Chapter Text
Minho sighed as the cool spring air whipped against his face, for the first time since he entered the building behind him several hours before. Another night, another bingo night. The job wasn’t bad, per se, but the colors were kind of drab and the mood kind of stuffy. It seemed like no one won like they used to. Everyone had been losing their youth, Minho thought, and he said, because he always said what he had to say. His (very angry) boss seemed to take it (very angrily) as an insult to the elderly, but Minho didn’t mean it like that. He felt it within himself, too. Someone needed to take a chance.
No leaps had been made that night, nor bets been placed. All Minho could do was sigh. The sky was dark, lit up only by street lamps and the glow of the flowering springtime trees. Everything was cold to the touch at this time of night, not so late but just late enough that the crowds exiting the bingo hall behind him had already dissipated. Minho began his usual walk home.
Though freezing, spring was rather pretty—blossoms in the trees and the grass an extra shade of green from the rain. Minho could appreciate as much as he stayed in line on the sidewalk. His normal route, his normal walk home. Nothing was meant to happen, no one was meant to be there. So Minho’s surprise was palpable when he heard a voice carry through the night.
He hadn’t sung—really, truly, sung—in a long time, but he could tell when someone had. He could tell when it was someone’s whole life hanging off their tongue, singing because that was all there was to do.
“‘Cause all I want is you, not your tears.
눈물이 마를 때까지
I wanna make you the happiest one, no fear,
So baby, hold my hand now.”
Minho could say with confidence that he had never excelled in English, but just as confidently he understood those words. They imprinted themselves onto the front of his mind, the back of his head, onto his eyes so he couldn’t look anywhere else. He was pulled forward, to this voice which he knew would have been forward in any lifetime, just to try and get closer. Minho had to see the face of the voice that was singing like it was the only thing it knew how to do.
“‘Cause all I want is you, not your tears.
Tears, your tears, your tears.”
Minho was burning up, steam nearly rising from his flushed face from the sheer heat of it. There was that buildup, that leap in his chest, that curiosity.
Just who was singing like this, in the dark and the cold, like his life depended on it?
Soft, deep brown hair pushed over eyes beneath a fuzzy black hat, maybe a trapper hat. Hands that managed to look warm when they were certainly cold to the touch gripping an electric guitar. Pretty pink lips belting into a microphone.
Definitely the hottest man Minho had ever seen, but it was fine because he was cool about it. He was normal about it. Minho thought himself pretty normal. The way his jaw hung open, a perfect mix of pure enchantment and I want his tongue in my mouth, was normal. The way his eyes widened—normal.
It seemed he had caught the tail end of the song, so he only had about twenty seconds to stare with his mouth parted in dramatic surprise and what was probably some kind of love. Twenty seconds wasn’t long enough to hold the eternity of staring Minho wanted to keep up. He wanted to fold this moment up and put it in his pocket for safe keeping. Keep time frozen in that moment without risk, if only for a second longer. But time never did stop for Minho, and he had to bring his wide eyes to meet the gaze of the singer.
If Minho thought his eyes were wide, he was proven wrong, or at least hyperbolic, within the first moment of meeting the man’s gaze. Dark, round eyes became possibly the roundest a pair of eyes could get as they processed Minho’s presence. The man gasped, stumbling backwards in surprise. He nearly dropped his guitar, thinking just long enough to gingerly set it down before properly freaking out.
“That was really good.” Minho always said what he had to say, and this time he got it out before the man even had the chance to formulate some kind of a response to being watched.
The man broke into a kind of confused smile, nearly laughing as he stuttered out a response. “Oh, uh, thank you! I…” He blinked a few times. “I, I’m sorry, I just didn’t see you there, so I’m kind of—“
Minho cut off the singer’s rambling. “Keep going.”
“What?”
Minho smiled. “Please. I want to hear more.” It was a silent plea, a don’t let me stop you. Minho needed more.
The singer turned a shade of pink, looking ready to stutter out a myriad of excuses and reasons why that just wouldn’t be ideal. It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s late, I was just packing up, I’m not even that good. Before he could, Minho fell to the floor, sitting with his legs crossed and looking up expectantly. He didn’t really feel like going anywhere.
“I…alright, if you really want to listen, I suppose…” The man leaned down to gather his guitar and trailed off as he fell more deeply into thought. “Uh, this is a song I wrote a couple of years ago. It’s…” It seemed he had swallowed his words.
Minho felt time pause the moment the singer reached for his microphone. His awkward eagerness was just so cute. Minho could spend the rest of paused time staring at the way his fingers, adorned in rings, wrapped around the microphone like it was all they knew. Minho could practically feel that skin on his skin. He imagined the fingers a little calloused from playing guitar, the nail beds unintentionally neat and polite. Minho wondered if this man had ever thought about his hands for even a fraction of a second that Minho had.
Time unpaused when the man opened his mouth, and Minho had to give up his weird fantasies.
“지구에 툭 떨어진
I’m an alien on this earth.
나 홀로 어디에도 속하지 않아 보이고
아무리 웃어봐도
I feel so lonely
지구인과 섞이려고 드는 외계인
소리 내 말을 해봐도 누구도 듣질 않아”
This song was a little different. It was practiced, Minho could tell by the way the words rolled off the man’s tongue with experience. He definitely wanted to get to know that tongue more. Minho pushed those thoughts down, though, when his brain finally focused on the lyrics and not just the sounds. The way it sounded like a cry for help. The way he just wanted to get up and do something about it, maybe shake the singer up a little and then hug him until he was human again. It was sickening how much he cared in a single moment alone. Maybe it was just the way the cards fell and the song went. So Minho hugged his knees to his chest and listened. He would sit polite and listen until the last breath was exhaled into that microphone, careful not to push his way through the air and pat the man on his shoulder and tell him that he would make sure that song was never his life again. Minho knew nothing about this man. He willed himself away from thinking he did. Not yet. He didn’t know yet.
Minho let himself drift into that voice, trying not to get any further caught up in the spaces between lines and pauses between words. The singer had a wonderful voice. Besides hanging onto the mic like it was the only thing he knew, there was, simply, a voice that was nice to listen to. Minho tuned out the rest of the world, waiting for that final breath.
“The microphone likes you.” He said when that breath finally came.
The man blinked, confusion contorting his features. “You’re weird.” He broke into a smile. “I like it. I like weird.”
“Why isn’t anyone here to watch you?” Minho couldn’t believe that the man could be out in the cold of night, not having attracted a single person to his little gem of a voice.
“Oh,” The singer’s eyes widened, picking nervously at his nails. “I mean, I guess I try not to worry too much about that kind of thing. People will come if they want, y’know.”
“But you’re amazing.” Minho deadpanned. “There’s no way I can be the only one hearing this.” He could almost see it; himself, ten minutes ago, following this mysterious voice with hearts in his eyes like a little cartoon character—no. Objectively, the man’s voice was amazing. It wasn’t just him. Any normal person would get it.
The singer blushed at his words, still smiling. His round cheeks puffed out and his lips stretched into a heart. Cute. “I guess I wanted to put some posters up, but that didn’t end up happening.”
”Posters?” Minho rocked to his feet, swaying forward. “Do you have any? Did you, like, make them?” Minho knew a few spots that he would call poster-ready. The poles of any and every street sign, the bingo hall bulletin, hell, he would walk around with one tacked to his face.
“Ah, no,” the singer frowned. “I sorta thought it’d be stupid. Like, hanging up posters pointing people to some random street corner. Figured I’d wait ‘till I got, like, an actual gig. But that didn’t end up happening either.” His frown deepened momentarily. “It’s okay, though. I can wait.”
That was nice for him, but Minho certainly didn’t want to wait. Not for this, anyway. “I don’t think you have to. Shouldn’t matter if you have a proper gig or not. Might as well give it a shot, right?” Minho knelt to the ground, watching from the corner of his eye as the singer’s lips parted in surprise. Cute. He pulled the messenger bag he always brought to work from his shoulder, opening it to pull out a few loose sheets of paper. “Don’t worry. I’ve got markers.”
The man crouched next to him, eyebrows twisting up in a worried smile. “Hey, what are you doing? I, uh, don’t need any posters right now. You don’t have to go to all this trouble, really.”
Minho fished through his bag to find a green marker. “Not trouble if I want to do it, right? Here, you can use this one.” He passed the green marker off to the confused singer. “I should have a pink one in here somewhere…” Minho muttered to himself as he fished through his bag. “Oh, here!”
He grinned as he pulled it out, the man breaking into a laugh even as his eyebrows stayed angled up in worry. “It…it really isn’t necessary, I can always make them myself, and it’s really getting late, and really—“
Minho put a finger to the man’s lips. “Shh. It’s fine. I want to. Really.” He plucked the cap off of his pink marker, spreading the papers out in front of them. “Now,” Minho’s brows furrowed. “What’s your name?”
“Oh.” The man blinked, before bringing a hand to his mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so rude. I’m Jisung. I’m so sorry.”
Minho bit back a laugh. The singer, Jisung, was so endearingly anxious that Minho wanted to shake him up a little, tell him it was okay. “I’m Minho. And it’s cool, by the way. It’s not like I told you my name any more. We’re both rude.”
Jisung smiled at the comment and sank down to his knees, twirling the marker in his fingers. “So, like, what were you thinking for this? Like…” He scrawled out his name in green and added the street name below it. “I usually set up around eight…” He thought aloud as he wrote.
Minho nodded, not looking up from where he was drawing. “Yeah, something like that.”
“What is that face?” Jisung squinted as he peered over Minho’s paper, doodling little stars on his own.
“Jureumi,” Minho provided unhelpfully. He was drawing the face onto what looked to be a blank alien head. “How old did you say you were?”
Jisung laughed incredulously. “You aren’t putting that on the poster, right?”
“Nope. Just for me. If we’re talking about your age, that is. This,” Minho gestured down at the face he had drawn. “Goes on the poster.” He turned to Jisung. “Pass me the green, will you?” He didn’t wait for Jisung’s response before plucking it from his hands to add a few accents to the Jureumi-alien. “There.”
“Um. I’m twenty-four, right now. Can I use the pink?”
Minho just nodded as he passed the marker. “I’m twenty-six. You can call me hyung.”
Jisung’s cheeks matched the marker he was uncapping. “That sounds good. Hyung.” He paused to color in the stars he had drawn, underlining ‘8:30 PM’ in pink. “Why do you carry markers on you, anyway?”
“They’re for work.” Minho said, like that explained everything.
“Okay, where do you work?”
“The bingo hall. I’ve learned that it’s better to be safe than sorry when it comes to craft supplies.”
“The bingo hall?” Jisung let out a laugh. “Sounds like a pretty exciting job.” His smile fell when Minho sighed. “What’s wrong?”
“Mm. Nothing. Hey, pass me the pink?”
Jisung’s smile returned as they traded markers. Minho had already moved on to the next poster, drawing that same weird face. “Do you write all your own songs?”
“Mostly, yeah. I do have some friends I work with sometimes. Both of the songs you heard were 100% Jisung, though.” Jisung remarked. Minho liked the idea of “100% Jisung.”
“Yeah? Where are they, then? Do they not sing?”
“No, they…” Jisung furrowed his brows. “They sing. And rap, too. It’s just that I only know them online.”
“Online?”
“Mhm. Though they’re pretty busy in real life, I think. One of them works in a lab, or something important.” Jisung paused to think. “And the other, you should see the way he goes offline for days. I swear, he lives in a cave or something. Still, he makes, like, all of our beats.”
Minho hummed as he drew little pink planets on his poster. Jisung turned to him. “So, hyung. What do you like to do? Like, hobbies.”
Minho smiled. “Mm. Guess.”
Reaching to take the pink back, Jisung groaned. “Guess? What is this, twenty questions?” In reality, he had minimal arguments. “Fine. Do you like…” Jisung sighed. “…bingo?”
Minho fought back a small grin, instead glaring at the other man.
“Sorry, sorry! Uh…” Jisung’s dark eyebrows were knit together as he thought. Cute cute cute cute. “Do you like to read?”
Minho shrugged.
“How about…photography?”
“More or less.”
“Baking?”
“Not quite.”
“Painting?”
“I could take it or leave it.”
“Drawing?…” Jisung looked down at the face Minho had drawn on yet another poster, before wincing. “Nevermind.”
Minho sent him another lighthearted glare.
“Sewing?”
“Not particularly.”
“Okay, how about sports? Baseball.”
Minho shook his head.
“Running?”
“Nah.”
“Basketball? Actually…” Jisung trailed off as he sized Minho up. “Scratch that…” He muttered.
“Um…roller skating?”
Minho smiled. “Weird guess.”
“Oh, whatever!” Jisung threw his arms up. “Fishing. I don’t even care.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what I thought. How about cooking–what?” Jisung whipped his head around.
“I do like cooking, actually.”
“No, no, no. Backtrack. Fishing?” Jisung laughed in disbelief. “You’re so weird. That’s…actually pretty cool. What’s the biggest fish you’ve caught?” Before Minho had the chance to open his mouth, Jisung started again. “Wait, cooking too?” He grinned. “I am a nightmare in the kitchen.”
Minho thought that Jisung probably wouldn’t have to worry about cooking for himself too much longer.
“I can’t believe it was fishing this whole time…wait.” Jisung’s smile fell from his face. “I’m an idiot. Do you like singing?”
There was a look of disbelief on his face, completely shocked he had forgotten to ask. Minho would have rather it stayed a forgotten thought.
“I…” He was, embarrassingly, speechless for the first time that night. “It’s…been a while.”
“Wait, no way.” Jisung’s smile reached the far corners of his face, during what seemed to be a momentary lapse in reading the mood. “You’ve got to sing for me some time. Do you like to dance too, by any chance?”
Ouch. Double kill. “Uh, yeah…” Minho mumbled, hopefully not looking too sour. He loved to dance.
Jisung’s happy spell was broken at that reply. His eyebrows tilted up, worried. “What’s wrong? Or, not that you have to talk about it. Just, did I say something that upset you? Or, like–”
Minho reached his hand up to Jisung’s mouth and smiled. Cute cute cute cute cute. “No, don’t worry. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Really, it was okay. Minho put another poster in their shared pile.
Jisung brightened up again, albeit hesitantly. He seemed a little wary, like a baby deer tripping over itself for the first time. Minho wanted to say No no no it’s not you, it’s me, it really isn’t you, I just… He didn’t know what to say. Really, he didn’t know why he got so weird about it.
Jisung planted a poster in the growing pile between them, before checking his phone casually. His eyes darted open, wider than the already delightfully round little shapes they had settled into. “Shit, how late is it?! I’m meant to hop on call in like, ten minutes. We have this new beat we’ve been fine-tuning, and like, I’m supposed to give my input. I don’t wanna just like, rush off or anything but–”
Minho smiled at him. “Don’t worry. You should go. It is getting late.” Minho knew where to find him, anyway. “Here, I’ll take some of these,” Minho reached down and picked up the top half of the posters, pink and green decorating every margin. “I’ll put them up around my work.” He didn’t mention the fact that he would probably tack one to any surface he saw available. Jisung could find that out himself, maybe on a random streetlamp or at the nearest grocery store.
“Oh, really? I mean, I don’t want to make you hang them up, or anything, I can just–” Minho almost laughed. Cute. He had literally volunteered to help Jisung make them. Of course he was going to hang them up.
“Don’t worry,” Minho said for what felt like the fifth time that minute (was it?) “I've got this.” Jisung shut his mouth and just nodded, cheeks pink. He sprung up and gathered the remaining pile to keep close to his chest, scrambling around to throw his guitar case on his back.
“Sorry to have to get out of here so suddenly, I hadn’t realized it had been so long. I’ll, uh, see you again? I hope!”
As he turned into a sprint Jisung almost tripped over himself, muttering about the time and how maybe it was stupid that he said that.
Minho wanted to shout after him, Of course you’ll see me again of course I’ll be here of course I’ll be waiting. You changed my life.
But, for the first time he could remember, Minho bit his tongue.