Work Text:
(1)
Changbin was in the midst of closing shop when it occurred to him that outside no longer looked like the outside he was familiar with.
The snow that originally blanketed over Levanter had vanished from the pavements. It was still dark, but the chances that it was the time Changbin expected—that it should’ve been—were next to none. Past the window pane, Changbin could see the distant lights of pubs written in a foreign language and the towering men spilling out with drunken laughter. Changbin didn’t have to strain his ears to hear them to know that they were speaking a language he didn’t recognize.
Another thing he saw: a boy in a leather jacket, standing by the edge of the sidewalk, eyes averted, as if unsure if he was allowed to come in or not. His hair was different from the last time, a light brown shade that stood out under the streetlight.
Changbin sighed. He stepped away from the window. He didn’t bother flipping the sign, but two beats later, the door swung open. Changbin went back to shelves, returning records and albums to the ones that were in the wrong sections and rearranging others in alphabetical order. From the other side of the shelf, Jisung’s face peaked between the albums.
"I botched my performance on a talk show tonight," he started.
Changbin turned around, returned a misplaced album back to where it originally came from. Though Changbin hadn’t traveled much, he had a feeling they were somewhere in America. He grimaced. "Is that why I'm here?"
Jisung shrugged. “It was bad,” he said. “Switched verse lyrics, slipped on-stage, voice cracked.”
“Sounds horrible,” Changbin offered.
“I was basically the laughing stock of the concert for half the time. Didn’t you see it?”
He was wearing contacts, the kind that made his irises look blue, but exhaustion marked itself in the faint dark circles under his eyes. Changbin would’ve been unnerved, but this wasn’t the first time he was seeing Jisung like this—idol-made and ready yet still with all the fissures underneath the surface, trying to crawl their way up to break him. It wasn’t the first time; it wasn’t going to be the last.
“Of course not,” Changbin said, not unkindly. “I spent the night out with friends.”
Jisung wrinkled his nose. “Is that why you smell like alcohol?”
Changbin couldn’t help himself. He sent Jisung a wan smile. “Jealous?”
“I don’t know,” Jisung said. “What if I am?”
His expression gave nothing away, but it felt like idol glamor Changbin could see right through, and the uncertainty was as clear as day. Jisung’s performance was broadcasted two hours ago back in Seoul. Changbin meant that he spent the night out with friends, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking. The problem, Changbin figured, was that he looked too much, even without intending to. They were at the noisiest barbeque grill downtown and Changbin was concentrated enough on the tiny TV at the corner of the room that he could hear the music. If his friends knew that he wasn’t just being generally spacey from the alcohol, they would’ve said he’d lost his mind.
But Jisung had too, since he was here to begin with. Since he had taken Changbin here to begin with. The thought was tinged with slight resignation. Changbin casted one last glance at Jisung before ducking underneath the counter, searching for his thermos. When he turned, Jisung was there, perched beside the cash box. He swung his legs carelessly, a gesture that brought out the boyish side of him Changbin realized he hadn’t seen in a while. He looked pleased when Changbin handed him the thermos, and asked, “Is this alcohol?”
“It’s water,” Changbin said.
Jisung frowned, but he didn’t reject the thermos, like he might’ve done before, always so adamant about any gestures Changbin made that to him meant he was trying to take care of him. He was more conscious about the one-year age difference between them than Changbin ever was, but for the most part, Changbin had let it go. There had been a time when he found himself relieved when none of his actions would be construed as him being condescending, a dig at their capabilities and independence. But that had been short-lived, because there was only one person who ever reacted that way, and the one thing Changbin could never admit was that it was better than nothing at all.
“So boring of you, hyung,” Jisung complained, but when he twisted the cap open and started drinking, it was clear he was parched. Changbin knew sometimes drinking too much made people feel and look bloated. He wondered how terribly that paired with the stress of being onstage, singing and dancing simultaneously. “We don’t know when I’ll come here again and this is the treatment I get.”
“I don’t even want you here.”
“Mmm,” Jisung hummed. “Yet here I am.”
Changbin didn’t take the bait. He didn’t want to know what Jisung was trying to imply. This was all on Jisung, as far as Changbin was concerned, and Jisung should’ve known that. Changbin should’ve kicked him out. He wanted to. Instead, he said, “Store opens at eight. I’d prefer it if I’ll be back home at least two hours before then.”
Jisung raised an eyebrow. “Inviting me to stay the night?”
“No.” Changbin was already making his way to the backdoor, where adjacent, through an open hall, would be the bungalow he lived in. They were meant to be two separate buildings, but they always came together. Changbin didn’t question the mechanics. “But you’ll only be for as long as you need to be, or as long as you can be.”
“I could always stay longer,” Jisung offered.
“Goodbye, Jisung,” was all Changbin said. He didn’t care for the harshness of his tone. It wouldn’t change anything anyway. The next day, Changbin came back and he came home: recognizing the people outside who always took the same route when they went to work, recognizing the shops beside his own, recognizing the view of the sky from the window. There was no trace of Han Jisung there, so Changbin had no reason to miss him.
(2)
The first time this happened, it had been three months since Changbin and Jisung last spoke. Felix once told Changbin that it took around four months to recover from a breakup, and all Changbin said was that he didn’t know what the fuck Felix was talking about.
Cypher had just turned a year old, fully renovated into the record store Changbin envisioned after Chan had turned ownership of the building to him. The walls had been repainted and redecorated, the rows of plastic chairs for waiting replaced by shelves upon shelves and a lounge area at the center of the room, where cushions and pillows sat by the feet of a couch Changbin had bought at a garage sale. Changbin kept a few of the small private rooms for listening stations. At the time Changbin wasn’t that interested in getting stocks of new music. He wanted nostalgia. Or maybe he was just trying to run away.
It was a clinic before it was a record store, and before it was a clinic it was an actual house. Changbin didn’t ask Chan who was the first owner, only why he was chosen as the new one. It was a special house, bound to the soul of its owner and their desires, but nomadic in nature. That was why, Chan said. Changbin was affronted.
“I’m not a wanderer,” he told Chan. The idea of being rooted actually appealed to Changbin in a way he knew held no meaning to Chan, not when he refused to keep the clinic forever, regardless of how it could roam the world with the same liberty its owner did and desired. It was the principle of the matter though—the idea of things lasting. Chan had a good run stopping by different countries, offering temporary refuge to sickly passerby who stumbled into his clinic, but because he no longer needed that in his life, he no longer had a need for the clinic.
“But there are parts of you that wander,” Chan responded. “Trust hyung. Stay here. You need it.”
Changbin was unimpressed. “And what exactly do you think I need?”
“This is just a guess, but,” Chan started. “A way to return home.”
Asking how the house-turned-clinic-turned-record-shop moved wasn’t something Changbin thought to do when he already had a preconceived notion of what it would feel like; something like sitting in an airplane, anticipating a turbulent takeoff, or feeling the way the ground would lift like stepping in an elevator. It was, in truth, nothing like that. Thirty seconds after Changbin had stepped inside Cypher, returning from a grocery run, he felt a soft breeze sweep by, a gentle nudge that compelled him to turn around and go back outside.
He did not know where he was, but he recognized the back of the large building before him, owned by a broadcast network he remembered best because of how many music artists cared about being featured under their spotlight with their music. The reason Changbin remembered this very fact was because of a single person, crouched down behind the building with his shoulders hunched and his head lowered, hands wringing together in anxiety. He lifted his gaze, he caught sight of Changbin.
“Changbin-hyung,” Jisung said. His eyes were glassy, and there was a flush to his cheeks that not even the thick makeup could hide—subtle signs of distress that Changbin was incapable of not noticing. “What are you doing here?”
Seeing Jisung like this suddenly reminded Changbin of the first time they met; Jisung, so much younger, carried heartbreak in his eyes. It was a rejection from a prestigious music program, back then, one Jisung wanted desperately when he didn’t have any other opportunities. The memory unraveled something in Changbin, like a sharp snap. “Fuck if I know,” he said, because he didn’t. He didn’t want to entertain his theories about why. “You look like shit, by the way.”
Jisung didn’t retort. “The makeup noonas would be offended if they heard you,” he replied instead. Three months since Changbin had last spoken to him, seen him in person, and Jisung was in this pitiful state. It should’ve gratified Changbin, but he’d never been like that.
Changbin sighed before sitting down beside Jisung, indifferent to how the dirt on the ground would ruin his pants. Jisung continued to squat, and even that was done in a way that wouldn’t attempt to damage the fashionable getup they had placed him in. Changbin made no comment about it. It was late afternoon. People were everywhere at this hour, in a rush to get to places, but no one had come. It was just the two of them. “Are you done performing?”
“It’s in fifteen minutes.”
“Soundcheck went poorly?”
“It was good,” Jisung said, but his voice sounded hollow. “But I don’t know if it’ll be as good as my music.”
Changbin could’ve said, so long as you’re the one performing it, it’s still yours. He didn’t, even if it was true. Something else that was true: “I didn’t listen to your album when it came out.”
“Thank God for that,” Jisung said. “You would’ve hated it.”
“Probably,” Changbin agreed, and that made Jisung laugh. “But that wouldn’t matter to you, because you’re going to do what you always want to do.”
“Which is?”
“Your best.”
There was nothing especially new or meaningful to Changbin’s words, not things Jisung hadn’t already heard from other people, but it apparently meant something, because the tension across Jisung’s shoulders had eased. He looked, suddenly, more sure in himself, as if reminded that reality wasn’t as grave as it appeared in his overly anxious head, as if given an answer to a question he left unsaid in the air. Changbin wondered why what he said mattered, when Jisung could’ve easily looked at himself in the mirror and uttered the same words, but he didn’t voice it; maybe because he knew why, and he didn’t know how to feel about it.
“You’re right about that, at least,” Jisung commented. He stood up, dusted off dirt from his pants that wasn’t actually there. “It’s nice that you still know all the right things to say, hyung.” And before Changbin could bristle at the implication that he catered to Jisung’s whims, could take offense at how affectionately Jisung called him hyung, Jisung said, “Wish me luck?”
“Fuck you,” Changbin said. “Make your own.”
It occurred to Changbin, after Jisung had gone back inside, after he replayed the conversation they just had, that Chan’s words, though true, were probably not about him.
(3)
Cypher did not move with the same frequency Chan’s clinic had; if Changbin had his way, he’d rather it not move at all. Nothing about the largeness of the world interested him enough to venture far, not when he was constant about the things he wanted. Where he lived, it was good to him. He knew the owner of the downtown deli, memorized the times the nearby pharmacy opened, recognized the high schoolers who came to his shop like regulars after a bad day of classes. And Cypher fared well for a business that didn’t reel in a lot of customers. It was everything Changbin wanted.
Thursdays were his slowest days, so when Changbin saw Kim Jihyun out the front door of his house, it was shortly after breakfast, a few hours past the usual opening time of his store. It was okay, he reassured her. He would just open shop late. But when he walked through the hall and came in through the backdoor, half-empty coffee cup in hand, Cypher was not empty. Han Jisung, standing in front of the wall where posters of music artists were plastered over the gray paint, greeted him with, "The door wasn't locked."
It was, actually. Changbin was careful and this was no ordinary store. But it would never be locked so long as Jisung was the one trying to come in. It would never close its doors so long as Jisung was the one who wanted to open them. Jisung already knew this. It wasn't why Changbin didn't give an extra set of keys; there was some unspoken rule about how you didn't give that privilege to someone who was no longer supposed to be in your life.
But here Jisung was, regardless.
“It’s nine in the morning,” Changbin said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Working, because I have a job too,” Jisung replied, matter-of-fact. He waved a flappy notebook that was in his hands. There was a pen tucked by his ear. He was, for once, in casual wear—a hoodie, sweatpants, a cap. “New album—”
“Didn’t ask.”
“—but I’m stumped on some of the songs,” Jisung continued. “I’ve got the sound, but the lyrics aren’t coming out right.”
They used to do this, sometime ago, back when music was something they shared but uncertain if they wanted to chase after it the same way. They’d sit across from each other and share earphones and listen to a sample instrumental or a pre-existing song and talk about how they’d do things differently—alter the tempo, rewrite the lyrics, add a riff. Changbin remembered those days a lot clearer than he expected himself to, than he wanted to.
He glanced outside, a habit he found himself developing ever since that first time Cypher had sought Jisung’s whereabouts and taken himself there. Once again, Changbin did not know where he was, but he let himself take a guess, comforted that the previous times, he’d been accurate in his deduction: somewhere in Jisung’s new place in Incheon. Changbin couldn’t imagine that Jisung would’ve been allowed to wander far this early without being disturbed. As it turned out, Cypher, for today, would be closed. He held no particular resentment for this fact.
“I’m not getting you any coffee,” Changbin told him. “And you can’t take from mine.”
“Of course,” Jisung said placatingly.
Jisung had always been a good writer. Changbin used to be able to help more, when Jisung mostly did it for fun, but Jisung had changed since then, much more skilled, much more creative, much more experienced, so at most Changbin only pointed out which parts were off and which parts worked, if Jisung’s frustrations were unfounded or if he had a point.
“Are the items here magical?” Jisung asked, gesturing towards their surroundings. They sat in the lounge area, Changbin on the couch, Jisung on the floor in front of him. At some point Changbin had taken out his vape pen, leaving his coffee untouched because the caffeine finally kicked in. The vapor wasn’t going to ring any of the alarms, not because they didn’t work, but because Cypher knew that it was Changbin and Changbin would never do anything to harm it.
“Only the house,” Changbin answered. “Only Cypher in itself.”
“I like it here,” Jisung said. But of course he did. He had to.
It wasn’t a bad day, even if Changbin felt useless half the time, even if it felt like Jisung only needed Changbin because he needed a place to stay. But even all of Changbin’s insecurities couldn’t blind him enough to not remember the undeniable reality to why Jisung was here, to why Cypher would always take Changbin to where Jisung was.
“Did she like it?”
It took Changbin a moment to realize Jisung had asked him something. “What?”
“You didn’t open at your usual time,” Jisung explained. “How was the date?”
Changbin frowned. “How did you know I was on a date?”
“Cypher tells me things,” said Jisung cryptically. Changbin didn’t know if he was supposed to be horrified or annoyed at the fact. Mostly, he just thought that it made sense. The clinic was wholly Chan’s, but Cypher was not wholly Changbin’s. It was never actually about Changbin. “So?”
“It was fine.”
“Did she like Cypher?”
“I didn’t show her around Cypher,” Changbin said gruffly. “We had breakfast at my place. She brought coffee. I cooked breakfast.”
“That’s a nice idea for a song,” Jisung noted idly. “Having breakfast with someone, the intimacy of it. Not that I would know,” he added, after a considerate pause, before Changbin could remark about it. He reached for Changbin’s coffee, despite Changbin’s earlier words. “I never woke up early enough to eat. You didn’t either. And you’re not good at cooking.”
That was in the past. Now Changbin often woke up at six to take a morning jog around the block. Now he cooked food passable enough to qualify as a date. There were no more of those days when he slept in because there was a warm body beside him to convince him to come back to bed and its soft rumpled sheets. There were no more of those days where at three in the morning they sat on the floor and scrolled through takeout options on their phones because neither of them cooked well and they were too lazy to try. “I’ve changed since then,” he said. “You did too.”
“Not in the things that matter,” Jisung replied. “I think, if you really looked, I’m still the same.” It was too early to have this conversation. It must’ve shown on Changbin’s face, the doubt, the desire to shut Jisung down, because he followed with, “Hyung, just because we broke up—”
“We didn’t break up,” Changbin interrupted. “We agreed to move on.”
He said the words with no resentment, no bitterness. He had no reason to. They didn’t part on bad terms. They parted on inevitability. They knew neither of them would be able to handle the distance when so much of their relationship was reliant on their closeness. Their first meeting, five years ago, was because they were making their way towards the same classroom—Jisung, particularly distraught; Changbin, particularly concerned. The majority of their time at university, their rooms in the dorm were adjacent to one another. The year after graduation, they took the same night-shift job at a forgettable large-scale company. What they had wasn’t going to work in the long-run, when Jisung was going to become a music artist, chasing debut, chasing fame, chasing his passions.
Changbin had breakups before and this one hadn’t hurt as much, and he thought it was because he didn’t count this as a breakup to begin with. It was exactly as he said it was: moving on. But maybe to an extent that was the same, because the moment he let Jisung go Changbin did it expecting that Jisung was never going to come back, that Changbin didn’t want him to, because there was no more space for Jisung in his life the same way Jisung was going to make space for things that weren’t Changbin. Yet here they were.
“Yet here I am,” Jisung said softly, like an echo.
“That’s on you,” Changbin only said, unwilling to let himself feel, to show Jisung how he felt about this. But he didn’t tell Jisung to go, even though he should’ve, even though he wanted to, just like all the other times, for no other reason than the fact that he didn’t actually have a say in this. Time and time again, this was what Cypher had proved to him.
Later he went back to make lunch for himself, making enough food for two because he was hungrier than normal, when he got a text from Jihyun, thanking him for the day. She was nice and it was nice; to be with someone who appreciated his company and there was nothing else attached to it, no deep feelings or loaded history that made things hard because they ached in a good way and bad. Suddenly, Changbin felt inexplicably exhausted. He wondered what exactly he was doing, but he knew he couldn’t find the answer in Cypher, and especially not the person waiting there. He went anyway.
(4)
Christmas had come and gone without fanfare. Changbin came to his family’s home for the festivities itself and then returned to Cypher, which fortunately remained in place despite how he left it. There were no tree nor season-specific decorations for him to take down, but he had to find someplace to put the newfound presents he had unexpectedly received. It made him feel younger than he actually was, even if he wasn’t that old yet.
He arrived late at night, entering through the store because he didn’t have the patience to dig for his keys to the front door of his actual house. The winter chill lingered in the room even though Cypher hadn’t been opened in two days, and grew stronger for a split second as Changbin unceremoniously tossed the presents inside one of the empty drawers below the shelves that he always kept locked because it had extra stocks of the items he left on display.
In hindsight, Changbin should’ve known this was not normal. Because then Jisung had swung the door open impatiently, like he’d been waiting for Cypher to show, for Changbin to come, and admitted, unabashedly, “I’m homesick.”
(“Any nice girls we might be seeing soon?” Changbin’s sister had teased. “Any guys who have caught your interest?”
“No,” Changbin said after a pause, tone even. He didn’t hesitate because of girls like Kim Jihyun. She didn’t even cross his mind. His sister was being cheeky, but Changbin had spent the dinner solemn. “I think I just need more time.”
“It’s been so long since your last relationship though,” his mother commented.
“Yeah, well,” Changbin began. “Sometimes the past has a way of catching up to you.”)
Changbin repressed a sigh, exasperated and unsurprised.
Wherever Jisung had taken them, it was a desolate street with a corner store five shops away. Changbin had gone and bought the last two pre-packaged donuts they were selling and a bottle of soju, and he joined Jisung as they sat on the curb with Cypher and its white neon lights behind them.
It was Changbin who broke the silence. “Your family’s in Malaysia?”
Jisung took the bottle from Changbin’s hands, taking a swing before swallowing and wiping his mouth. “If I’m lucky,” he said wistfully, “That’ll be one of the stops for my tour, so I can see them then.” He paused. “I can’t exactly complain though,” he added. “You’re here, after all.”
Changbin glanced at him. He glanced at the night sky above them. He glanced at the gated park on the street across from them. If things were as they were before, they would’ve stood up and jumped over the fence and ran around the grass. But if things were as they were before, a part of him also knew that they would’ve done this exact same thing as well—sit together in silence, enjoying one another’s company.
It was always about the closeness. The realization made Changbin’s throat close up. It was too much and yet not enough.
“We can’t keep doing this,” he told Jisung tiredly. “You can’t just keep on using me and coming to me whenever you feel bad because you know I’ll be there to make you feel better.”
Jisung stared at him, wide-eyed and caught off guard. He looked so young, like the same boy Changbin loved with all fervor. “Can’t I just do these things because I miss you?”
It was probably the one thought Changbin never let himself entertain. Not because it wasn’t a possibility, but because it was more than that. The weight of the truth was not a burden Changbin wanted to carry. He was supposed to be past this. They were supposed to have moved on. “We broke up,” Changbin reminded Jisung. “We can’t afford that sort of thing anymore.”
For a split second, the crumpled look on Jisung’s face almost convinced Changbin that Jisung was going to say something, defend himself, tell Changbin that he was wrong, the way he always used to do so because he never hesitated to push Changbin to speak his mind and say what he believed in, even if they weren’t the right ones, even if that meant they didn’t see eye to eye. But Jisung said nothing, and he gave Changbin the last word, and when morning came and Jisung walked away and Changbin returned to Cypher to whisk them back, he wondered if that was the last time too.
(5)
“Do you have anything by Han?”
“Who?” Changbin looked up and blinked at the woman on the other side of the counter, unfamiliar with the name. She held a couple of albums in her hands, intent on purchasing them, but the way her brows knitted together meant she wasn’t entirely satisfied with her selection.
“Han,” she explained. “Idol? He’s a soloist. He has one mini-album. It’s called Alien?”
“Sorry, we don’t have that,” Changbin apologized, tone even. “We didn’t think there was enough interest to order any copies.”
“Shame,” she said. “Cypher looked like the kind of place I’d find him in.”
He decided that she was his last customer for the day, mostly because it was already approaching his planned closing time, and not because of her comment. The good thing about being the only employee in his store was that he didn’t have to worry about the ethics of working on special occasions, but New Years’ Eve, to him, was more celebratory in theory than in practice, like a pseudo-holiday. Stores were still open and people still went out. Changbin, for a second, almost believed that it was just an ordinary day.
Changbin watched her exit Cypher, wondering if she’d turn back and say something else. She didn’t, but the moment the door closed, Changbin felt something in the air change, the way it did for one very specific thing, one very specific person.
“Fucking hell,” he swore. But before he could head for the door to lock it shut, Jisung had come bursting through, clothes rumpled, hair askew, expression winded, as if he had rushed to get here.
Breathlessly, he said, like he needed to get all the words out now before Changbin would stop him— “Before you skewer me for showing my face again, hear me out for a bit. Give me six hours.”
Changbin made a face. “It does not take six hours to make a speech.”
Jisung cracked a smile, but it came out uncertain, nervous. Changbin was not used to seeing Jisung like this. “It does if I want the speech to mean something,” he said. His shoulders slumped. “I miss you, but I’m not here because I miss you, or because I want you to make me feel better.”
“Then why?”
“Six hours,” Jisung only repeated. “You’ll find the answer then.”
“Fuck you,” Changbin said, exhausted. Defeated. Willing.
The first thing that greeted Changbin when he stepped out of Cypher with Jisung was noise. The streets were alive and busy and foreign—voices clamoring on top of one another in a language Changbin was distantly familiar with but couldn't actually understand, music from an array of shops playing and clashing with each other, bright lights of different colors blinking at him. The smell of food and smoke wafted in the air. When Changbin took a deep breath, his nose tingled from the cold, but he felt inexplicably warm all over.
"I hope you're hungry, hung," said Jisung. "Because we're about to go food-tripping."
Changbin had been here before, but only once, and he'd been too young to remember anything but the sheer sense of wonder of experiencing something new. He and Jisung talked about it only once, as they lay in bed and idly shared lofty things they wanted to do with each other but not really resolving to make it happen.
(“Let’s go to Japan,” Changbin told him. “Let’s try the food there. Let’s enjoy the music.”
Jisung replied, “What makes it that different from how things are back home?”
“Not much, probably. But that’s the point, for me,” he paused. “You can find home anywhere.”)
The event of New Years’ Eve meant the streets were a unique kind of crowded that night, but somehow there was enough space for Changbin and Jisung to find seats to occasionally sit and eat after stopping by stalls every so often to try out different foods and drinks. Jisung insisted on paying for everything, arguing that he was earning more anyway, but Changbin only let him after they played a game and he lost.
The food was greasy but good, the drinks laced with alcohol that relaxed them. Sometimes Jisung would break out into song as they walked through the streets when he overheard a tune he recognized even if he horribly butchered the words in a way that made Changbin laugh, and people glanced at them strangely in a way that made Changbin laugh even harder. When midnight neared, Jisung took Changbin to a quaint cafe and found them a place by its balcony on the third floor. Changbin had gone and bought them hot chocolate, and again all this felt far too familiar, like nothing between them had ever changed.
For the first time, Changbin entertained the notion that in some way, it didn’t, and that it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“I’ve never really cared about New Year’s Day,” Jisung admitted, as they watched the people below prepare for the countdown to the new day, the new year.
Changbin never particularly cared for the occasion either. “How’s work?”
“That’s the first time you asked,” Jisung pointed out, but it wasn’t mean. “It’s okay. Not much has changed since I last went to you. They did give me nearly a month off though, so I booked the first flight I could get to come here to see why you liked it here so much.”
Quietly, Changbin said, “I’m surprised you remembered that.”
Jisung smiled. He didn’t respond to that. “Did you know that some people commemorate the New Year with a kiss?”
For a few seconds, Changbin said nothing. He continued to stare down, even if there was nothing remarkable about the spectacle of people cheering loudly, building their own excitement. “Jisung,” he began. “We’re not going to do that.”
Fiery streaks of light rose to the sky and exploded in bursts of color. Jisung rivaled Changbin’s contemplative silence by not saying anything either, but Changbin didn’t know if it was because he was actually thinking or because he was admiring the fireworks. Eventually, he said, solemnly, “Hyung, I’m not going to see you again after this. Anymore. This is going to be the last time. I’ll miss you, but I’d hate it more if you came to resent me for it because you didn’t miss me back.”
Changbin watched how the bright lights mutely reflected across Jisung’s face. He took in the newfound hard lines across Jisung’s features, the boyishness fading, and the unwavering gentleness in his eyes, as if the familiar flame of passion had waned into something much more mature. Despite these differences between the Jisung Changbin knew and the Jisung he was now, Changbin realized he still knew this person, who missed him terribly, who thought of Changbin as a safe haven and like home even though once upon a time Changbin had made it clear that they couldn’t be that for one another anymore, who was now promising that none of those things were ever going to happen again.
He didn’t think it was possible—to feel like he was going through the motions of a breakup once more with someone he had already broken up with, with someone who he was supposed to have moved on from. Yet here he was.
“Why are you telling me this?” Changbin finally asked.
“It’s the New Year,” Jisung answered. “You’re the one who goes on and on about change. I figured—it’s time I do it too.”
“Oh,” Changbin said. “Think you’re going to regret it?”
Jisung took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done yet. I don’t know if you’re the same.”
(+1)
Chan came to visit Changbin mid-January.
“Whoa,” he said, looking around Cypher. “A record store. It suits you.”
“Chan-hyung,” Changbin replied, scrambling to get past the counter in his surprise at Chan’s presence. “You—you look well.”
He did. Chan looked like he always had, in truth, but the fact that he seemed to remain unchanged despite the changes he had purposely put himself through—that was something noteworthy, something to be proud of. Later, when they left Cypher to grab coffee, Chan pointed out, albeit good-naturedly, “And you look like you don’t go out much.” Changbin only grumbled something unintelligible, which made Chan grin. “I’m surprised Cypher is in the same place it's always been in.”
“Cypher doesn’t follow me,” Changbin said, swirling his drink. “Cypher isn’t about me.”
Chan paused. “That house,” he started thoughtfully. “Changbin, it’s never cared about listening to what you say or where you want to go. It only listens to your heart. Wherever that goes, it will follow.” Changbin frowned, but the knowing look in Chan’s eyes didn’t falter. “Home is hard to put into words, but you don’t have to say it aloud to admit to yourself that you understand what it really is for you.”
Changbin thought Chan gave him too much credit. But when he and Chan parted ways just as the sun set down and Changbin stepped through Cypher’s doors, his feet took him past the counter, past the lounge area, to one of the private listening booths. He took out a blank, unlabeled CD that he had kept with him for a long time, and slipped it inside the player. He picked up the headphones. He pressed the play button.
The casing, kept in the drawers of the listening booth, was buried deep underneath miscellaneous supplies that he never gave much thought to, as if using them as a reason to not linger too long on the one thing hidden that he was afraid to ever touch. But now he held the plastic container. His thumbs brushed against the title printed on the front, which said Alien.
Changbin didn’t know how long he sat there, eyes closed, forgetting the world to suspend himself in the music. But when he came to, the music had quieted down because the last song had finished, and when he made the journey out of Cypher, it was dark out and he was no longer in Levanter.
Japan at this hour was startingly quiet, a sense of loneliness traveling through the air. On the other side of the street, Jisung stood by the crossing light, waiting for his turn to walk. Changbin saw the way he startled when he caught Changbin and the Cypher sign. But of course he was surprised. Changbin wanted to think that he was too, but the truth was, he wasn’t fooling anyone. He had missed Jisung the same way, for a long, long time.
Jisung walked towards Changbin slowly, as if he wasn’t sure if Changbin was really there. They found themselves standing in front of each other regardless, and people passed them by, indifferent to who they were, indifferent to what this meant to them.
“Hyung,” Jisung said, voice quiet. “What are you doing here?”
Changbin knew Jisung knew why. He said, anyway, “I listened to your album.”
“And?”
“I loved it.” Changbin swallowed. “It made me want to come home.”
The words made Jisung stop, like he wasn’t sure what to say to that, what was the right thing to say in a way that wouldn’t make Changbin turn him away. But Changbin was done denying anything. The fact that he was here, that Cypher, for once, had taken him to Jisung—it said everything. “Then let’s go home.”
“I am home,” Changbin said. “You’re here.”
Jisung blinked, as if he couldn’t process the words the first time. “I am,” he said, tone cautious. But then his expression changed, as if he finally understood, and he said, with certainty, with hope, with the kind of longing that he knew he could freely give without restraint because Changbin was here, like he’d always been, but for once here in a different way, in a more meaningful way: “I am. I’m here. We’re home.”
A breeze brushed past them, rustling their clothes and tousling their hair. It was as if there was some kind of magic in the air, but Changbin only cared for it because it nudged both of them to step forward into each other’s arms, and when they embraced, Changbin thought: he would go anywhere for Jisung, so long as he was with him.