Chapter Text
1.
Choi Jongho doesn’t expect anything. In fact, at this point he’s all but abandoned his expectations all together.
For the six long years he’s spent working as a scout for Aurora, a record label based in downtown Seoul, he’s given as much as he can spare of himself to the job. But sometimes he’s more aware than he would like to be that he’s really only doing this job to stay close to the industry. His heart isn’t in it as much as it used to be in the early days, and he’s too tired to pursue something more meaningful—like becoming a singer himself, or even producing. But, he has a good ear for talent, that’s undeniable, and over the years he’s found and brought in plenty of wonderful acts.
Tonight, the venue is Fever; his favourite haunt, and where he does the majority of his scouting when he isn’t following leads. The booth he occupies is also his favourite—back corner, furthest from the windows. Jongho has become such a staple here that he doesn’t even remember the last time one of the other patrons tried to sit in his booth. It has a good view of the mini stage while remaining far enough away from it all that he doesn’t have to deal with the crowd that gathers. This is the best part about his booth, in his opinion, because he can’t say that he loves being around a lot of people, not the same way that he used to.
Jongho’s ear for talent has afforded him the ability to come and go with relative ease. He isn’t pressured to magic up new acts according to a strict quota, not like he was as a rookie scout. As time has passed he’s come to an understanding with the company that he just works best when given the freedom to call his own shots.
The atmosphere in Fever is what has kept him coming back here, even when sometimes the crowds are a little bigger than he feels truly comfortable with. The lighting is pleasant, it’s low and from where he sits in the corner it sometimes seems like it almost flickers like candlelight. The wooden floorboards are gently scuffed, a testament to how popular the venue has become. In another corner there sits a shabby looking jukebox, its paint and vinyl stickers peeling away from the plastic and glass shell in places. The jukebox has a mind of its own, often refusing to play much past a few tracks that Jongho likes to believe are the jukebox’s personal favourites, but if you know where to kick it you can convince it to play a broader selection.
It’s comfy here.
It feels like home.
Which it might as well be, as Jongho is in here two nights a week at minimum. The staff refers to him by name and he knows all of theirs. They’ve had brief conversations in the past—little life updates, small talk to pass the time, but never really anything that extended much deeper than that. They know Jongho likes to be left alone for the most part but over the years, as he’s become a fixture here, they’ve naturally ended up learning a little more about each other. Jongho likes the staff at Fever, they’ve become the closest thing to a family that he’s had in a long time. Which is about as sad as it sounds, he thinks to himself as he sits, quietly nursing a glass of whiskey and watching the ice shift in the brown liquor. He lets his mind tumble down the rabbit hole of his thoughts.
Open mic nights aren’t always the easiest way to find new acts to sign, it’s definitely been a choice to set up camp here as often as he does, but it is his preferred method. The only problem is that, with many of the acts in attendance returning for every single open mic event, it can be incredibly dull at times. Still, he doesn’t let that stop him from showing up just in case, hoping—always hoping—that tonight will be the night. Unfortunately, tonight is already off to a slow start, and Jongho is prepared for the eventuality that this will be a very long and tedious night.
Or so he thinks.
He’s allowed himself to become so complacent that he doesn’t even realise that he’s been zoned out until the guitar starts playing. The night has been filled with performers crooning into the mic as they strum and pluck a melody from the strings of their guitars, but this one is different. The glass stills in Jongho’s hand and his eyes cut to the stage where a man stands, acoustic guitar slung low across his torso as he performs with a practiced ease. This guy is new here, Jongho’s certain he’s never seen him before.
Watching the singer’s fingers pressing down into the frets, dancing across the strings to draw out the melody, Jongho already knows this man is special before he’s even hears him sing. The singers strumming hand comes up to grab at the mic and tilt it down toward his mouth, and he presses his lips against it as he begins. His tone is soft and light but it carries a raw emotions that Jongho hasn’t felt in a long time. The timbre of his voice is a soothing balm, it smoothes over and quiets the voices in Jongho’s head; sits them down and tells them to wait their turn.
As the singer is entering the final stretch of his set—a harmonica outro that, under normal circumstances or in anyone else’s hands, should probably sound fucking weird but somehow under this guy’s direction makes absolute sense—Jongho’s heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest. The audience applauds, Jongho can see it happening, but he can barely hear the clamour over the roaring in his ears, led by the thrumming in his veins.
It was a blur, ended too soon and Jongho wants more—needs more.
The singer quickly gathers his things in an effort to make way for the next performer. He bows his head as guests and other acts congratulate him on his set, he talks easily with some as he works, perhaps bonding over their shared interest in music. Jongho watches him with rapt fascination; the way the singer carries himself, the pretty smile—all teeth—that reaches his eyes and turns them into little crescents. He watches as the singer poses with some younger patrons for a photo. Afterwards the girls squeal happily to each other and turn to leave—phones clutched tightly in their hands as though guarding something incredibly precious. Maybe one day it will be, once he finds out more about the artist and signs him. The singer drops his head, a gentle laugh jostling his shoulders. Shaking his head, he boxes up the last of his things and makes his way off stage.
By the time the singer has made his way to the bar, leaning his guitar case carefully against the front counter, Jongho has already taken a perch a few spaces down from him and taken the liberty of ordering a half pint of beer for each of them. Jongho nudges one of the drinks across the counter, toward the singer, who shoots him an inquisitive look, but accepts the offering nonetheless. Jongho shifts his stool closer..
“Thanks,” the singer says, taking a quick sip and then tipping the glass toward Jongho.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jongho shakes his head dismissively. “You were good up there,” he continues, nodding his head toward the stage where the next act has begun to set up, and the singer follows his line of sight.
“Oh yeah?” The singer takes another sip of his drink before looking back at Jongho, his lips pressing into a thin line to match the squint of his eyes. “Which part?”
“All of it. Actually.” Leaning forward in his seat and cupping his hand to his mouth, Jongho confides with a grimace; “There’s a chance I slept through a lot of the earlier acts.”
“You did not.” The singer huffs out a sceptical laugh, turning his attention back to his drink and resting the lip of his glass against his own.
“No, you’re right. Just wishful thinking. But I’ve seen those other guys every night this week-”
“So you’re here a lot?”
Jongho nods solemnly, he feels a little embarrassed and on the spot, as though admitting to coming here so often means declaring that he doesn’t have a life—which doesn’t really feel far from the truth these days, but it’s hardly the kind of ‘first conversation’ topic that he wants to be having, and he hopes it wont devolve into that. “Mm,” he confirms. “You could say that. I’m here for most open mic nights.”
“So… are you a critic or something?” The singer cocks his head thoughtfully as he studies Jongho, carefully taking in his appearance—his outfit and his shoes, his neat black hair, the easy set of his shoulders. He lets his eyes rake over Jongho’s body, his expression changing as though he can see through Jongho just by observing such simple features as clothing and body language.
“Not a critic, no.” Jongho leans back on his stool as he speaks, he thumbs the smooth leather of the wallet in his pocket where his business card is housed. He should take it out and hand it over, tell the singer about Aurora and what they can offer someone with a talent like his. But the idea of doing so feels suddenly incredibly daunting, and he finds himself more nervous than he’s felt in a very long time at the prospect of handing the singer over. There’s no denying that he would be a wonderful fit at Aurora, but hearing him tonight… it feels like he needs more time—a chance to know more about him and make sure he’s the real deal. That’s what he tells himself anyway.
“Just someone who likes music,” he eventually responds—he knows he’s being cowardly, but he can’t seem to stop himself. Jongho extends an arm out in front of him, a show of confidence that doesn’t quite match his inner turbulence, offering his hand to shake. “The name’s Choi Jongho, by the way.”
The singer looks down at Jongho’s hand, eyeing it with evident suspicion as though he’s trying to gauge if this is some sort of trap. After a moment he smiles, taking Jongho’s hand in his own. “Kim Hongjoong, nice to meet you.”
Silence takes a seat on the stool between them and vibrates softly, comforting. Jongho releases his grip on his wallet, resigning himself to his selfish deception. He slips his fingers around his drink, traces a pathway in the condensation on the outside of the glass with his thumb. When he finishes his drink he stands and tucks his stool under the bar. He turns to Hongjoong with a polite farewell nod, tapping two fingers to his temple before flicking them away in a sort of salute as he begins to back away toward the door and leaves.
He tells himself that he can sign Hongjoong another night.
2.
When Jongho returns to the bar the next evening his stomach is rolling with nervous excitement at the prospect of seeing Hongjoong again. He tells himself it’s just his professional curiosity and nothing more. He tells himself it’s harmless because he just wants to hear Hongjoong sing again, and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s his job, after all. He pushes the voices, that tell him he already knows this is something different, to the back of his mind.
Tonight the tone of Hongjoong’s set is different. While yesterday his songs were carefree and lively, tonight his sound is angry, raw, and gritty. Unrefined, but in the best sense of the word. Jongho can feel the pain in his songs through the ache and gravel of Hongjoong’s voice before he even begins to take in the meaning of his lyrics. Seamlessly, he slips between singing and rapping, and once again Jongho feels the rush of his heart pounding in his chest.
Jongho slides onto the barstool at the bar just as Hongjoong does the same, dabbing the sweat from his forehead and temples with the corner of a napkin he swipes from a basket on the counter. “You again,” Hongjoong states, nodding his head in greeting, his face neutral. Before he can order himself a drink Jongho slides one toward him.
“Me again,” Jongho agrees, lifting his own drink to his lips. Hongjoong squints his eyes at him, one eyebrow arched, questioningly. After a moment, Jongho bites: “What is it?”
Hongjoong continues to regard Jongho through narrowed eyes for a moment more before he exhales a laugh and leans away. Waving a hand dismissively, he says, “Forget it. It’s stupid, anyway.”
“Oof, that bad?” Jongho’s lips quirk down in a slight frown before taking a sip of his drink. He waits Hongjoong out, wondering if he will be brave enough to speak his mind.
The silence between them stretches out long enough that Jongho is about to change the subject, when Hongjoong finally sucks a breath through his teeth and turns to look at him again. He looks apprehensive, but he pushes himself through it anyway. “I’m trying to work out if you’re a stalker or just really into harmonica solos,” he quips, his words momentarily taking Jongho off-guard.
“Oh. Well…” His first instinct is to play along, so he lets it carry him. His face is straight, save for the pinch of his eyebrows, as he answers, “Can’t I be both?”
“Huh.” It’s Hongjoong’s turn to be taken off-guard, but he seems to quickly understand this is a joke, and as such his surprised expression morphs into one of cautious amusement. “Well okay, but just know that if I see you in the bushes outside my apartment I will have to call the cops.”
Jongho mulls Hongjoong’s words over briefly before replying, “And if I find you in the bushes outside of my apartment I’m going to introduce you to my elderly neighbours and tell them you’re our new handy-man. You’ve got your own tool belt, I assume?”
There’s a split second where Hongjoong just stares at Jongho, smile slowly morphing into a full blown grin, his pretty teeth on display. “You know it. Okay, so, deal?” he laughs, sticking his hand out to shake on it. Jongho beams back and firmly accepts the handshake and silly agreement they’ve made.
They drink in silence for a stretch before Jongho perks up again to tell Hongjoong, “But, on a serious note, I came back again tonight because I wanted to make sure your set last night wasn’t a fluke.”
“And?”
“And you’re still good. But I think I should watch you play another… just to be certain.”
Hongjoong shakes his head, turning away. His smile is playful when he brings his glass to his lips and mutters into his drink, “Mm,” he nods. “Good idea.”
3.
The third open mic night that Jongho is able to make it to isn’t until a week later. It’s been a long day and the air hangs heavy with the uncomfortable weight of humidity that makes Jongho’s shirt stick too close to his skin despite wearing the most breathable one he owns and his efforts to keep himself cool.
His day has been spent rushing around and working to complete a series of over-complicated and time-sensitive errands that have proven to be a lot more hassle than they are worth. The burden of his busy schedule paired with the cloistering heat of the day have set his mood on edge, and worst of all he’s managed to dip into his leisure time meaning that when he finally arrives at Fever Hongjoong is already halfway through his set. He swiftly slips through the crowd and sinks into his corner, not even bothering to collect himself a drink on the way, despite how parched he feels. He can wait a little longer and grab something with Hongjoong, an idea that immediately brightens his outlook on the remainder of the evening.
It seems that Hongjoong is in a positive mood today, his music reflectively light and melodic, a playful lilt in the way he plucks at the strings of his guitar and the clever raps he weaves through it all. Jongho watches the performance with a smile and feels the tension of the day begin to fall off of him. He drops against the bench backrest, his fingers weaving together as he reaches up to cradle the back of his head. Hongjoong is really good. Jongho wants to be able to absorb every one of Hongjoong’s performances and commit them to heart to save for a rainy day.
When Hongjoong finishes up he is briefly startled by the vision of Jongho quickly rushing to the front of the room to help him pack away his belongings. Hongjoong raises an amused eyebrow at him but seems to determine that it’s probably best to just let Jongho help, so instead he trails behind Jongho as he begins transferring the equipment to the back booth. After that Jongho ushers Hongjoong into the booth beside everything else and then—despite Hongjoong’s insistence that he can afford his own, and that it might even be his turn to buy a round—leaves to collect them drinks.
Jongho returns with two glasses clutched in one hand and a wad of napkins in the other. He sets the drinks down and takes his seat on the bench beside Hongjoong, before hurriedly turning his attention to pressing a napkin to his face and attempting to dry up some of the sweat that has been gathering, beaded, at his hairline. He doesn’t notice the corner of tissue that breaks off from the rest and transfers to his forehead as he dabs again, and again.
Hongjoong watches Jongho struggle for a beat, an amused grin tugging at his lips, before he decides he can’t take it any more and reaches a hand out to peel the tissue away from Jongho’s flushed flesh. His fingers make contact with Jongho’s skin only for the briefest of moments but it’s enough to quicken Hongjoong’s pulse. He hopes that it’s dark enough in their corner that Jongho won’t notice his ears turning pink.
6.
The atmosphere in Fever is ever changing, like the mercurial butterfly whose destination is difficult to predict, so too is the mood in the bar. It’s not always in the way you might expect. A steadily simmering evening can bubble over just as easily as it can lose all momentum. In the same way what starts quietly can become more chaotic as the hours slip by.
On this occasion, what started as a rowdy evening due to a handful of new performers making their Fever open mic debut—the kind of event that tends to be a lot of fun and draw in a bigger crowd than usual—has mutated into something much quieter, and much more cosy. Jongho couldn’t be more grateful for the change of pace. As nice as it is to feel a buzz in the bar, he really loves it the most when it’s a little more mellow.
By some miracle, someone has been successful in getting the jukebox to work, and the subtle melodies that spill from the old machine fill the air around their booth with a pleasant hum as Jongho and Hongjoong talk. Hongjoong has twisted in his seat so that he faces Jongho with one elbow pressed into the soft plastic of the backrest, and his hand propping up his chin as he listens to Jongho talk.
This is the sixth night that Jongho has spent time with Hongjoong, if he takes into consideration Hongjoong’s first open mic at Fever; the night Jongho first approached him. Conversation has become easier and more fluid between them as they’ve learned more about each other and the way their separate rhythms flow, and as it stands tonight Jongho is enthusiastically recounting his childhood obsession with a long-forgotten pop anthem.
“I’m serious,” Jongho says, his cheeks rounded and rosy as he smiles around his words. “The harmonies on that track were just…” his voice trails off as he twists his hand in the air, pinching his fingers together into a point and connecting them to his thumb to indicate his pleasure. “Chef’s kiss. I can’t tell you how many times I listened to that CD on my Walkman.”
Hongjoong snorts. “You had a Walkman?” he giggles in spite of himself. “Every time I forget you are older than me you remind me all over again. Walkman, that’s so vintage.”
“I will leave,” Jongho threatens. “My Walkman was cool,” he huffs, a half assed whine in his voice.
“Hey, no shade to the Walkman,” Hongjoong holds up his hands. “I love vintage—I actually really wanted one as a kid, but they weren’t as easy to come by when I first heard of them. But the great thing about fashions and fads is that they usually move in cycles, so even if you can’t participate the first time around there will probably be another chance. I’m pretty sure that I could go into any tech store now and buy one, but I would prefer one of the older models. Haha, maybe I’ll find one as old as you,” he adds with a smirk, cackling as he watches Jongho abruptly stand. Hongjoong reaches out to grasp Jongho’s wrist and pull him back into the booth. He laughs harder when Jongho spins to face him with a dramatic glare.
Time passes between them easily as they trade stories. Hongjoong talks about the first time he heard David Bowie, how he could feel the singer’s music in his veins as though it had always been destined to become a part of him, how there was never going to be any going back from that. He tells Jongho about the ways he can recognise that his idols have shaped him and inspired him. Hongjoong explains how that very desire to follow in their footsteps and show the world what he has to offer was what had brought him here, to Fever—and Seoul—in the first place.
As he talks about the city he moved to Seoul from, Anyang, Hongjoong becomes very serious. He confides that his main focus back home had been making music, that he had spent a lot of time in his home studio writing, composing, and recording his songs. As Jongho listens he can see that there’s a sadness in Hongjoong’s face, hears it in his voice and the way he lingers on a memory during a heavy pause in his tale. Jongho wants to ask more about it—about why he moved, and why the topic seems so loaded for him—but before he can find the words to broach the topic, Hongjoong seems to snap out of it.
After adjusting his position in the booth, Hongjoong looks up, training his lips into a practiced smile. It’s dazzling but forced, and Jongho’s recognition of that makes him feel a little sad, but he doesn’t press the matter.
Instead Jongho tells Hongjoong about all the artists that he’s been lucky enough to see in concert over the years, he revels in the way Hongjoong’s eyes grow rounded as he listens, the fake smile slowly replaced by a real one. As he talks Hongjoong scoots a little closer. It’s as though he doesn’t really notice himself doing it, being drawn in by Jongho’s stories quite literally. Jongho thinks that if it was possible to open his mind right now to show Hongjoong a memory from any one of the concerts he attended in his youth that Hongjoong would climb right on inside without a second thought. He chuckles at the notion.
“So, what’s your guilty pleasure?”
The question nudges Jongho out of his thoughts—which had moved on to what it might be like to take Hongjoong to concerts with him. He can imagine Hongjoong beside him in the throng of the pit, see’s him mouthing along to the songs as the music and the crowd roars around them. The image is so vivid that it briefly paints itself onto the inside of his eyelids as he blinks the daydream away.
He refocuses his eyes, setting his sights on his drink as he reaches out for it. He takes in a slow sip, letting the liquid sit on his tongue and savouring the flavour as he pretends to mull over his response. He feels his lips twitch up into a smile. Leaning back in his seat he quirks an eyebrow at Hongjoong. “You’ll laugh at me.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Hongjoong’s eyes flash and his hand flies up to cover his heart in a dramatic display of mock outrage and hurt. “You wound me, Choi Jongho.”
“And you’re a bare faced liar, Kim Hongjoong.”
Hongjoong’s offended glare crumbles, quickly replaced by a lopsided and very cheesy grin. “A lovable liar,” he concedes. “I promise I’ll try not to laugh, okay? I suppose you’ll just have to tell me and see what happens.”
Jongho rolls his eyes and sighs exaggeratedly. “Fine,” he huffs. “Celine Dion.”
Hongjoong’s eyes bulge, he sucks in a theatrically ragged gasp for air. “She’s not even embarrassing!” He yells, a hand shooting out to slap against Jongho’s shoulder lightly. He lets it linger on Jongho’s shoulder for a moment after and Jongho can feel the heat of Hongjoong’s fingertips seeping through his shirt and into his skin and blazing a trail that ends at his now very red ears. “I thought you were going to say something really bad.” Hongjoong sinks back in his seat, very obviously pretending to sulk. To further reinforce the charade he pulls his hand away from Jongho’s shoulder fully in favour of crossing both arms in front of his chest.
“She’s dramatic! I dunno I guess since she sang for Titanic I just-”
“Oh, please. She’s iconic,” Hongjoong raises his eyebrows and tilts his head at Jongho in a warning to stop speaking before he puts his foot so far down his own throat they will be able to see it come back out the other end. “She doesn’t really count as a guilty pleasure, you know?”
”How doesn’t she?”
”She’s just objectively good. It’s like when people say they have a ‘hear me out’ and then name drop someone stupidly hot.” He whips his head around to look at Jongho as he continues, “Which, if you want to know mine, it’s Oscar Isaacs. Especially Ex Machina Oscar Isaacs. You know, with the beard.” He leans back, satisfied with himself as Jongho squints at him for a moment.
“Yeah okay, that’s a solid choice.”
“Right?” Hongjoong rearranges himself on the bench, angling his body toward the table where he leans both of his elbows on the vaguely sticky wooden surface. From there he props his chin in his hands and looks across at Jongho through his heavy lashes, adopting a dreamy voice as he sips at his drink and continues; “He’s kind of perfect, you know? Sexy, and dark annd brooding. Mysterious. He could kiss you or kill you and you’d be grateful either way. And he dances like he owns the pl-”
“You realise you’re describing me, right?”
This makes Hongjoong choke on his drink, which he quickly slams down on the table as his cheeks turn a deep shade of red. “Oh, God,” he starts, spluttering as he refuses to meet Jongho’s eyes. Instead he busies himself with trying to pat his shirt dry of the beer he managed to spray from his nose at hearing Jongho’s words. There’s no saving it, he determines, it’ll have to go straight in the wash when he gets home. He’s glad beer doesn’t stain.
In an effort to feel more collected Hongjoong gathers his legs up onto the bench, criss-crossing them beneath himself. He lays an arm, casually, along the backrest and finally turns to look at Jongho again, clearing his throat. “Do you even dance?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow in what he hopes comes across as casual confidence—but instead, it lands as a challenge. One that Jongho has already decided he’s going to win.
Jongho sets his glass down on the table, shimmies from the booth, and—with the absolute seriousness of a man convinced he’s about to change Hongjoong’s life, says, “Uh, yeah. I’M GONNA TEAR UP THE FUCKIN’ DANCE FLOOR, DUDE!”
Then he starts dancing, and it’s perfect.
He doesn’t care that people are watching, let them. This is purely for Hongjoong’s benefit and, in any case, Jongho is too committed to the joke of it all to let other people’s judgement sway him. He’s precise, robotically so, on theme. He knows he’s got the dance down because he was briefly obsessed with the movie when it first released and it tickles his brain in just the right way to learn any kind of choreography. Not that he usually goes around showing off his skills or anything, but he finds it fun to learn anyway—though his favourite choreographies to learn tend to be those of girl groups.
Hongjoong’s hands slap against the table just before he falls from his seat from laughing so hard, and when he looks up from the floor Jongho can see tears in his eyes.
“Oh my god, stop,” Hongjoong squeaks from the floor, he throws his hands across his face as if he doesn’t want to see but then splays his fingers and watches Jongho dance from between the gaps. Jongho stops dancing long enough to pull him to his feet and Hongjoong uses the opportunity to try and persuade him back into the booth. He’s unsuccessful though, as Jongho squirms against the pressure at his back and rotates himself until he’s facing Hongjoong.
With a rush of confidence that he attributes to having danced so wildly in front of a bunch of strangers, and Hongjoong, Jongho lets his hands find their way to Hongjoong’s waist. He gently guides them both further out onto the dance floor, and Hongjoong lets it happen, waiting for his brain to catch up with the change of pace and the feeling of butterflies in his stomach waking up after a very long time dormant.
7.
It’s been raining all day but by some miracle Jongho has managed to catch a break in the downpour. He inhales deeply as he crosses the road to the bar. The air smells of petrichor and nostalgia, and he lets the gentle ache of it sit with him for a moment—savouring it—before he goes inside the venue and inevitably replaces the earthy aroma with the less pleasant smell of beer and a few too many bodies.
Jongho's always loved the scent of the air after the earth has been kicked up by the beat of the rain against it, when all of the different earthy tangs of nature merge together into one that has brought him the most comfort he's ever known—but also holds many of his most painful memories. He mentally presses down against a memory that tries to surface as he pulls on the cool metal of the door handle to Fever; the buzz of the jukebox and voices of the patrons calling him into their warm embrace.
The air inside the venue is stuffy and a little warmer than Jongho is really comfortable with, but he doesn’t let it dampen his spirits. Instead he makes a beeline for the bar, quickly securing his usual order before making his way to his booth in the back. He’s arrived a little earlier than he usually would, which means he has time to watch the other acts set up and check on the functionality of their equipment before the schedule begins.
Hongjoong arrives late—and soaking wet.
It seems that while lady luck was busy smiling on Jongho she had had a very different plan for Hongjoong. One that apparently included the heavens opening the very moment he set foot outside of his apartment building—and, as evidenced in his appearance, Hongjoong hadn’t bothered to run back in for an umbrella or coat, reasoning that he couldn't possibly get too wet when he lived so close by.
He slides his extra bags into the booth, refusing to look at Jongho who he can see in the corner of his eye is sporting the biggest of shit-eating grins. Undeterred, Jongho begins to chuckle. “You’re wet,” he announces, unhelpfully.
“I’m so glad you noticed. I waited for the rain to start again before I came out just for you,” Hongjoong sighs, sinking into the red plastic cushions of the bench with a groan.
Jongho immediately gets to work, quickly pulling the hand towel Hongjoong has started bringing to use after his sets from one of Hongjoong's bags, and pressing it gently to his face and hair. As he pats Hongjoong dry he watches him: the gentle flush of his skin, beginning with one ear and dancing across his pixie-like features to touch down on his other ear; the soft flutter of his long, dense eyelashes; the way he scrunches his nose as he laughs at this simple gesture of domesticity; the eventual lifting of his hands with his one painted nail—the pinkie finger—to pull Jongho's hands away and fix him with a stern look.
“Glare at me all you want, but i’m just trying to help. If you stay wet all night you’re going to catch a cold.” Jongho drops his hands to his lap, still clutching the towel. “And if you go on the stage dripping wet you'll get electrocuted…” His eyes flicker to the bathroom door, “We can try the hand dryer?”
Hongjoong follows Jongho's gaze and he rolls his eyes, but after a moment of quiet deliberation he drags himself to his feet nonetheless. “c’mon then,” he grumbles, tugging the towel from Jongho’s grasp and patting it against his hair as he meanders away. They move to the men's toilets and once inside Jongho demands Hongjoong remove his shirt. Hongjoong snorts, folding his arms across his chest, protectively. “If you want to see my tits just say it,” he deadpans.
“I want to see your tits,” Jongho doesn’t miss a beat, it probably doesn’t help that there is a little truth to his words. “Now give me your shirt so I can try and dry it,” he adds in a rush.
Begrudgingly, Hongjoong peels out of his black Radiohead tee and hands it over. He’s customised this one by cutting the Radiohead graphic free of its original shirt and stitched it onto the front of a new one, then hand painted a handful of bright yellow stars and a singular blue butterfly. Around the collar are a number of small spiked studs, and Jongho finds himself wondering exactly how it is that Hongjoong is able to put this on without stabbing himself in the face.
They work together to dry Hongjoongs's clothes in the small window of time they have before his set is scheduled to begin.
Jongho does everything he can to keep his eyes to himself, he really does, but it's hard not to notice the large tattoo that covers Hongjoong’s bicep, or the second tattoo that winds up the side of his ribs. And Jongho definitely, definitely, isn’t stealing glances at Hongjoong's chest and the singular pierced nipple. But trying to resist looking is getting harder and harder by the moment, and Jongho has to face that he just can't deny himself the simple pleasure of seeing Hongjoong this way. Especially now that Hongjoong's hair is turning fluffy under the constant blast of air from the hand-dryer, and pointing in all different directions—and then there’s the fact that the only person who’s even aware of the silly rule about not looking is Jongho himself, internally.
To make things worse Hongjoong is scowling as if he, personally, has been wronged by the hand-dryers and the bad weather, as he stands, glaring at himself in the mirror and tugging at his disobedient hair. He sulks that he looks “stupid” and Jongho feels so incredibly endeared by the sight of his adorable grumpiness. When Hongjoong tries to disguise a shiver Jongho puts every ounce of self restraint he has into not going to him and pulling him in for a hug. Instead he does the next best thing he can think of.
“Do you want to wear my shirt?” he offers, without much thought, fingers already on the button at his collar.
Hongjoong glances at him, sceptically, in the mirror. “But then you’ll be cold,” he protests. The thought of Jongho being uncomfortable on his behalf makes him tense. He doesn't like it—hates it even. He'd much rather suffer the cling of his own damp shirt than let Jongho do it on his behalf. Unfortunately he can tell by the look on Jongho's face that he won't be winning this fight.
“I run hot, it's fine,” Jongho assures him, casually undoing the top few buttons of his shirt and exposing the smooth line of his clavicle. He pretends not to notice the way Hongjoong's eyes drift from his face and down to the newly bared skin. Jongho typically wears clothes that cover him well—nothing too low-cut or revealing; he doesn't like the feeling of having other people’s eyes on him. It's not about modesty exactly, it's just the way he's always felt more comfortable. But now, with Hongjoong looking at him the way he currently is as his shirt slips lower, Jongho feels something shift in him.
He lets his eyes flicker up to meet Hongjoong's for the briefest of moments as he undoes the last of the buttons. “I don't want you to get sick,” he murmurs, shaking the shirt free and holding it out to Hongjoong, who receives it with a polite smile and flushed cheeks, fingers brushing Jongho's as he accepts it.
Hongjoong and Jongho’s bodies are chalk and cheese. One small and slender, softly defined muscles along long limbs—allowing him to wear everything with a quiet ease that is enviable; the other thicker, sturdier, stronger, toeing the line between soft and solid. It means that while Hongjoong looks completely adorable in Jongho's shirt, the same cannot be said for Jongho in Hongjoong's band tee. But Jongho decides he doesn't care. Especially when he catches the glint in Hongjoong’s eyes as he stifles the urge to laugh at the sight of him.
~~~
Hongjoong’s set passes by in a blur. Jongho makes sure to be as visible as possible as Hongjoong sings, revelling in the way his lips lift and his eyes twinkle every time he catches a glimpse of Jongho in the ill fitting t-shirt, which is, by some bizarre logic, somehow getting worse as it dries.
Jongho is mindful not to pull at the fabric too much despite the discomfort he’s feeling as the material begins to dry and stiffen around him. He doesn’t want to damage something that seems so precious, and he can tell Hongjoong put a lot of time into it, if the marking his thumb and forefinger find on the hem is anything to go by; on closer inspection the marking is symmetrical—a merging of the letters ‘h’ and ‘j’ that sit reflected side-by-side, like alphabetical butterfly wings.
It’s been four weeks.
Four weeks of these meetings. Of late nights and low lights. Of cosy conversations tucked away in their booth. They've learned each other’s musical tastes and drink orders, and they've found comfort in the shape that each other’s silence takes beside them. But there’s still so much they don't know yet, whole histories waiting to be unravelled to each other. Jongho's fingers trace the stitched letters on Hongjoong’s t-shirt. He smiles, looking down at the emblem and how when it catches the light it appears like a butterfly in flight, a mirror of the ones fluttering to life in his own chest.