Chapter Text
Over there, over there,
Sitting
Staring
Waiting
For me? I hope
A lonely figure,
A striking spectacle,
A beautiful soul
Rich and tireless,
Tiring
Beaten
Exhausted
Alone, alone, alone
* * * * *
Han Jisung always smelled nice, in Minho’s opinion. Not of anything in particular; simply fresh. If he were a force of nature, which he must be already, he would be a crystal clear creek, and his heart would be a large, polished, red stone among pebbles, just out of reach to all who don’t truly wish to hold it.
His soul was white. A bright white, too much to look at for too long. His voice was strong, deep, heavenly, a reflection of that light he carried inside him.
When they met, he asked Minho where his soul had gone.
“Did you lose it?” were the precise words Jisung had spoken.
“Yeah,” was Minho’s reply.
But he found out he hadn’t, merely thought he had.
This is the story of two boys, for that is perhaps what they were. It is a tale of sin and temptation, love and triumph, loss and mourning. There’s no redemption for persecutors unwilling to repent. Guilt isn’t enough when forgiveness is out of reach. And it will stay out of reach forever, now that Han Jisung is dead.
* * * * *
Lee Minho didn’t often talk. It had been that way for years. He was nothing more now than a quiet shadow, lurking in corners at the back of rooms, trying not to be seen but noticed anyway. He knew people whispered of him. It wasn’t hard to hear them, casting disdainful, distrusting glances in his direction.
But that was alright. He was used to solitude. He welcomed it, because people only hurt you.
They have the ability to break your soul.
No other creature was gifted the horrible power to do such a thing. Only humans, which in Minho’s mind made sense in some odd, twisted way. Heaven gave sharp claws and teeth to beasts, and sharp tongues to people. It was only fair.
They say your soul is the one thing you can’t replace. If it ever breaks, you can’t rush its healing. Only wait painstaking hours, days, years. And for some, it never heals. They just waste away, their voice, their eyes, and then, finally, their hope.
Minho’s soul was broken, and so he didn’t speak. The other trainees would tease him if they heard his voice. Alongside hundreds of beautiful tones and octaves, he didn’t make a noise. Not even a sound. He knew he was only here because he was some sort of dance prodigy. He’ll work on that instead.
He can’t stop until he’s perfect.
And that’s exactly how he found himself sprawled out on the floor, squinting blearily at the fluorescent lights of the practice room. Hours; he didn’t know how long he had been moving, sweating, breathing. Now he only wished to melt into the scuffed floorboards.
Then someone opened the door, without even a knock.
“Oh,” the boy said when he saw Minho. “Sorry, I couldn’t see you from the door’s window. I’ll go find another . . . room.”
But neither moved; a short pause befell them.
“Well?” Minho rasped, and the boy sucked in a breath.
“Did you lose it?” he whispered, a shocked expression decorating his face. “Your . . . your soul?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
The boy blinked, and Minho sighed. Surely he was about to leave. He would be on his merry way like all the others in a matter of moments, wouldn’t he? Good riddance.
But no; instead of fear taking over, a white light shone from the boy’s chest. Minho could see it — his soul. It was bright, pure . . . healing; and it was presented to him like a gift. Who is this angel, this creature from the heavens? What human being could have a soul with such strength?
Now it was Minho’s turn to blink, in disbelief, as he watched the boy approach him until he was crouched at his side.
“What’s your name?” he asked, a gentle tilt to his head.
“Lee Minho,” Minho answered, somewhat breathlessly. “Yours?”
“I’m Han Jisung,” the boy said with a soft grin, “and I’m gonna fix your soul, Minho.”
* * * * *
If there was just one word that could describe Jisung, it would be dedicated. Their first interaction was in that practice room, when Minho was just about convinced that the two-years-younger boy was crazy. Insane, even. But lo and behold, all it took was one outing to change his mind.
The moment Jisung walked out of the JYPE elevator on Friday afternoon, backpack in tow, Minho was there in the lobby waiting for him.
“Oh, Minho,” Jisung greeted casually. “You’re still up for coffee, then?”
“Of course,” Minho replied, tucking his phone away.
“Then let’s go.”
The two boys strolled in step with each other, maneuvering through crowded sidewalks as they discussed the various events of the day, the stunts their friends pulled, the newest argument Hyunjin had “initiated” with Jisung . . . It was as if they were friends with no age difference who had been in all the same classes since primary school. They laughed like it was true. Perhaps they wish it was. But at least now they had each other, so all was right with the world.
Part of Minho was a bit curious. Less than a week had passed, and any formalities between them were already dropped. How could this be? What does it mean?
There wasn’t time to dwell on these thoughts, not when Jisung kept asking questions of his own. It seemed he wanted to know every bit of Minho. His favorite color, favorite song, what he’s going to order at the coffee shop they’re heading to, whether he thinks Jisung or Hyunjin was right, and so, so much more. Thing is, Minho hardly had an opportunity to answer him. It was like an interrogation done by a chatty squirrel.
As soon as Minho told Jisung his favorite color was mint green, Jisung smirked in this cheeky sort of way and huffed a laugh.
“Ironic,” he said, mostly to himself.
. . . What’s that supposed to mean??
But alas, they had arrived at their destination.
“What’re you gonna get?” Jisung asked as he squinted at the menu, perhaps forgetting he’d already received the answer to that question twice in the past twenty minutes.
“An iced americano,” Minho replied with a gentle nudge to the other’s shoulder.
“Ah, right,” Jisung said, eyebrows raising in remembrance. He was so animated; it was nothing short of endearing. “I think I’ll get a smoothie? That sounds good. Ah, but look at the price . . .”
His brow furrowed in too deep of thoughts for such a bland activity.
“Are . . . Are you ready to order?” the cashier asked, glancing between them.
Minho nodded and bluntly pushed Jisung in front of him.
“Oh. Uh, I guess we are,” Jisung said softly, stepping pointedly on Minho’s foot.
It was around that moment they realized that not one, but both of them had social anxiety. For entirely separate reasons, mind you. Jisung managed to stumble through two orders after Minho refused to speak, and three stressful minutes later, they collapsed into a booth.
“That was horrible. I don’t even remember what I ordered,” Jisung griped, burying his face in his hands.
“Sorry, I didn’t want them all to stare,” Minho admitted apologetically, though there was a smile on his face as he watched Jisung’s dramatics.
“They wouldn’t stare,” Jisung scoffed as he leaned back. “As a matter of fact, they’d probably try not to stare. Doubt they’d wanna make eye contact. You don’t have a color. Obviously they know that your soul’s broken.”
Minho knew that. Of course he did. But hearing himself speak was like another nail in the coffin.
“Whatever,” Minho said with a roll of his eyes. “You stared.”
“Well . . .” Jisung struggled for a moment. “I’m only one person.”
“They glance, they whisper, they stare,” Minho counted off, “it all has the same effect.”
Jisung nodded, avoiding eye contact. “I bet.”
The cashier called out their order number, and Jisung left to grab it before Minho could offer help.
“I did get a drink,” he said when he returned, sliding Minho’s coffee over to him. “I think it’s the same as yours.” He plunged his straw into the cup and took a sip. “Mm. Yeah, that’s good. Bitter, though. Definitely an americano.”
For a bit, they sat in silence, both lost to their beverages and trains of thought. After a moment, Minho realized that Jisung’s gaze seemed focused on his chest, fixed on the spot right over his heart.
“My eyes are up here, you know,” Minho joked, watching Jisung blink back into reality.
He had the decency to laugh, albeit awkwardly, as he tried to grasp at words in his head.
“How . . .” He cleared his throat. “Do you like this?” he finally asked, abandoning whatever sentence he had tried to begin. “Is it comfortable for you to just, like, sit with me?”
Minho considered it, though he already knew his answer. “Yeah.”
“Your voice sounds better already, Hyung,” Jisung said with his heart-shaped smile.
He was right; it was a bit less raspy. And maybe that was only thanks to the drink, but hope seemed so close with this bright-eyed boy in front of him. So, Minho chose to hope. Maybe you really can fix a broken soul.