… Seungkwan. Honestly, he’s the most rockstar material out of all of us.”

“Okay, Barbra Streisand.”

“You have not met Barbra Streisand!” 

“In my dreams.”

“Oh, I didn’t know those counted.”

The boulevard is lively. There’s people strolling up and down on both sides of the street, very much like you and Jun, with their pace and actions revealing there’s not much hurry behind their walks. Cars of all models and colors drive through the street, your walk having a varied background orchestra composed of revving engines, passing conversations and the occasional music that was audible from the entrance of some business. It made for the typical city noise, not much different from the one at home, but somehow perfectly fitting for the particularities of the sight. 

The two of you walk while holding the other, occasionally bumping shoulders with some other pedestrian when not paying particular attention. There’s truly not much on either of your minds behind the wonder of getting to know yet another city and enjoying the warmth of a sunny Thursday evening in each other’s company.

“Is there anything you wanna do?” Jun asks, slowing down his pace but not completely stopping. 

“Not right now,” you answer. “We could stop somewhere for a soda or something later, if you want. You know, since you won yesterday and all.” 

“Let’s go in here, then,” Jun says, moving his hand from your waist to your hand, softly pulling on you to the side. 

You quickly follow him as he walks inside one of the stores, never losing the grip on his hand. The front is small, walls painted red and a bright purple signboard hanging over the glass doors, reading Vintage Records and Books, along with a few music notes that look hand drawn over the surface in multiple colors. There are crates full of books and vinyls, the covers of all of them a bit faded by the sun or scraped over the passage of time. At a first glance you can identify some Johnny Cash copies alongside the assorted records, what must have been a bright green cover now looking surprisingly muted. 

And once you walk inside, the interior is just as lively as the outside. The place is covered in shelves, littered with books on one side of the store and with records in the other, with small placards dividing the shelves and categorizing the products. You can tell it’s a wide variety, with hundreds upon hundreds of colorful covers composing a contrast with the burnt purple of the walls. There are horizontal lines painted all across the walls in a bright green and an almost creamy white, which is replicated in a triangle patterned rug of the exact same colors, resting in the middle of the store. 

Among the shelves, there’s an assortment of indoor plants hanging from the ceiling in bright green ceramic pots, along with a few small trees located between some of the shelves themselves. On the rare vacant spaces in the walls there are band posters or book quotes, some of them autographed and some of them pasted one over the other with washed out tape. 

It feels oddly warm inside the shop, and you wonder if it’s merely because of the way the light breaks in from the tall windows up front. There’s a faint scent of flowers that reaches your nose as soon as you walk in, mixing in with the smell of paper and wood. And it’s heavenly.

“Hey, welcome!” Says someone from behind the bright pink counter. He looks around Jun’s age, with a long mane of dark brown hair that goes below his shoulders. He’s wearing a black hat and a green jacket, grinning at the two of you over the pages of a magazine. “Let me know if you see something you’re down with!” 

“It smells nice in here,” Jun tells you, but he must have spoken loud enough for the man to hear, because his grin grows in size. 

“Thanks, it’s home-made potpourri! I make it myself when there aren’t as many customers coming in,” he says, gesturing to a few jars displayed on a small counter. A few minutes ago, you wouldn’t think it was actually possible for someone to smile so big. “It’s for sale too, and it works really well on large spaces! Looks pretty groovy when it’s on display, if I do say so myself.” 

Jun smiles back, walking over to one of the tall stands where a bright orange sign announces a deal on the records.

“Oh, if you buy one of those, you can take a book from this bin right here for free,” the man says. You can’t make out the letters in his name tag from a distance, but you’re almost sure they start with an S. “You can try them out on that player over there, see if it’s nifty. They’re all second hand, but the quality’s off the hook.” 

You look around as Jun’s fingers graze over the records, flicking them so quick you’re not sure if he’s actually reading the title before discarding them. You hadn’t noticed the man had a record playing in the turntable he had signaled to, quickly recognizing the guitar solo of Jimi Hendrix’s Love or Confusion. 

“Hey, wanna get this Bob Dylan one for Josh? See if he likes the hat?” Jun asks, holding a record in his hand without turning back at you. “Maybe there’s a Kerouac book in that bin you can take with you. You know, for the next bus ride - oh, this one’s groovy!”

“Oh, of course you’d pick a Barbra Streisand record.”

“Yeah, she’s my best friend!” Jun giggles. “You know, besides from you. And Seungcheol, but he doesn’t really count.” 

“I’ll keep your secret, don’t worry. He won’t know you like me better.”

“A lot better.” 

You spend hours browsing the shop, laughing at the silly jokes made by the cashier (whose name is Seokmin) and talking about pasts spent together and pasts spent apart, conversations sewn together by a smile. You had even slow-danced to a couple Elvis songs, all while resting your head against Jun’s chest as Seokmin clapped at the two of you for, as he had said it, resembling a romantic scene from one of his favorite movies. 

And you’re not surprised at how familiar it feels, because in the last few days, Jun had come to mean much more to you than anything you could have ever thought. If you were as much of a hopeless romantic as he was, you’d even think it’s because your conexion runs even deeper than the simple process of falling for a friend, but you merely smile as the thought begins to form inside your head. And you laugh at how much it sounds like one of his songs. 

Because there’s as much beauty in the way he smiles as there is in the way it makes you feel. 

The sun’s beginning to set by the time you and Jun leave the record shop. The wind has gotten colder and the breeze has grown stronger, but as Jun tugs you close to his side, you don’t think you’ve ever felt warmer. 

He’s holding just as many records as you’re holding books, letting you make all the picks from the bin once he had purchased his vinyls, along with a jar of Seokmin’s home-made potpourri. 

His hand searches for yours as soon as you step outside.

“Can’t believe we’re almost there.”

The walk back to the hotel is surprisingly quick. 

Jun had been humming the melody to a song Seokmin had played back when you were at the shop, adding a slight bounce to his step as the pitch in his voice rose and fell with the beat of the song. He had smiled the entire way back, occasionally stopping his hum to point at the colors in the sky or their effects on your shadows on the ground, never failing to look at the smaller details that worked together in one beautiful, cohesive picture. 

But it still feels so much quicker than it had been the other way around, almost seems shorter, as if it had been a different path altogether.

Maybe it’s because you’re not as distracted by the storefront and the other passerbys, or maybe it’s just the feeling of bathing in the setting sun when making your way back that somehow makes the entire thing seem shorter. Jun had stopped to get a pair of pastries and two cups of coffee at a small bakery you hadn’t noticed earlier but went unaverted once the signs lit up, which now await inside a small paper bag and in two paper cups, respectively. As you sip from one of the cups, you think it’s the best coffee you’ve had in a long while. 

Jun suggests yet another game on the way back, making you smile as he tries to locate every single red platform shoe worn by a woman over 5’0”, which, surprisingly, aren’t really that many. And you should have guessed from the moment he had said it, but he was just trying to let you win (because, after all, he had won the last two games and just had to pay the coke back). 

“Ah, you’re getting lucky with your pick!” 

“You were the one that chose what we’d look for!” 

“Just let it be our secret,” he says, turning to wink in your direction. 

You can feel the coolness of the breeze nipping at your nose when you finally reach the hotel, walking through the glass doors with Jun following close behind. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. 

“Do you want to get dinner?” You ask. You can smell the sugar and the cinnamon from the pastries, and your mouth begins to water. “There’s this other pasta dish on the menu that sounds just as good as the one we had yesterday.” 

Jun purses his lips, giving a slight squeezing to your hand. “Let’s get room service, I want to show you something.” 

He starts walking towards the elevator, moving slowly and letting you admire the pastel green lobby in all of its glory. There’s some faint jazz music playing as you walk through the lobby, which you hadn’t noticed until then. A big tree rises from the center of the room, matching some smaller ones that are perched next to the deep green tufted couches and complimenting the flower arrangements that have been used as decorations in both the small coffee tables and the bar at the reception. It’s a slightly different vibe than the one from the dining hall, but somehow, both of them look just as fancy. 

“What is it?” You ask. 

“You’ll see.”

“Can I get a clue?”

“No, you’re going to help me finish it.”

“Please don’t tell me you also collect those freaky deaky puzzles Chan likes to put together in his free time.”

Jun giggles, shaking his head as you reach the elevator. “Ew, the anatomy ones? No, no way.” 

The way up to Jun’s room is spent with him trying to guess the elevator music by singing random lyrics and seeing which one sounds best. Not that he got a single one right, but it was certainly entertaining to watch him try. When you finally reach the 10th floor, Jun is singing the lyrics to Cher’s Where Do You Go to a jazz melody very much similar to the one from the lobby, and you’re sure he’s only doing it to make you smile. 

“Bienvenue to my humble abode,” Jun mutters as he opens the door to his room, making sure to bow down and open his arm to signal the room, completing the entire gesture with a short giggle. “I escaped having Hoshi as a roommate so I have the room all to myself.” 

“And you have Seungkwan’s piano,” you mention as you walk inside, pointing to the small electronic piano that was carefully positioned next to the window. “Does he know?”

“No, I stole it from the van last night,” he answers, laughing and plopping onto the bed. “Oh, I’m so tired!”

The room is not too different from yours; a muted orange wallpaper matching the fuzzy carpet. Both twin beds in Jun’s room are covered in a dandelion yellow duvet, one of them holding all of his luggage while Jun rests on the other one (the one he must have slept in last night, closest to the window). There’s a small television on the vanity, the box a combination of bright beige plastic and faux wood, surprisingly going along with the white lamps that stand on both sides of it. 

“What is it that you wanted to show me?” You ask, coming to sit in one of the chairs next to the vanity. They’re big, tufted, and the color matches with the one of the duvets. The chair is not the most comfortable, but as long as the bed is, you don’t really have to worry about it. 

Jun’s purchases lay next to him on the bed, Barbra Streisand’s Stoney End sitting on top of the pile. He had bought five records, four for himself and one for you (though he had refused to tell you which one it was, insisting it would be a surprise). You had selected five books to match his purchase, including a copy of Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles, which Jun had suggested you take because of the colorful cover. 

“I’ve been working on a song,” he mutters, still facing down on the bed. The words come out muffled, but they’re still audible. “I think you’ll like it.”

You let out a laugh. “I like all of your songs.” 

“This one’s special,” he says, moving so he’s resting on his shoulders. His hair has gotten a bit disheveled, falling all over his face as his lips curl up in a hazy smile. “I’m working on the melody, too. I just need to hear your opinion about it.” 

“You’ve been inspired,” you comment, reaching over to the vanity where Jun had placed the pastries bag. You take a roll into your hand and notice it’s still warm. 

Jun winks before sitting up. “You’d know all about it.” 

“All I do is sing your songs,” you say, breaking a piece of bread and tucking it into your mouth. It melts as soon as it meets your tongue. “You’re the artist behind the art. Should I start calling you Da Vinci?” 

“I like Monet better. I’m a huge fan of the Impression Sunrise, even got a poster of it up in my room back at home,” Jun answers. He moves so he’s sitting down on the edge of the bed next to Seungkwan’s piano, grabbing a small notebook from the bedside table. You recognize it instantly, because it’s the one he always carries with him. He pats the space next to himself. “Here, I’ll show you.” 

You leave your things on the bed next to all his luggage, books carefully propped against a faux leather duffle bag. Jun takes a piece of the cinnamon bread as soon as you sit down next to him, moving closer as he does, a whiff of his cologne reaching your nose. The duvet is of fine linen, surprisingly soft against your fingertips as you place your hands at your sides. 

“I started writing it the other day,” he says, opening his notebook and placing it on his laps. You try to take a peek at it, but the (messily written) words aren’t readable from a distance. It looks beautiful though, fine lines of black ink rising like a carefully painted artwork on the thick, creamy white paper. “When you fell asleep on the bus.” 

“It’s your fault for making me read to you!” You laugh, moving and bumping his shoulder with yours. “And, in my defense, the top of your head was extremely comfortable.” 

“Yeah it’s like a portable pillow,” he jokes. “Maybe I should start advertising it.”

“Bet Seungkwan would take you up on it, he got asleep on the bus too!” 

There is something about Jun that makes everything seem lighter, helping the seconds run fast against the clock. 

“Here, I’ll show you the melody,” he says, straightening his back and placing his fingers on the keyboard. The assortment of rings he’s wearing had felt cool against your fingers. “I stayed up all night to come up with it. I haven’t finished the lyrics yet, but the music is already here.” 

“Is that why you asked me for help? Are you gonna fall asleep on me?” 

Jun smiles, but doesn’t turn to look at you. “No, not really,” he mutters. 

He plays a key, but doesn’t give it much thought. It’s a quick, crisp sound, not really one that’s a part of a movement, even less of a song. Maybe it’s a reflex, like the clicking of the pen had once been, a mere outlet for his nervousness. He keeps his eyes set on his fingers as he speaks, not really directing his words at you but surely saying them because you’re there to hear them. 

His voice is soft, almost shy. “It’s because you’re the inspiration behind it.” 

And he doesn’t say anything else, but lets his fingers graze upon the keys as he starts playing. You’re not exactly sure what you’re thinking of, mind and heart running a thousand beats per second as you feel it thumping against your chest. There’s a feeling growing in your stomach, and whether it's due to adrenaline or some deeper, more complex feeling remains a mystery. 

You close your eyes as Jun plays, each note igniting fireworks in your head. The music flows into your ears like honey, setting light upon the darkest places of your mind, overflowing your senses with Jun’s interpretation. Every single note sounds just like him, as if he’s becoming the music as he’s making it. His fingers run over the keys in the same way an artist’s brush glazes over a canvas, immersing itself in their creation to a point their creation is all they are. He has become a song, a beautifully crafted sonata, making your heart feel warmer with every moment. You know it’s because the song itself is beautiful - but so is he, and that translates into every single sound, every single feeling. 

You let out a gasp as he begins to sing; it’s broken, a few lines here and there. You can tell it’s the bits he’s finished, the ones he’s comfortable with, leaving everything like a game of fill in the blanks. He had sung to you before, either in the song demos or in some practices where he had been finishing a song nearby - but his voice had never sounded sweeter. Your heart tugs against your chest as you listen to him, words coming alive in your head like the ones in the pages of a romance novel. 

“Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you’ll marry a music man…”

Your hands ball up into fists, scrunching the soft duvet as you try to keep your eyes closed, no matter how much your eyelids are threatening to flutter open. You don’t want to see anything that isn’t him, or his voice; don’t want to feel anything that isn’t the sudden warmth that rises all over your body, making you feel like you’re flying - 

And he stops, hands suddenly moving away from the keyboard after a faulty note. 

“Stop distracting me!” He says, laughing as his cheeks grow red in embarrassment. He hands his hands on his lap, fingers absentmindedly fumbling with the rings he has on. 

You don’t open your eyes, joining him in his laughter and falling on your back onto the bed. You bring your hands to your face, hiding behind them as your laughter grows louder. 

“I wasn’t doing anything!” You answer. 

You feel the space next to you dip as Jun imitates your movement, resting onto his back. His notebook has fallen to the floor, open in half, but he doesn’t notice. He brings his hand to your face, taking your own and moving it away from your face. He props himself up on his elbow, connecting your fingers over the duvet in the space that separates the two of you. 

“Did you like it?” He asks, words falling from his lips between jolts of laughter. His voice is soft, and it feels like velvet against your ears. “You know, before I messed up.” 

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” you whisper, opening your eyes and rolling to your side to look back at him. “Did you really write it because of me?”

Jun nods. He’s smiling, looking at you fondly as he searches for the words inside his head. “You’re a song in and out of yourself.” 

He doesn’t move as you stare into his eyes. Looking at him, you’re suddenly reminded of the night he had kissed you - the same constellations that had shined high above your heads now reflected in his eyes, drawing you deeper into his spell. You feel like you’re falling, the entire world falling as you lay on the bed, his hand on yours the only thing pulling you back into reality. It’s as if the world around you changes every single time you’re with Jun, spinning wildly out of orbit and transforming into an unknown fantasy, with the only sure thing being the way his eyes come to rest upon you. You’re not sure if anything else exists apart from Jun, because suddenly he’s all you can see. All you can feel. 

“And I think I’ve fallen in love with you,” he continues. He keeps his eyes on you as he speaks, as if trying to assure you his words are only for you to hear. “Or maybe I already was, but only just noticed. I hear your voice in every word, see your face every time I turn around with your name etched deep in my heart. I don’t think I could get you out of my head no matter how hard I tried. And I don’t think I would ever want to.” 

You hadn’t noticed there were tears forming in your eyes until one fell down on your hand, ice cold against the warm skin. You open your mouth, searching for words deep down in your heart, but Jun shakes his head. 

“Just… let me say it, you can go after,” he says. “I’ve been dreaming of love my entire life. As far as I can remember, I’ve always dreamed of feeling it. It wasn’t just something out of a fairytale or a novel, not even a dream coming out to a song. It’s been the theme behind all my songs and the happy ending of all my stories. And never would I have thought it would feel like this. Never would I have thought those dreams would become you, but you’re there, in every single word. In every single thought.” 

He moves, fingers caressing the back of your hand as he gives it a squeeze. He moves his hand, placing yours over his chest, directly over his heart. Although faintly, you’re sure you can feel it beat. 

And you move forward, your other hand on his neck, connecting his lips with yours. It’s warm, and you can make out a vague saltness that is no doubt a product of your tears. But they are long forgotten, the feeling of Jun’s lips against yours setting your body on fire as his hands come to rest upon your skin. You can feel your every vein light up as you move as close to him as you can manage, the space between you always weighing upon the both of you no matter how much you try to reduce it, because the feeling of your bodies pressed against each other is one you simply can’t get enough of. 

He opens his eyes, eyelids fluttering open at the need to see you; to set the final piece of the puzzle in his mind. It’s a puzzle that looks, sounds and moves like you, composed of a love that burns too bright to ignore. 

And as he looks at you, resting comfortably on the soft linen sheets, he’s sure he has never seen such a beautiful sight.

The next few days go by in a flash. 

The days start early, as early as the sun goes up and you have breakfast on some terrace with Jun by your side, with the sun reflected upon his skin like a golden veil. They’re spent in jolts of laughter with your friends, soaking in the sun when sight-seeing in all the cities you’ve visited. They’re spent carelessly singing in the bus, with Joshua and Chan backing up the vocals with loud strums of their guitars, not really caring about beat, or tune, or whoever may be listening. They’re spent getting to know the world with the people that make the entire thing worth it, smiling and laughing along. They’re spent in sleepless nights on stages or someone’s backyard, twisting and turning in Jun’s hand as he moves you to the rhythm of the music. They’re spent in him watching you from a balcony, dancing and singing along to the crowds adoring your every move, finding himself lost in your voice. 

And they’re spent in composing, with Jun finding inspiration in the smallest of your movements, lyrics suddenly being born in the crack of a smile and the fondness behind a look. 

By the time the song is finally ready to be sung, he’s still a bit nervous. It feels like a deja vu, with him tapping quickly upon a faux tiled floor. 

He rests his back against a wall, standing next to a closed door. He tries to move out of the way as people pass in a hurry, carrying equipment or reading from lists, simply looking around as he tries to count on the passing of time. He tries to maintain a steady beat with his foot, counting along in his head as he reads from the piece of paper he’s holding. Trying not to think about the sounds of a growing crowd, he can feel the paper crumpling in his hand, thinking that his grip on it might be a little too tight. Nonetheless, he can’t loosen it up, no matter how much he wants to. 

Night has fallen, and he can see the stars from the small window that rises at the top of the wall in front of him. There’s some moonlight breaking in, lighting up the ground and the glass detailings on the colorful tiles. For a second, he thinks of how familiar it feels, to be able to see a picture where there is none, and he smiles. Backstage or not, the night looks the same all around. 

He lets out a big breath, moving his free hand around as he does until he hears the door next to him flutter open. A laughing Chan walks out from it, followed by Josh and Mingyu, all of them with their guitars strapped down and ready to be played. They pat Jun on the back before they follow the small arrows on the ground, walking in the direction of the stage. 

He runs through the lyrics in his head as the rest of the band follows, you walking behind while trying to fix the back of your jacket. Minghao had suggested some fringes on the sleeves to add some “movement” but they had proven a bit impractical when getting stuck whenever you moved your arms. 

“Hey,” Jun says, grabbing your attention. “Do you have a moment?” 

You smile. “What are you doing back here? I thought you and Cheol were gonna watch from the balcony.”

“We are,” he confirms, nodding his head. “I just wanted to say hi.”

His voice is shaking as he speaks, as much as he tries to hide it. You take his free hand in yours, stopping his movements in midair, giving his fingers a slight squeeze as you attempt to bring him some comfort. 

“Are you nervous?” You ask. He simply nods, smiling when he feels you tightening your grip on his hand. “Is it because of the song?” 

“I know it’s a bit silly,” he comments. Despite holding the piece of paper, he runs his hand through his combed-back hair, causing a few strands to fall messily over his forehead. It looks so much better than when it’s gelled up. “But it feels different this time around. I don’t know, It feels a lot more personal somehow.” 

Bringing his hand up to your face, you give it a kiss. He sighs at the feeling. 

“They’re gonna love it, Jun,” you say. 

He smiles at you. “As long as you love it, that’s more than enough for me.” 

“Well, you already know that I do,” you giggle. “I’ll always love every single song you write.”

Laughing with you, he pulls you to his chest as he envelops you in a hug. Sighing against you, he tucks his face in your neck as he feels you hugging him back. You smile, feeling him press a light kiss on the exposed skin. He smells of sugar and cinnamon. 

“Leave them breathless,” he whispers as he breaks apart from the embrace. 

He kisses you one more time, quickly pecking the top of your head before he walks away. You give him one last smile, running your fingers down his arm as you begin to part.  

You walk in opposing directions, and Jun quickens his pace as he climbs the stairs leading to the balcony. He can hear the crowd growing with every step he takes, feeling a knot forming in his stomach as he moves his fingers around in an attempt to control his nerves. The way up seems familiar, consisting in dimly lit hallways and semi-peeled off posters on the walls, and he doesn’t even notice a few minutes have passed by the time he finally reaches the balcony. 

It’s not the Moonwalker, but the place shines just as bright. He greets Seungcheol, placing a palm on his friend’s back as he comes to stand next to him. 

“Hey, I was about to go looking for you,” he says, as a form of greeting. He smiles at his friend and motions to the public below with his beer bottle. “Great turn out tonight! I think this is our biggest venue yet, it’s amazing! I was talking to some guy over there, and he says a story is being printed on the newspapers about how successful the tour has been so far.” 

Jun smiles. “They deserve it. They’re an amazing group.”

“And they have amazing songs,” Seungcheol comments, nudging Jun’s shoulder with his own. 

Jun sets his eyes on the empty stage just as the lights begin to fall. A limelight focuses on the center of it, right where the standing microphone rises high among the sea of instruments. You walk out from the side with the rest of the band following close behind, and just like his very own, everyone’s eyes are on you. 

“We have a very special song for you tonight,” you say. You look up in the direction of the balcony, and Jun feels his heart beat loudly against his chest when you wink at him. “We hope you enjoy the show.” 

A breath gets caught in his throat when Seungkwan starts playing, fingers delicately grazing over the keyboard of his piano. He can feel Seungcheol’s hand coming to rest on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze, but all he can focus on is you. 

It’s always been that way, and the feeling on his chest lets him know it always will. It feels like a thousand butterflies finally setting flight. 

He smiles when you begin to sing, forgetting about everything else. The world around him stops existing, and just as the words start leaving your lips, he lets himself go. Because he had spent his entire life dreaming of this moment, thinking about the feeling being born in his chest. And he’s happy he’s waited, because it feels better than he could have ever imagined. 

Completely shaking off his nerves, he closes his eyes and lets out a breath. 

The street is full of people.

People coming and going; walking, mixing in, their moving steps being the only thing they really have in common. They almost blur out in the big picture, moving pixels unidentifiable by themselves, blending alongside each other like in the scene of a movie. 

And you notice how it makes you feel comfortable, because it’s almost as if you’re hiding from the world in plain sight. You just have to stay still, allowing yourself to become camouflaged in the dark. 

Time passes and the scene doesn’t change: unceasing crowds passing by in front of you, all too immersed in their own little world to even cast you a second glance. Just like them, you’re merely a part of the background, figure mixing in with an ensemble of neon signs and ever-changing silhouettes. 

Until it comes to him. 

“Here,” Minghao says, voice quiet as he sits down next to you. You’re resting your back against an old brick wall, legs propped up to your chest as you rest outside of the convenience store. “There was only one cherry can left, but you can have it.”

He hands you a can of ice-cold soda, the hot pink label shining under the bright light reflected from the yellow sign perched high above your head. You smile at Minghao as you take the can from him, making sure to have your fingers graze upon his just a little longer than necessary as you do. It’s a small gesture, not flashy enough to be seen from a distance, but still perceivable. At least to him. 

“But you love cherry,” you tell him. He lets out a laugh, his body vibrating next to yours as you hear the giggle falling from his lips. 

“Yeah, but I love you a little more,” he answers. His voice is a little bit louder than before, words coming out a little clearer. You can still hear a small pant, as you always do when he’s resting after an afternoon spent skating. 

You think of how familiar it feels, finding a sense of home in the middle of the changing of a scene. 

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if the world around you is completely different from the way it was the night before. Because it is, and it’s a world away from how it was back when it all started. 

It doesn’t matter if there’s not a single face you can recognize in a parade full of strangers, or a melody to make out in the overwhelming noise that comes with a busy street.

It’s still you and Minghao, having a can of fruit flavored soda outside of the same convenience store where you had met a few years back. He’s still sitting atop of his skateboard, with his old black bucket hat framing his face and his old converse adorning his feet. You can feel him reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone, untangling the set of almost broken earbuds he’s always had. He still gives you one of them before pressing play on his usual playlist, and you smile as the music starts filling your ears.

He’s still holding your hand over his thigh, fingers intertwined and clutched so tightly there is no way you could ever set them apart. 

The scene in front of him is almost a perfect one. Sitting down in the middle of a cheery café, Jihoon can’t help but wonder what it would take to complete the picture. 

There’s a strong scent of freshly brewed coffee rising from his cup, meeting his nose in the form of thick, creamy wisps of warm steam. He can see them clearly in this lighting; soft, color-tinged light coming from the stained glass lamps that almost cover the entire roof, illuminating the entire place like a sort of luminous kaleidoscope. Just like every Christmas night (according to a bright red flyer pasted on the door), a live band plays instrumental covers of famous festive pieces, accompanied with the occasional singing of the clients. There’s the distinctive sound of an espresso machine mixing in with the music, all blending together with happy cheers and excited conversations. 

The place was nothing fancy; full of small families and large groups of friends. Everyone is happily drinking from a colorful assortment of cups that assured each and every one of the clients held a different one, including Jihoon’s pastel blue mug, and snacking on the varied home-made pastries. 

In the end, the only person Jihoon could see sitting alone in the vivid establishment is himself. Everyone around him is talking loudly to one another, laughing at inside jokes in words he can’t really understand if he’s not actively focusing on it. 

He can see people passing by from the large window in the opposing wall, the stars in the night sky shining bright over their heads, and it strikes him: he’s by himself, in a foreign country, being alone in all the possible senses of the word. There’s really not much he can do except sip on his coffee and write along in his notebook, listening to the music and occasionally looking up to appreciate the carved wood decorations laid all over the cabinets. 

He had, much to all of his friends’ dismay, hopped on a plane in an effort to cure his writer’s block with a bit of foreign inspiration, looking for new, exciting people that could somehow inspire new, exciting stories. And he had been successful, or at least effective, no matter how much he wishes he could have someone to share a cup of coffee with in the middle of a bursting restaurant. 

“Jihoon? Do you mind if I join you?” He hears, and can’t help but think of the irony behind his last thought and the incoming question. 

The voice comes to him like a flashback from his past: from breaks spent together in highschool, sharing snacks while sitting down on the staircase. It’s soft as he thinks back of a childhood spent together but an adulthood spent apart, of old friends separated by the harsh passing of time. 

“The waiter said there aren’t any free tables left, but since we’re both alone, I thought we could share. He offered me a place at the bar, but it’s right next to where the band is playing. ” 

He’s not sure what to answer, because he’s not even sure what to think. He’s surprised, wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights as he looks up at you, recognizing you as he thinks of how different you look. 

“Alone?” Jihoon asks, finally finding his voice as he closes his notebook. “How did you know?” 

“I saw you through the window,” the voice adds. “That… sounds weird, sorry. What I mean is I was waiting to get in and saw you while I was in the queue. A table for one is not that hard to recognize.”

Jihoon nods. “Sit down, it’s alright.” 

And so you do, looking all over the place as you do in an attempt to take everything in. Because honestly, your surroundings are a lot to process when you think of all the colors, sounds and scents mixing in like some sort of surrealist artwork you still don’t understand. You try to divert your eyes from the guy sitting in front of you, his platinum blonde hair falling over his face as he looks down and writes in his notebook. 

“I’ve never been here,” you comment. 

And Jihoon looks up, because even though you had asked to accompany him at the table, he wasn’t really expecting a conversation. He always welcomed one, though. 

“Me neither,” he says. “I’m just here on vacation.” 

“Yeah, me too,” you answer.

“On the holidays?” 

“Well, what a better place to experience the season’s magic than getting to travel the world, don’t you think?”

The waiter arrives. Following your old friend’s advice, you order a latte and a warm apple strudel (the latter being a suggestion from the waiter because, after all, it was the house specialty). Jihoon gets a refill for his coffee and a pastry just like yours before the waiter walks away after being called to another table. 

“Are you writing?” You ask, pointing to the small notebook as you take off your scarf. It’s burning hot against your neck now that you’ve finally found refuge from the cold. 

Jihoon nods. “I’m working on a story. That’s the reason I’m here.” 

“A Vienna love story?” 

“Could be. I… still don’t know the route it will take,” he confesses. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the waiter finally passing your order to the baristas. “I’m just jotting down ideas as they come to me.” 

“You always found inspiration in the strangest of places,” you say. Jihoon smiles at the words, a soft laugh accompanying them. “A whole different country, for example.”

In all honesty, Jihoon had never thought he’d ever see you again. You had moved away for college and never really met up again, both of you way too busy with your own lives to find some middle ground. Or even look for it. He had buried himself in trying to write the next big literary classic, and you were completely dedicated to doing your own thing. In the end, it had all seemed way more demanding than trying to catch up with the person that used to steal your blueberry jelly-beans when you were kids. 

You look away from him as your coffee arrives. The moment you set your eyes on it you’re happy you listened to Jihoon’s advice, the creamy foam on top showcasing a clearly drawn tulip. You’re also met with a steaming, puffy bun covered in fine powdered sugar, some of it instantly melting as a product of the heat. 

“I never expected to find you here,” you comment as you empty a small packet of sugar into your coffee. “I mean, no one expects to find their old childhood friend while vacationing in Europe, but still. It’s a nice surprise.” 

And he agrees, because out of his entire trip, seeing you here had been what had taken him by surprise the most. It almost felt like going back in time, or being in an alternate universe, following a completely different timeline. Somehow, being with you inside a small, quaint café in downtown Vienna feels like a big what if, completely different from the route your lives had taken. 

It seems like a story told by a different narrator, actions improvised and producing an entirely different outcome. And it feels nice. 

“It’s weird,” he says. He takes a sip of his coffee, feeling the warm beverage travel down his throat, soothing it. “I don’t know if it will sound crazy, or just extremely weird, but it almost feels as if time hasn’t passed at all.” 

“What, are you still stuck in the marvelous nineteen’s?” You joke. He smirks in your direction as a retort to your words.

“It just feels way too familiar, even when it’s entirely different,” he adds. 

“It’s just us having been good friends, once upon a time,” you say. “I guess the bond still exists, even if it’s buried deep inside.”

You notice him staring as you bite into your strudel, but you don’t really make anything out of it, because as he looks at you under the colorful light, he knows what the what if refers to. What if he had told you how he felt back then? How we was completely in love with you, knowing you like the back of his hand and thinking he really could see himself sharing his life with you as he always had. 

“Oh, I read your book when it came out last year!” You comment excitedly, once you’ve swallowed down the treat. “I can’t believe I was childhood friends with this generation’s Shakespeare.”

Jihoon laughs, feeling the blood rising to his cheeks. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“No, it was amazing!” You continue. “You were always so amazingly talented. Even my mom read it, and you know the only things she ever reads are the nutritional tabs when she goes grocery shopping.” 

“God, do you remember going grocery shopping with your mom, though?” 

“You were always her favorite, she kept buying you those chilli powder candies in exchange of you backing her up with her choice of chips.”

“I can’t believe I agreed on buying family-sized sour cream chips only on the promise of tangy chilli powder candies.” 

And he laughs. He laughs, wholeheartedly, throwing his head back as he feels a weight finally being lifted from his shoulders. He laughs, to his entire soul’s content, for once being able to get lost in the feeling of it. It’s a feeling he knows, a feeling he misses, and it feels like coming home. Somehow, despite being miles and years away, your smile has brought him back to days spent in the sun, basking in the warmth of the summer. 

He looks at you, a big grin plastered on both of your faces, a direct aftermath of the laughter, and he can’t help but feel like he’s just been given a second chance. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in coincidences, but as you look back at him, smiling as wide as your face allows, it almost feels as if the entire universe has conspired in reuniting you, once again, on Christmas night in a foreign country. 

The band begins to play a very familiar song, one he can easily recognize even when the words sung are not ones he understands. But it speaks of home, and of love, and it’s finally, once and for all, something he can be completely sure he’s feeling. 

And so he opens his notebook, his pen rolling effortlessly over the thick, creamy paper as he writes down the title of his next novel, undoubtedly his biggest hit to date. His first ever dedication, completely inspired by the moment he’s sharing with you. And the moments he hopes will come. 

It’s a tale of two lovers separated by the cruel will of life, finally finding each other a thousand moonlights since their ways had parted. It’s a tale of hope, of love conquering even with the odds completely not in its favor. It’s a tale of luck, after all, of second chances finally allowing for happiness. 

He smiles when he reads the words.  

“This is ridiculous.”

Seungcheol takes a sip of his drink as he turns to look at Mingyu. 

The younger is scoffing, eyes fixed on his phone, clutched tightly in one of his hands. 

“What are you on about?” Seungcheol questions, not prying his eyes off the documents laid across the table. He’s read them a thousand times, a separate sheet of annotations resting somewhere along the mess. He knows them by heart, even if it’s just been a few days since they were handed to him, but that was to be expected after the many hours he’d spent pouring over the words. “And now that I think about it, you still haven’t given me your notes on the case documents.” 

“Notes? It’s been two days, do you really expect me to have read all of it by now? Who do you think I am?” Mingyu exclaims. He sounds worried, and if Seungcheol didn’t know him like the palm of his hand, he would have believed he actually was. It wasn’t any news that Mingyu didn’t care about the case, just as much as he did not care about the firm at all. He doesn’t care about much, anyway, or at least, about the stuff he can’t get some fun out of. “Anyways, it’s about this girl — “

“It’s always about a girl,” Seungcheol mutters between his teeth. Mingyu doesn’t notice, or ignores him if he does, but his rant goes uninterrupted. 

“I’ve been seeing her for the last few months and now she won’t leave my apartment,” he finishes. He sits down on one of the couches inside Seungcheol’s office, one of his legs draped over the armrest, much to Seungcheol’s annoyance. “She says she thought we were official? We weren’t even exclusive. I know my place is cute, but listen, I’ve — ”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. 

“It’s your own fault for messing around,” he comments. He taps his fingers on the desk, the rhythm of the taps aligning with that of his heartbeat. Always steady. “I’ve told you that.” 

Mingyu lets out a laugh. “Oh, I know you have.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, brother,” Mingyu sits up straight. His phone rests discarded on the couch, not deserving Mingyu’s attention any longer. “You know I admire you, and all that…” And all that. “But, honestly, maybe what you need is to mess around. You know, loosen up, get out of the office … just a little bit.”

“I don’t, Mingyu,” Seungcheol answers with a shake of his head. One of his hands clutches a pen, movements halted. “And besides, I don’t have time for that. I have to do both your work and mine.”

“Does that mean you’ll read over my documents for me?” Mingyu smiles. “Cheol, come on, what would one going out do? We’re not going to lose this client just because you go out on a date, are we?”

He’s not surprised. 

Looking back, it had always been like that. 

He had grown up alone, with only Mingyu by his side and even then not really, because, contrary to him, the younger never had any trouble making friends. He’d say it was all because of his dad, and the way he used to look up to him ever since he was a little kid — always expectant. He’d always told Seungcheol how much alike they were, both in attitudes and in destinies, and how, if following the right path, he was sure he’d never let him down. 

But it was also because of him, and his own expectations, and feeling that if Mingyu was allowed to let go if it meant he had to hold on a little tighter, he’d do it. He’d always known his brother was not made to stand the loneliness that came with following their father, or at least, not as much as he was. They were different people with different needs, after all, and as much as Seungcheol was comfortable with silence, there are times he wishes it wasn’t like that. 

There are times he wishes he had separated himself from it all, even if just a little bit. There are times he actually wishes he had a friend. He wishes he had a friend he could actually trust, who could actually be there for him, and not like the business people he was friendly with. The ones he sometimes went out with, the people he grew up next to, all of them just as immersed in the money daze. He wishes it all went past parties and business deals, an actual bond that could not be broken by envy or convenience. 

“A date?”

“Yeah, a date!” Mingyu exclaims. “When was the last time you went out on one of those, huh? College?” 

“I think?” Seungcheol frowns. Actually, he doesn’t remember dating in college, but he’s not about to tell Mingyu that. “Listen, just get your notes ready by tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” his brother answers. 

Mingyu rolls his eyes as he stands up, phone once again in his hand. He walks over to the door, a smile on his lips despite his ‘annoyed’ expression. Seungcheol knows Mingyu is not going to comply, but he tells him anyway. Just like he always has. It’s part of why they get along so well, because they would be too lost without the other. 

“Oh, and Gyu?” Mingyu opens the door, but turns to his brother before leaving. “Just talk to her, man. Try to not be an asshole, though.” 

Mingyu laughs, and Seungcheol shakes his head. He smiles. 

Out of the both of them, he’s always been the one that actually thinks things through. 

Night has fallen and the room is quiet. 

Moonlight breaks through the window and soaks the room, documents shining under the 

Compared to a few hours prior, not much has changed except for the color of the sky and the scrambly document that was placed on his desk, along with a ‘here you go, loser!’ written on a hot pink post-it note. The entire office smells of coffee and leather, a product of the almost-new furniture and the ever-brewing coffee machine. Is it really that easy to tell that Seungcheol never leaves? 

Taking off his glasses, Seungcheol runs a hand through his face after taking a good look at the clock. He finds it funny that the little hands are the only thing that seems to be moving in the ever-present stillness that he’s immersed himself in; the only indication of movement being the passing of time. His days are always measured in just how much he can get done in an hour, how fast he can get to places, and how long business meetings extend to. They’re composed of work, strictly, and he doesn’t notice, because it’s how it’s always been. It’s ironic how he never notices time passing in-between, because time seems to have taken notice of him. 

He’s spent the past few years trying to be a good boss, and he can’t help but wonder if that’s all people think he is. He can’t help but wonder if that’s all he is, anyway, because it’s the only thing he can think of when he thinks of himself. A good boss and a good brother, and everything else is nothing but a sporadic in-between. 

He’s heard his friends say it, his mind going back to the occasional bar outings and business parties. He remembers the sly comments here and there, the conversations he never got involved in, the stories he could not understand. He remembers the feeling left out, resorting to steadily drinking out of a glass of water. Predictable. 

And then he remembers one of the stories that Jeonghan, one of his college friends, told them a few months before, of him signing up for a fake dating service when his parents were on his back about him finally settling down. He can’t help thinking of Mingyu when he thinks of his friend, and how he seems to get along with him better than he ever did. They were too much alike. 

He remembers laughing, shaking his head, wondering the lengths he’d go to only to maintain the fun, and lifestyle, he’d always had. He remembers what it all was — a pretense. And he knows that just like Jeonghan, he had always been good at pretending. 

He unlocks his phone, a picture of him and Mingyu looking back at him from his screen. It was a family trip, the both of them and their dad, just when Mingyu had graduated from college a few years back. He’s smiling at the camera, and Mingyu is probably staring at someone walking nearby, because he’s not focusing on the photo. He lets out a little laugh.

He opens the chat with Jeonghan, and scrolls up to find the number he had texted him. He hadn’t asked for it, and had chuckled when Jeonghan had sent it, but he’s thankful for his insistence. 

“You laugh now, but who knows, you might need it someday.”

He takes a sip from his coffee and winces when it burns his tongue. He knows it’s out of nerves, with the bouncing of his leg giving him away. He knows he’s got nothing to lose, but even then, he can’t bring himself to calm down over the thought of possibly meeting someone new in a matter unrelated to the office. He knows Mingyu would laugh if he were to look at him now, shaking over the thought of a date… and not even a real one. 

Taking a deep breath, he taps on the contact and types. He stares at the message, eyes going over the words time and time again. Does it sound good? Is it too casual? Does he — shaking his head, he sends it. 

He’s just asking someone to fake date him. It’s alright. It’s almost like a business deal. It’s a cold, impersonal — 

It’s not even a whole minute before he gets a reply.

Deep in the forest, everything is quiet. 

“Yuta, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

The words you’ve spoken hang all around you, static. They come back to your ears, aggressive and erratic, a sort of echo signaling there is nothing else to hear. That you’re alone. If you focus deep enough, you can make out the sound of the wind brushing against the trees, a melody of moving leaves reaching your ears. 

“All I wanted was for us to have our happy ending.”

Yuta stands right next to you, a calm expression on his face, as if nothing about the night fazes him in the slightest. He looks comfortable, oddly familiar with the scene. His feet are planted firmly on the ground and his legs, contrary to yours, don’t shake. 

His hand is no longer holding yours, but it hasn’t been ever since you walked out of the car. It now hangs down his side, completely relaxed. 

It’s as if he’s not afraid.

You’re staring at him, and it’s almost as if you’re weren’t. There is something else going through his mind, and as much as it hurts, you know you’re just but a fleeting thought. 

He stands right next to you, but it doesn’t feel like it. It’s like he’s miles away, a complete stranger not only to the situation, but also to you. It’s almost like you’re both in two completely different planes without even knowing, your presence a mere vision to each other. You can tell he’s there, but you can’t feel it. 

You’re staring at him, but he’s only looking ahead. Away. 

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says. He’s talking to you, and yet he’s looking in a completely different direction. It’s almost as if you’re in two completely different planes; and maybe you are. Maybe he feels just as distant to you as you feel to him. “I’m really sorry I kept it from you.” 

“What do you mean?” You ask, and your voice shakes. You can try and fake some sort of bravery all you want, but the truth is, you’re terrified down to your bones. “Yuta, what’s going on?”

“I love you, I really do,” he continues. He doesn’t acknowledge your voice. His words are directed to you, but it feels like he’s talking to himself. “But I can’t stay here anymore. I was only given a year.” 

You want to yell at him, make him turn around. You want him to look at you, to actually see you; and then you want him to hold you close to his heart, to kiss your forehead and tell you to not be scared. To not be scared of him. 

“Please, answer me,” you beg. Somehow, you can feel a couple of tears running down your cheeks, the wet trail becoming freezing cold as time passes by. “Don’t leave me, please.”

Your voice breaks, and perhaps it’s the pain in it that finally makes Yuta break out from his daze. 

As soon as he turns around, you can tell there is something different in Yuta’s gaze. It's empty. You used to say his eyes held every single star in the galaxy. You used to think they were the place you found your home. You used to feel like he could pierce through your skin and bone, and see you for what you really were. 

And it breaks your heart to notice that there’s nothing — where there used to be everything. 

“I promise it won’t always hurt this bad,” he continues. You’re not sure if it’s because of the ringing in your ears, or if it’s his voice that is actually sounding farther and farther away, but you’re surprised you can even hear him. “One day, maybe you won’t even remember me at all.”

You wish you could turn back time, go back a couple of hours before he could even think of coming to the forest in search of ghosts. You wish you had fought back harder, insisting that you could stay home and spend time together as you always did. You wish you could have stopped him from getting out of the car, because as much as he had insisted nothing would go wrong, there was no way it was alright. 

You wish you could fight for him. 

“How could I not remember you if you’re everything to me.” 

You want to fight. Somehow, you’ve convinced yourself love can actually be stronger than fate. Maybe he’s made you believe it, because he’s the only reason you’d want to. 

“I never would have come back if I had known I’d end up hurting you like this,” he whispers. You can tell he’s hurt, the strongest emotion he’s shown since he had let go of your hand. Had he even been holding it in the first place? “I just wanted to love you for a little bit longer.”

Your heartbeat thumps against your ears, and you can make out the unevenness in its rhythm. It’s almost as if you can hear your heart breaking while knowing there is nothing you could do to try and pull it together. 

“Don’t leave me, please.”

You look at him, moonlight resting upon his skin and bathing it in its glow. It’s almost as if he’s shining, some sort of beacon rising tall and unmoveable upon the impending darkness. Almost like a product of a dream, you can imagine his figure becoming duller and duller and seconds run by… 

“I was never here.” 

You gulp, and close your eyes. A gust of wind meets your face, cold against your skin. Your hair falls over your face, disheveled. You raise your hand in search of a touch, and you find nothing. 

You can feel a kiss being pressed on your lips, and it chills you down to your bones, because as soon as you do, you realize it’s always felt like this. Cold, merely a ghost of a caress shared long ago. 

A memory of someone you had loved, and who had loved you back, so deeply that it fought against time. Not strong enough. A dream. 

When you open your eyes, Yuta’s no longer there.

And somehow, there is a pulling in your chest that tells you that what he said was wrong. He had been with you. He had been loved by you. 

Seungcheol is nervous, and you can tell.

He sits up straight in his seat, shadows grazing upon his face like silhouettes, contrasting against the bright shimmer of his golden specs. He looks completely comfortable in his own skin, posture relaxed yet composed and facial expression completely at ease — and yet, there is something about him that lets you know not everything is the way it seems. It might be the fact that his grip on the napkin is a bit too tight for comfort and the tapping of his foot against the floor is a bit too loud for you to ignore, but you decide not to dwell on it when his eyes meet yours. 

“No problem,” you answer, crossing your legs under the table. “It’s a bit far from my place but when you said you’d pay for the meal, I really couldn’t say no.” 

“Yeah, I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone, you know,” he says, taking a sip from his wine glass. “This place is really close to my office, and I figured actually going out to lunch would be a very welcomed change.”

“Oh, so you’re actually addicted to your job?” A small laugh leaves your lips, accompanying your words. 

“When did I ever-”

“I just figured,” you shrugged.

Seungcheol was an interesting figure. At the first meeting, he was nice and extremely polite, which didn’t really differ from the way he spoke to you on the phone and through his texts. He was handsome, which, thinking of in addition to his personality, didn’t really add up to the kind of guys you usually have to fake a date with. Yoon Jeonghan and the like were handsome men, granted, but they never showed as much consideration as Choi Seungcheol, and that was coming from the first time you actually met him. Not that truth is written in first impressions but the one you were getting from him was a pretty good sign.

“Right,” he mutters, cheeks lighting up in embarrassment. “Am I really that easy to read?” 

You let out a laugh. “No, I’m just pretty good at reading people.” 

You wouldn’t consider yourself an overly attentive person, an expert at noticing and analyzing body language, or anything of the sort. You are just familiar with pretending, as you’ve always liked to say, and one of the things that comes with it is knowing people act in the exact same way they want to be perceived. Sometimes they succeed, and sometimes they don’t, but nevertheless, the method is always the same no matter the result. And, as such, you’ve found that there are a few cues that fall front and center every time a person is just creating the version of themselves they want you to see. 

“Anyways,” you say, clearing your throat. “What is it exactly that you need from me?” 

“Well, I was thinking we could pretend we’re —” 

“No, no, I know I’m here to let people believe we’re bangin’,” you blurt out. You notice Seungcheol’s eyes widening and cheeks lighting up at your words, and a part of you can’t believe that is really the most authentic reaction your classic line has gotten to the date. There is an unspoken rule of sorts based purely on how  “But who is it that we need to convince? An angry ex, a controlling parent, a meddlesome friend…”

“Meddlesome brother, more like,” he comments, voice a bit softer than it was a moment before. “He uh, he dates a lot, and I don’t, and seems to be under the impression I need to follow his example.” 

“It’s kinda weird how we’re expected to follow someone’s lead, isn’t it? Even when it’s something as personal as dating.” 

“Do you…”

“Oh, no,” you say. “I do it because the money comes in handy, you know. I don’t think anyone in my life actually ever believes I’m in a real, serious relationship.” 

“Do you mind if I ask why?” 

“Well, I’ve never been in one,” you answer, and it’s now your turn to grow shy at your own words. 

It’s not that you’re ashamed of it, because you know there’s nothing wrong with the pace your love life has been running by, but it’s not something you simply blurt out whenever you meet someone new. And especially not someone you’re about to date, even if it’s fake, because well, after all, you’re not exempt from the trying to be perceived a certain way. It’s never easy to tear a wall down, let out some sort of vulnerability. And it certainly isn’t like you. 

You turn your head and look outside, eyes peering through the windowsill that covers the entire wall right next to you. The restaurant rises on the top of some thirty-story building, and looking out from the window makes your stomach turn. It’s not about the height, per se, but the effect it has on everything around you. On the clouds, and how some sort of you feels as if they’ve gotten closer, and realest to the touch — and on the people, and how the mere height you’re looking at them from makes the whole scene kind of surreal. It’s as if the height has turned an every-day setting into a scene right out of a movie, characters and all, because the more you look at the figures moving on the ground below, the more their silhouettes blur in and out with each other. 

You shake your head. 

“So, do you have a plan already? Or have you at least thought of how we’re going to make your brother believe we’re dating?” You ask. “I usually go out on a few dinner dates or tag along to some event, but I… uh, thought maybe you’d figured something out already.”

“Well, I don’t think my brother will actually care if we’re together for a long time or not,” Seuncheol started. He hadn’t given it much thought, but considering the way Mingyu treated his own relationships, he didn’t really think his brother would look into the actual time Seungcheol ‘dated’ someone. “You could maybe stop by the office someday and we’ll come have lunch after that, call me when he’s around… I don’t know. I think he just has to see us together sometimes, don’t you think?” 

“That works for me,” you smile. “So, just a few days?”

“Yeah, just a few days.”

Seungcheol raises his cup, and as you imitate his gesture, you clink your cups together. 

“Well, I guess it’s on.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing it again.”

Vernon is looking at you from the other side of the couch. It comes out somewhat undecipherable, and a part of you wants to scold him for speaking with his mouth full, but he’d only shake his head at you as a response. He chews on his cereal as he finishes speaking, bowl already half finished resting on his lap. 

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you roll your eyes. “We’re just going out for lunch for a few days, that’s it. I’m barely even gonna get to know him.”

“Yeah, but after last time, I thought you were gonna quit… all of that.”

“That was different,” you say. Your voice is firm, words coming out of your mouth in complete certainty. “And it was a long time ago.”

“It’s only been a year.”

“A lot can happen in a year! 

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve had some remarkable personal growth happening this year, with all those Nicholas Sparks novels you’ve been reading,” he laughs. “Anyways, I kinda get why you said yes.” 

You’re not sure whether he’s serious or not, because the tone of his voice lets nothing away. He always speaks in the same ‘I’m joking but I’m also not joking’ manner, which leaves you with his facial expressions to kind of get some idea of the actual direction conversations could take. 

“Oh, please, let me out of my misery,” you let out. You laugh a bit as you mutter the words, resting your back against the armrest of the couch. If there was one thing Vernon was good at, which you had told him plenty of times, was thrifting furniture. There definitely had to be some talent behind finding couches that felt just as new but actually were a fifth part of the price. “Enlighten me, you mind reader.”

“Come on, I saw his car when he was dropping you off,” he scoffs. Shaking his head, he takes in another spoonful of cereal in his mouth, chewing before he continues his grand, expert reasoning. “Although I’m not sure why he would need to come to you for… you know, whatever it is that you’ll do. Full offense, by the way.”

“Offense taken.”

“I’m just saying, if I had a car like that I wouldn’t hire someone to fake date me, if you know what I’m saying,” he shrugged, which would have diverted your attention if only he had not laughed as soon as he had finished speaking. You knew him better than that. 

“Oh God, are you saying the only reason you’re oh so painfully single is because you don’t drive a Mercedes Benz?” 

“I’m just saying maybe I wouldn’t need to have you and Chan tag along with me to the movies if I drove a Mercedes Benz!”

“Tag along with you? I’m the one that always pays at the movies, you idiot,” you accuse. “And don’t forget you’re the one that bought the Nicholas Sparks novels.”

Vernon spreads out his legs, kicking your feet off the couch in the process. He pretends not to notice, smirking and turning to face the TV, which, surprisingly, was playing yet another episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. You’re convinced that Vernon’s obsession with watching reality shows while eating cereal in his underwear every single Friday night might have more to do with him being single than not having a Mercedes Benz. 

“Poor guy, if he only knew your feet fucking stink,” he mutters under his breath before laughing at something on the TV. “I hope he asks for a refund! I would do it if it were me.” 

“One of these days, I’m actually going to kick you out,” you retort. You’re not, and he knows that, but that doesn’t stop you from “And I’ll let you know I’m actually a real catch.”

“Is that why you’re just as single as I am?” He laughs, turning his head to face you before sticking up his nose in your direction. Why was he even your friend? “Oh, and also, you’ve been kicking me out since we were in college.” 

“Yeah, I really should have done that when we were in college.”

“What, me?” 

“You wish,”

You laugh and roll your eyes, turning to look at the TV. A box of Cheerios sits opened on the coffee table, and you stretch your arm for it just as Vernon slurps the milk from his bowl. Unlike your roommate, you’re not caught up with the show, so you lazily keep your eyes on the screen as you snack on the honey-flavored cereal and let your thoughts roam free. A part of you keeps stuck on the lunch date — there was something about Seungcheol that was making it impossible for you to let go of your encounter. He was certainly different from the guys you had fake dated, because, oddly enough, you could tell some part of him was really unsure about the whole thing. He had been nervous, and you could sense it wasn’t just about meeting you, but of everything that could come out of it. 

He had been extremely nice, and as such, you had decided you were about to make it as easy for him as you could. Not because he had hired you, but because there was something in the way he smiled at you that let you know he was going to do the exact same thing for you. You had set up a plan in your head, and you would treat the whole thing as you would when making a new friend. 

A few days were enough to form a friendship, were they not?