Work Text:
Nguyen Tran Trung Quan is a singer.
No, that isn’t quite right.
Nguyen Tran Trung Quan is going to be a singer. Right now he sings covers of other, more successful singers’ songs on a cheap upright piano that doesn’t project very well in a local cafe called Highland Coffee that becomes a bar after 6pm. The scene isn’t big--if it can be called a scene--and he sings for pocket change that he doesn’t need. But he’d rather be here, chatting up the largest congregation of fellow Vietnamese students in the area he could find, than in his dorm thinking about how he has two and half years left of his Economics degree to finish.
Two and a half years and he’ll get to go back home and start his company like he’d wanted. Two and a half years and he will have had the business know-how to run his company like he’d wanted. Two and a half years and his mother won’t have to keep telling him he’d be wasting a scholarship otherwise and he won’t have to keep telling himself he isn’t wasting his time.
Halfway through the second verse of the last song on his set, Quan’s microphone cuts out. Unphased, he plays an impromptu jingle on the piano and waits as some tall, skinny kid in a too-big sweater shuffles onto the makeshift stage and sets up another mic for him. Quan recognizes him from his marketing class, always sitting in the back row and talking to no one. The name tag on his sweater says ‘Duc Hieu Dang’.
“Sorry about that,” the kid, Duc Hieu, mumbles as he fiddles with the buttons on the mic and taps on it lightly to ensure it’s on. He keeps his voice a low rumble, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear him. He works quickly, eyes, already obscured by a dark fringe, darting around to various objects to avoid eye contact.
Quan is undeterred. “Thanks, uh…” He eyes the name tag. “Duc Hieu?”
The corner of Duc Hieu’s mouth twitches as though he were contemplating something to say, but he decides against it. Instead he answers, “Don’t worry about it. The next person on open mic will need it anyway”, and ducks backstage as quickly as he came.
--
Quan finishes his set without a glitch and sits around through subpar standup comedy and lackluster slam poetry until he sees the same kid again scurry back around, dismantling microphones and wheeling things offstage. Quan downs the last of his coke and rum that’s more water than coke and rum and hurries over to push the side of the piano opposite to the one Duc Hieu is pulling. “Here, let me help with that. It looks heavy.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m paid to do this.” Duc Hieu replies, but doesn’t stop him.
“You’re Vietnamese, right?” Quan asks, switching to his mother tongue. “Hieu? Can I call you Hieu? I recognize you from first year Marketing. How come I’ve never seen you here before? How long have you been working here? Ah, shit--” He cuts himself off. “I talk a lot, don’t I?”
“I’ve been here since the start of the semester,” Hieu mumbles in reply, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, and still avoiding eye contact. He has a distinct accent, one that Quan recognizes is attributed to those from Nghe An. “I, uh… try not to be noticed.”
“Oh, uh, well. Actually, we’re classmates.” Quan says lamely, suddenly too distracted by the unique way Hieu says each word and how his defined cupid’s bow curves to form them. “My name is--”
“Nguyen Tran Trung Quan. You’re here every Saturday.”
“Right.” Quan blows out a harsh breath through his nostrils, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and rocks back and forth on the heels and balls of his feet. He’s not usually at a loss for words. When he finds himself at a loss for words to say, he turns to writing lyrics and singing his feelings instead. He is finding himself wanting to write a song about a boy who wears too big sweaters and says too few words. They’ve put away everything that needed to be put away and Hieu has had every opportunity to walk out on him, but he hasn’t.
“Do you want to have a drink with me?” Quan shoots his shot.
“Excuse me?” Hieu’s tone is surprised, but not judgmental.
“You are old enough to drink, right?”
“I’m working.”
That’s not a no.
“That’s not a no,” Quan dares to push his luck. He follows it with a light chuckle. Just a light nudge. No pressure. He’s not being weird.
“No, it isn’t,” Hieu agrees. He sighs and musses up his already wild hair like he’s never been more inconvenienced in his life. “My shift technically ended after the last performer, so we can go somewhere else. Because the food here is rancid.”
“Okay. Yeah, sure!” Quan sputters uncharacteristically as Hieu brushes past him in the limited space to make his way out from backstage. “Anywhere you wanna go, Hieu.”
“Denis,” Hieu says, turning back and flashing a small and brief smile at Quan, the first one he’s seen all night. Fleeting with the grace of a cat.
“Huh?”
“My name. I prefer Denis.”
“Denis.” Quan repeats. Takes it for a test run. A name that tastes like lotus tea.