Chapter Text
The night was quiet enough to hear the dial tone-but also to hear the soft sniffles escaping Minho’s nose. He didn’t realise that in a rush to dial Chan’s number, he hit the wrong number through the blur of his tears.
It didn’t even ring twice.
Minho found it unusual that Bangchan would pick up - let alone in less than 2 rings. He didn’t take it for granted, though, and braced himself to pour his heart out.
“Hello?” The voice on the other line crackles.
“Who are you? Are you al-?” An almost British-sounding accent follows.
Minho hangs up before the stranger can finish their sentence.
+1 call
He throws his phone on the empty pillow next to him, covering his face with a trembling hand. His chest ached, the silent air suffocating him.
Minho called Chan because he wanted to feel as if someone was there for him, only to be met with loneliness.
Head buried in the pillow, he just wished the line wasn’t empty.
It wasn’t, though; someone had picked up, and he knew that.
It was his fault that he had hung up. He was only frightened of the fact that someone was willing to hear him out.
Even so, it was a wrong number. So why couldn’t Minho stop thinking about him?
The words kept repeating in his head; the sound of the stranger's soothing voice kept him up.
He whistled Doongie, his cat, over to his bed. Minho stroked Doongie’s fur until exhaustion took over.
Minho had three cats.
Soonie, Doongie and Dori. A proud cat dad.
The first thing Minho awakes to is a face full of paw. Cold, but comforting.
Sunlight bleeds through the curtains, and Minho shields his heavy eyes as if he’s a 200-year-old vampire. An incoherent mumble escapes his mouth. Eyes still adjusting to the light, He blindly searches for his phone with one hand.
Finally, he finds it under the pillow and plugs it into the charger.
While waiting for it to turn on, he takes notice of his appearance through the black screen.
He combs his hair back with his fingertips and wipes the crusted-up drool on his cheek. Last night hurt him - even more than the true reason for his tears.
A great sense of forlornness washed over Minho. He thought to himself, Why would he give so much in return for so little?
The screen lit up with one missed call– and one voicemail.
Minho, intrigued, opened his phone and hovered over the play button.
It was only a couple of seconds, he thought. Maybe a butt dial?
He pressed play anyway, not knowing what to expect.
“Hey, you sounded pretty upset. Call me back if you want to talk about it…”
─ ─ ─
🐿️
Jisung sits, legs crossed.
He has been picking the strings of his guitar for well over half an hour. It’s so clear he’s frustrated.
Strands of hair from his head lie on the ground lifeless, along with nail polish that he chipped off. It has been days since Jisung has been able to write any chords he is even remotely happy with.
He thinks he may smash his guitar out of anger.
A vibration comes from his pocket. Jisung doesn’t even bat an eyelash at whoever is calling him and answers.
It may be faint, but soft sobs can be heard. Jisung immediately sits up in worry for this stranger.
“Hello?” His voice is slightly trembling. “Who are you? Are you al-?”.
He was suddenly hung up on. So many things are going through his head.
Who was this? Why are they crying? Why did they hang up?
This was going to bother him so much.
Jisung wipes his nose, the unreachable itch that always comes when suppressing his emotions. After spending a good 10 minutes rehearsing what to say, Jisung built the courage to call the stranger again.
Throughout those 6 lengthy rings, it went to voicemail.
His mind went blank; the rehearsing was for nothing.
“Hey, you sounded pretty upset. Call me back if you want to talk about it…” Jisung says, hoping you can’t hear his obnoxiously loud heartbeat.
It was just a stranger, Jisung knew that. They had no responsibility to return the call. But it still hurt him.
Tossing his phone wherever, he takes a break from his guitar. He feels totally burnt out; whether from the phone call or chords. That same knot in his chest tied and tingles that felt like static, travelled from his legs to his fingertips.
Before he realises, Jisung is hungry for air. No matter how many times he experiences this, he still gets frightened.
What felt like scorching tears ran down his cheeks. Every moment like this reminds him that his body is just a ticking clock- not knowing when the battery will run out.
The room starts to close in on him – so does his chest.
He stares at the bottle of pills- it’s almost empty. These episodes have gotten worse– and more frequent.
Jisung sleeps on the floor that night.
This feels important. There’s that line.
─ ─ ─
┈┈・4:37 am・┈┈
🐈
Minho doesn’t know what to think or what to do.
Does he reply?
Before he can process anything, he needs to satisfy his daughter's bottomless stomach.
All meowing entreatingly, but Minho knew it was only because he was the one feeding them.
Minho settled on his roof, Dori alongside him. It was the perfect time to ponder. The intoxicating smell of the black coffee wafted through the dewy morning air.
So he sat. And thought. Until he came to the very conclusion that he would call this suspiciously entrusting stranger back.
“I should call him back, right, Doongie?”
Doongie meowed back, in agreement. Also, in hope for another serving.
Minho, wrapped in his fluffy robe, watched the sky turn from a dark blue to an almost pinky orange. The winter sun was always so refreshing.
It helped him think, also, about what to even begin to say to this nameless person.
Oh, how Minho wishes that it were as easy to talk to humans as he does with his cats.
He tried to picture the conversation, but every scenario made him wince, his ears tinged with red.
“Hey, sorry for the wrong number…” he said aloud, facing Doongie.
Doongie flaps her tail, clearly unimpressed.
“No, you’re right, too awkward.”
He makes it through a dozen imaginary conversations that Doongie has dozed off by now, and the neighbours are staring at Minho in bewilderment, but not shock.
It happens too frequently for the neighbours to be shocked.
It’s too much for Minho to think about right now, even though he can’t stop thinking about the stranger's compelling accent.
He can’t lie, he totally thought it was attractive.
Minho couldn’t think about this on the roof all day, even if he wanted to.
He climbed down and jumped a foot from the floor, landing perfectly like a cat.
He comes back in, and the warmth of his home hugs him.
Minho's eyes widened at the sight of his favourite plant pot smashed to the ground. He has the urge to let it out till his throat is raw.
He lined all his cats up, waiting for a confession.
Soonie keeps looking over to Doongie, but Doongie keeps meowing convincingly, and then Dori is avoiding eye contact.
Minho doesn’t usually raise his voice - but this was his favourite flower pot. From Chan.
It was from college days, sure. But it still meant a lot from him—it still felt like Chan was with him, like they used to be. Minho didn’t know what they were, but all he could see were their memories lying on the floor.
“Whoever owns up now, I will go lightly on you.”
It’s almost amusing how Minho can’t stay angry at his dear daughters for more than 2 minutes.
Soonie steps forward and rubs herself on Minho’s leg. Minho gently pushed her away, giving a stern look.
But he gives in; how could he not? Those huge boba eyes.
After cleaning up the mess, he wraps his finger with a plaster. He did gain a cut or two.
Minho melted into his couch, absentmindedly stroking Doongie's fur. Every notification made his heart flutter — and no, he didn’t know why. Probably a side effect of being a grown adult with three fur babies.
The voicemail notification practically beckoned him to listen again.
He hesitated, thumb hovering. But with a small sigh, he pressed play.
The voice was soft, almost angelic. Minho's chest tightened, and he actually knew why, for once.
Truthfully, it reminded him of how his high school sweetheart used to worry and care for him. That comforting feeling that almost feels impossible now, ridiculously out of reach.
He also tried to ignore Doongie's disgusted, judgmental eyes. As if she were a homophobic cat. Usually, cats can’t be homophobic, but Doongie definitely was.
Holding it up to his ear, he tried to picture what face was behind this voice. He could hear the slight hesitation in the man’s voice, and if he listened really closely, he could hear a faint guitar. It made this person behind the screen, more… more real.
Leaning back, his eyes shut. He could practically remember every word and the breaths taken.
His cup now empty, throat scratchy from the scalding temperature, and phone burning hot in his hand. Doongie was glaring at him as if judging him for obsessing over a stranger — Minho didn’t care.
He pressed call.
Once again, it didn’t even ring twice. Minho couldn’t even deny the stupid flutters in his heart that made him feel like a teen, and his dangerously dry mouth.
2+ calls
“Hello?”
That voice again, the one that lingered in Minho’s thoughts.
Minho almost forgets how to talk, his throat dry and mind racing.
“Oh yeah, hey, it’s the guy who accidentally called you crying.”
There’s a pause, then a soft laugh, “Ohhh— mystery crying guy”
Minho scoffs, “So that’s what you think of me?”
“Well, I didn’t get your name, and it’d be rude to call you a weird wrong number.”
Minho caught himself grinning, despite his ears turning a bright red.
“It’s Minho. Lee Minho”
“Minho.”He repeats it as if he’s testing it on his tongue, “Great to meet you, I’m Han Jisung.”
“You too. Thanks for the voicemail, though, it was weirdly comforting.”
“Yeah. I didn’t know what to say, but I thought you needed someone to listen.” Jisung admits, his tone going a little softer.
Minho let out a breathy laugh. “I did. But no offence, you weren’t who I was expecting.”
“None taken.”
It goes silent, as if they both ran out of things to say. A faint melody plays in the background —Jisung’s guitar, sweet and melodic, being plucked gently.
“You play guitar?”
“I try to, but it just plays me instead. I have to bully it until it gives up” Jisung sighs.
“That’s a crime”
“Call the police then.”
Minho was about to open his mouth to speak when Dori jumped on his lap and meowed furiously at the speaker.
“What was that?” Jisung asks, laughing.
“My cat Dori is 100% judgemental and disagrees with my humour”
He says, serious as ever.“She sounds like she would beat me in a fight”
“She would.” Minho deadpanned when he said that.
They talked about random things. Cats, music, the weather and old childhood memories. The kind of nonsense to fill empty space. But it didn’t feel empty, not this time.
Minho wondered if this wrong number began to feel as if it were the right number. The right Jisung.
When the call actually ended, Minho smiled at the phone for what seemed like an eternity. Was it getting hot in there, or was it just him?
─ ─ ─
🐿️
Just like that, the call ended. But the silence that followed wasn’t silence at all.
He could still hear Minho’s laugh - that endearing, but hesitant sound that filled every empty corner in his room. It was the kind of laugh you didn’t know needed to hear, until you heard it.
Jisung lay there, in the same position. Still staring at the screen. He had zero clue what to do with himself now.
He set his phone down and stared at his guitar, the one he argued with for days. But now it didn’t seem so much of an enemy.
Picking up his guitar, his fingers pluck the strings, yearning to play something that matches the feeling in his chest.
Before he knows it, his clock reads 2 am.
His fingers are numb, and they're gaining calluses, but the melody is perfect. It all fell in place like puzzle pieces.
“Oh my God” Jisung whispers, smiling like a maniac.
He scrambles for his phone and calls Yongbok, his bandmate and friend.
“Yongbok. BRO. Don’t hang up, please. I figured it out!!”
“It’s 2:41 am”
“I DON'T CARE. MINHO- I MEAN- the chords dude!”
Silence.
“Who's Minho?”
Jisung stares at the wall, his cheeks burning.
“Nobody. I’m sending the track”
“You can wait till morning for me to review your masterpiece.”
The line went silent again.
“Minho…” he couldn’t resist whispering it again.
Out of nowhere, this stranger, Minho, has become his living muse. He won’t forget the sound of his voice and how alive it sounded.
It made him feel alive again.
That night, he didn’t sleep; he had this incredible giddy feeling he hadn’t felt in a while.
His fingers tapped, making their own rhythm. Jisung immediately placed everything into his file.
What used to be thousands of scrumpled papers from attempts at lyrics became one sheet, still with messy handwriting.
It was flowing faster than it had in a while.
And I guess he had Minho to thank for that.
Light slowly crept up to the window, and Jisung was struggling to keep his eyes open. But he had to finish.
He brewed a coffee, mostly creamer with a side of coffee. Sitting back down, he immediately knocked it over. Hot liquid pooled over his table; he didn’t care, though.
The sun had fully crept up now. Jisung's hair was going in all different directions, every finger was cramping, and the coffee was all dried up on his table.
But he finished it. He had actually finished it.
Jisung figured he should actually thank Minho. He typed in his number and typed the message with shaking fingers.
“Hey, um… You know how you complimented my guitar? u may or may not have been my inspiration. Actually, no, you were my muse. So congrats ig!”
As soon as he hits send, he flips his phone face down. An unexplainable feeling washes over him. He swallows the lump down his throat.
He can’t deny that he feels very grateful for Minho.
Jisung hears his phone buzz and immediately jumps to check. It was from Gmail. A grunt escapes his mouth as if it’s the email's fault for getting his hopes up.
Disappointment sets heavier than it should, he flips the phone back over.
Jisung wonders about the face behind the voice. In his mind, he’s very handsome. He wants to ask for a photo, or maybe send one in hopes of one in return.
It’s been thirty-four minutes, and he’s swallowing himself whole. His thumbs are dry and are now bleeding. He’s worried about a total stranger. No- not a stranger , Minho.
What could’ve happened between the time they called and the text? Sure, it was early morning, but Minho said himself he was an early bird.
Jisung didn’t fear bad things happening to him; he knew the outcome, keeping the calendar of appointments in view. But when others are in danger, he feels the need to protect them
So every possible thing is racing through Jisung’s mind.
Is Minho okay? Does Minho regret ever calling me back? Is Minho hurt…?
He couldn’t stop it; the tears were already rolling down his cheeks. Jisung hates that he’s like this. Overthinking every little thing until he convinces himself it’s the truth.
After convincing himself that the word hates him, he didn’t hear the notifications. From: Minho.
Jisung fell asleep like that, on the ground. Where he always ends up.
┈┈・12:47 am・┈┈
🐿️
Yongbok bursts through the door and starts shouting for Han like there’s a fire.
Jisung springs up and grabs the thing nearest to him. He thinks he’s being burgled. He walks into the living room, holding a drumstick.
“Whoa, Hannie. You look half dead– sorry. I tried to text, but you didn’t reply, so I just came in.” He says with both hands raised.
Jisung drops the drumstick and hums. Oh shit- Minho! He sprints to grab it, quite literally slipping on his wooden floors. Yongbok is not even given a second to react.
Minho
“That’s really cool, Jisung. I don’t think anyone’s written a song because of me. I’m glad I could help and be your muse, anytime btw. But get some rest. I assume you're asleep.”
Jisung reads it over and over again, his eyes sort of tear up.
There's an inexplicable tepidity within his heart. There was no way a text made him feel like a teenage boy again.
Yongbok came through the bedroom door, looking actually worried.
“Are you actually okay?” Yongbok says, a hint of terrified in his voice.
Jisung doesn’t know what to do, his thoughts are jumbled and his heart is running a marathon.
“Uh… It’s pretty hot in here, let’s open the windows in the living room.” Jisung fans himself exaggeratedly and grabs Yongbok by the arm.
After opening the windows, they are sat awkwardly for a couple minutes. Jisung has only now calmed down after that text. He thinks he’s going insane, Minho has just agreed to be his actual muse.
Yongbok has to hear about this.
Jisung runs a hand through his hair, still staring blankly at the wall. The sun from the window makes his eyes sting , but maybe that’s not the reason why.
Yongbok nudges him. “Cut the crap dude, what’s got you all giddy? You look like you just got confessed to”
Jisung scoffs “What? Obviously not.” Then he sighs. “Maybe a little.”
Yongbok raises his brow.
“You maybe a little got confessed to?”
Jisung groans and covers his face with a pillow.
His whines are muffled “it’s complicated.”
Yongbok sits closer now,”everything with you is complicated jisung”
Arms crossed.“Now spill”
Jisungs voice is still muffled from the pillow. “You know that guy that called me crying the other day?”
“…yes?”
“Well I left him a voice mail because he sounded really upset. Then he called me back and we talked for two hours…?
“You talked with a stranger for two hours?"
“He’s not a stranger. He’s Minho! He thinks I’m cool with my guitar and he has 3 cats. I think we clicked immediately”
“He must be insane thinking you're cool.”
“Shut up.”
“You definitely like him”
“I don’t.” “He just said he could be my muse, that’s normal. Artist to artist sort of thing”
“Yeah sure. I think it means a lot if he’s your supposed muse.”
“Muse or not… Talking to him makes me feel like I can breathe again.”
“Then don’t lose that”
“ I don’t plan to”
“Food’s cold now.”
Jisung let’s out an obnoxious out. Yongbok always knew how to cheer up Jisung, even when he was going through the most difficult time in his life.
He’s sitting on the sofa while Yongbok sticks the burgers in the microwave. After talking with Yongbok for so long, he forgot to reply to Minho.
He tried to be funny, and match Minho’s vibe. But everything he typed sounded robotic or AI like.
He settled with:
“Have you ever met someone who gave you the inspiration to write again? Wellll that’s what you did, so thanks for that genuinely.”
Jisung couldn’t figure out what his own words meant and how Minho would interpret it.
His heart was hammering like it was trying to escape his chest. He tried to distract himself with the delicious smell of the burger manoeuvring around Jisung's apartment.
Minho didn’t even take 30 seconds to respond.
“You make it sound like it’s fate or something”
Jisung has the very impulsive urge to send a risky text, so he does.
“Maybe it is.”
Jisung quite literally throws his phone on the other end of the sofa, vowing to not even touch it for the rest of the day.
Yongbok looks frightened again, but shakes it off.
They eat in silence. When the silence is there, you know the food is good. But that wasn’t the reason for Jisung's silence.
Jisung's leg was bouncing so violently, it was shaking the whole room. His ears were tinged with red and he genuinely couldn’t stop thinking of Minho.
He was desperate now. He needed to see his face.
“I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Ask then.”
It was simple, Jisung knew that. But he thought about it too much to the point it wasn’t that simple.
He wanted to ask, he really did.But he just stared at his phone as if that was going to make Minho send one. Maybe it was better this way- not knowing. Jisung couldn’t let himself get attached to a stranger. It’s better to have no face behind that voice. At least for now, Minho could stay exactly how Jisung pictured him: soft smile, warm eyes and the kind of person you could write 100 songs about and not get bored.
He sighed and let his phone switch off for the first time that day.
─ ─ ─
🐈
Minhos day was quieter than usual. Even his cats were unusually calm, tails flapping lazily. They could sense Minho wasn’t in the mood for chaos, as if he ever is.
He sat cross-legged on the couch with his phone in hand and Soonie next to him. A message from Jisung.
| “Maybe it is”
He read it at least 20 times , each time the sentence made up a new meaning. He replayed everything from the first phone call till the texts. Every little thing made his heart ache in a way that wasn’t bad. Just new.
“Maybe its what?” He muttered,rubbing his temples.
His eyes shut tightly. Fate? Coincidence? Mistake…?
Soonie looked at him like she knew the answer but wasn’t worth her time to share it. She was always like that.
“Don’t look at me like that if you don’t bother to share.” Minho huffed “He started it.”
Minho didn’t really mind how open that response was. It let him wonder and let him interpret it in a way that he wanted to.
He wanted to reply too, but everything that he thought of sounded like it was pulled out of a low budget romcom.
He kept typing then deleting it. Typing. Deleting.
“I guess we were meant to be” — Too forward.
“That’s poetic of you” — Dry.
“Are you trying to flirt?” — Absolutely not.
Minho groaned and tossed his phone on the table.
It was just a text, yet he knew it wasn’t just a text. It was Jisung’s text.
Doongie leapt on the couch with a huff, clearly annoyed at his dramatic antics. Minho rolled his eyes and reached for the cup of coffee that was already cold.
He couldn’t stop thinking of how Jisung’s voice sounded on the phone, or how thoughtful his texts were. It made Minho want to reply even if he didn’t know what to say.
He itched to type again, this time he didn’t delete it.
|
| “I guess fate has good taste”
|
For the first time in a while, Minho knew what to say.
It made his heart warm, and he hated that. He hated being reminded of him.
The same heartache, the same love that wasn’t enough to be named.
It wasn't platonic or romantic. It was the blurred line in between. Minho never knew what it was but he knew that he should hold onto it, or maybe he shouldn't have. He decided not to love from that day on.
So he didn’t.
Minho didn’t want to think about it anymore. It’s already happened and it’s in the past.
He put on his headphones and listened to the track that Jisung made for him.
“My muse.”
The name wasn’t subtle, Minho knew that it was dedicated to him. He enjoyed being Jisung's muse.
He sat on the roof again, the sky was engulfed by the darkness. But he was accompanied by his three daughters.
He listened to it on repeat , letting the lyrics wash over him. Every verse and every chorus reminded him of what he always wanted in a relationship. But never found.
The memories of his homoeriotic relationship flashed , what went wrong but those sweet but confusing moments made Minho stay. He just craved that honesty and it pulled on his chest.
This music made him feel something, something strange. Without thinking about it, his body twitched to the beat ; his mind was already creating movements that Minho felt the very sudden urge to create into dance.
So he acted on it.
His pulse quickened, he had been unmotivated for so long that it almost felt exhilarating.
He made his way back inside, sad to depart from the cold air. He grabbed his dance bag, that’s beginning to collect dust. He filled his water and headed out.
All his cats meowed in confusion as to where Minho was going, he hadn’t left the house in weeks.
As he walked out, he grabbed his keys but then stopped. Minho wanted to walk, the refreshing air of the night manoeuvring in his lungs.
Minhos footsteps matched the rhythm of the beat. The city was quiet, only the cars and flickering streetlights to accompany me.
He finally reached the studio, but it felt different. Familiar, but lonely. Dust laid on every surface and gently landed on the mirrors that haven’t reflected him for weeks.
He kept the lights very dim and plugged his phone into the speaker, playing ‘My muse’. The lyrics filled every corner of the room, delicate.
For a moment, he let himself feel the music and let it take over him.
His body started to move, almost involuntarily. The drag of his foot, the roll of his body. It was as if every lyric was telling him what to do next. He felt alive.
Nothing was thought out , he just did what he felt at that moment. When the song ended, he stood there-chest rising and falling.
He replayed the track again.
And again.
Each time, his movements became sharper and cleaner. A dance was forming.
He wanted to show Jisung, and to thank him too.
Minho recorded it and watched it over more times than he could count. He noticed every little imperfection, every mistake. It’s not a lie that being away from dancing for so long, it lessened his abilities.
But Jisung wouldn’t notice, but he may notice how obvious Minho's feelings were to him. But he pressed send.
|
| “ I had to make a choreo to this.”
|
It just dawned on him how vulnerable he felt, he had never felt this way with dance.
Showing something so intimate made his breath quicken. It wasn’t any different to teaching his dance classes or performing.
I guess he was just apprehensive of Jisung's reaction.
He was done being scared, he knew how the world doesn’t stop for him. An emotion came over him, one that he hadn’t felt before. It was a mix of anger:at himself and sadness that he let himself get this bad.
This wasn’t him.
Minho couldn’t explain the sudden weight on him that he just ditched his students and left them to Hyunjin. He had been thinking about himself for too long.
He decided at that moment that he would start his classes again, and teach this choreography with Jisung's permission.
His phone still in his hand, he called Hyunjin.
“Hyunjin, I’m starting classes again.”
“Woah Minho, that’s fucking great.”
“Yeah, when’s the earliest date I can, and can it be a surprise?”
“Yeah of course, let’s meet tomorrow."
“I miss them.”
“They miss you too Minho”
His stomach churned, he was finally back to his dear students. But he couldn’t stay at the studio forever.
Feeling bad for leaving his cats, he goes to the convenience store on the way back to buy them a treat. And for himself.
He buys 3 catnip sticks and a pot of pudding: Minhos favourite.
All treats crinkling in the plastic bag, Minho felt weightless on his feet. The flickering street lights illuminated the pavement like scattered stars, each one symbolising the risk taken that day.
NOT FINISHED!!