gridlock, baby
My heart's stuck in gridlock... baby, will you be my key?
/or some snappy title like that.
A Yoosu romcom (help_japan) fic for oldwillow_brook :D♥
In which Yoochun’s a corporate somebody and Junsu’s a street-dancing nobody, and they’ve got nothing in common and no reason to meet, but Yoochun’s somehow ended up stalking him anyway.
Pop-culture references abound! In disclaimer: the WENUS is property of Chandler Bing, some dialogue stolen from The Office, and if Yoochun could, he would have a nightly reservation to dine at Dorsia. There's more in there, somewhere. Candy funky for you if you can catch ‘em all!
Yoochun moves to Thebigcity three months after he graduates from university. He arrives with a head full of music theory, big plans, a lot of hope and an ironic appreciation of Avenue Q. The apartment he finds is in a shitty neighborhood and it’s I cook off my heater and pee in my sink small, but it’s not too shabby for the price he pays. He’s going to get a nothing-job and works on his songwriting on the side until The Big Break hits.
This plan sticks for two months, in which he works at the local indie coffee shop. He serves girls with angry-looking piercings and guys who were the same hoodie every day and smell like weed and, god, the hipsters- he doesn’t last long. He refuses to wait there until something better comes along.
So he trolls through newspapers and job search engines, bemoaning his fate like any good man going through his quarter-life crisis. It makes his music more angsty than it already is, and his not-really-a-roommate Jaejoong always complains about it.
“You need more happiness in your life,” he likes to say. “Not some boring career.”
“You need to get a career and get off my fucking couch,” Yoochun says.
Jaejoong rolls his eyes and shrugs. “I buy groceries, don’t complain.”
And Yoochun doesn’t, because Jaejoong also cooks said groceries and it’s better than making ramen and stealing muffins from the coffee shop, which is what he did for the first month, before he picked Jaejoong up at some bar and the man decided he liked Yoochun’s couch more than he liked Yoochun.
Two weeks later, he finds this:
thebigcity craigslist >> downtown >> jobs >> business/mgmt jobs
>ENTRY-LEVEL POSITION AT RECORD LABEL
Date: 2012-04-28, 1:23PM EST
Reply to: job-smdb5k-14102831@craigslist.org
Looking for motivated, self-starting individuals who have passion to work in music industry. We are new but growing rapidly, specialize in artist development, music production, and marketing. All areas currently hiring entry-lvl positions. Training provided, but background in music a plus. High possibility for upward mobility within company, great opportunity and experience. Salary with benefits, DOE.
Qualifications:
Confident, highly organized, creative
Work well with team
Able to work long hours under pressure
Familiarity with Music Licensing and EMSM preferred
Attach resume and cover letter via email
Location: Thebigcity
This is a full-time job.
Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!
Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
It’s corporate and that makes him wrinkle his nose, but it’s also kind of perfect (okay, really perfect). He needs the experience, the contacts, and a year or two at a real company will great on a resume. Why the hell not?
Twelve Years Later.
“…So I tell him, No, you peon, we don’t put those spreadsheets through until Friday, they’re part of the WENUS - and evidently I work with five-year-olds because he starts giggling. But then I call over Hyuk and he starts talking about the digital sales projections for the new guys, whatstheirname, I don’t know but it sounds like it’s got “fuck” in it and you know PR’s freaking over it - that’s why they’re making our lives hell, I’d bet my life on it - but anyway, Hyuk’s trying to implement these linear regression equations and I don’t think it’s a great idea, but… Yoochun. Hey. Hey, are you listening to me?”
Yoochun flicks his eyes up from his computer to Changmin, who’s hovering just outside Yoochun’s cubicle with his arms comfortably crossed over the top of the partition, the tall freak.
“Someone is an idiot, you’re a Stats nerd. Did I get it right?”
The younger man rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically. “Close enough. But seriously, the whole department is seriously on the bend. How are we going to send these spreadsheets in if these-”
Yoochun’s heard enough. “Go move your needle somewhere else, Changmin, I’m busy.”
He glances up long enough to see the smirk sneak across his coworker’s face and despairs, because evidently five-year-old humor is contagious.
“You do realize you’re thirty, right?” he asks.
Changmin snorts. “I’m thirty-two, thanks -and I’m still young. Just because you’ve given up on life doesn’t mean the rest of us have to wallow in self-pity.”
“You sound like you’ve been talking to Jaejoong,” Yoochun mutters, opening a new tab in Excel and starting in with zeal.
“Maybe I have,” Changmin leers, but when Yoochun doesn’t respond he slumps. “Well I would talk to him, if you’d just give me his number.”
“No chance in hell.”
“Why not?” he whines.
“Because then the two most annoying people in my life would join forces, and I would cry,” Yoochun says as dryly as possible. He imagines Changmin being dragged over by hot, sandy, Saharan winds, and wishes he would blow away completely.
“Harsh, man. Harsh.”
Very, Yoochun thinks.
“Well, whatever. I’ve got to work this shit out. But could you talk to Hyuk before he starts in on those projections? It’ll create a helluva lot more paperwork than we need right now-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Yoochun says, waving him off. It’s times like this that he hates being the boss, the go-to who can I take my asinine problems to guy.
Yoochun’s been the marketing division manager for the past six years- seven, come June. He likes his job, even though the work is dull. Paper-pushing, memos, meetings, and more paper-pushing. He hasn’t been in a real studio in years -they’re all downstairs, in the basement. Whenever he actually gets to speak to the artists, they all groan about how nice it must be, up on floor seventeen with the air conditioning and the cushy corner office and “gorgeous view.”
Yoochun despises the view. He’s afraid of heights and has been all his life- which is why he’s not in the cushy office, instead still working out of this dingy cubicle that his bothersome coworkers sometimes mistake for the company water cooler.
“See you at four!” Changmin says in parting, weaving his way back through the office maze.
Yoochun swears. He forgot about the conference meeting. He hates debut promotions; they always mess up his routine. He clicks on the second Excel tab and starts in, 75 wpm.
*
Yoochun leaves the office everyday at 7:00, give or take a minute, and takes another :30 to get home. His apartment is in the same district as his office building, but traffic is an epidemic in Thebigcity. Inescapable.
Today is no different; he opens the door to his apartment at 7:32, already tugging off his tie.
“I’m home!” he calls out, and counts down the seconds until Jaejoong yells back.
3…2… “’Bout time!”
His voice echoes through the penthouse apartment, which is massive and so far from the tiny little thing he’d existed in all those years ago. The only thing that hasn’t changed is Jaejoong, who still refuses to pay rent on the grounds that he doesn’t want to.
“I’m not late!”
“You said you’d be back early!” Jaejoong complains, and Yoochun tilts his head, listening for the source; it sounds like he’s in the studio, though it’s hard to tell. Jaejoong decorated the place sparse and white, like an albino Ikea catalogue, and sound travels strangely through the halls.
But he never complains, not even about the penthouse height. Jaejoong wanted penthouse and Yoochun wanted the status symbol -why not, when he could afford it?
“Got caught in a meeting,” he calls again, waiting for an answer like the grown-up version of Marco Polo.
“You should have called!” Jaejoong shouts, and this time his voice is accompanied by the tinkering sound of music. Definitely the studio, then.
The home studio is Yoochun’s haven, the only place the music is his- but it’s not like he ever has time for it anymore. The only reason the equipment isn’t gathering dust is because Jaejoong likes to play the piano. The man never had an interest in music till they met, but Yoochun has to admit he has quite an ear for it. Yoochun thinks Jaejoong would do pretty damn well for himself, if he’d ever actually commit to it -or to anything else besides his beloved status as a kept man.
But… he also has to admit, Jaejoong does “kept” pretty damn well. He leans against the doorframe and watches Jaejoong bend over the keys of his baby grand and thinks, He’s a beautiful creature.
Jaejong’s got his bottom lip caught between his teeth, a heavy bite of red against pale skin. He hums absently and it highlights the taut chords of his neck, the jut of his collarbones exposed by the low dip of his designer shirt. The sleeves are rolled up, hugging the tight line of his forearms, and his hands are manicured perfection, his fingers dancing smoothly over the keys.
And all these years later Yoochun is still head over heels but never going to do a damn thing about it in love, and when Jaejoong finally looks up and gives him a smile, he can only sigh and smile back.
“So… dinner?”
*
The battery in Yoochun’s alarm clock dies.
“No… No… No. Listen, don’t do anything until I get there, okay? Don’t. Do. Anything.”
He groans and puts his forehead to the steering wheel, giving the horn a full six angry seconds of life, but it does little good to get the car in front of him to move more than two inches further.
He lifts his head and stares blearily at the massive traffic disaster that’s sprawled out around him. Going home in traffic is one thing; sitting through it at seven in the morning - before his morning coffee - is just plain torture.
The grunt on the other end of the line is still mumbling and Yoochun sighs. “He wants to what?” Another mumble. “Tell him no. Yes, I know he has… no. What? He can’t possibly think that’s a good idea-”
Yoochun usually gets to work an hour early. But today is not “usually.” Today, Yoochun overslept and is just on time, and now he’s stuck in traffic and that means he might just be late. Yoochun is never late. Never. And, as he has always feared, it seems like the office is falling apart without him.
“I’m in traffic, I’ll be there soon,” he says instead. “Tell everyone to wait until I get there. If they can’t wait, then the answer is no. The answer will always be no.”
There’s a dejected sigh on the other end of the line, and Yoochun thinks that maybe he could get used to sitting in traffic; it at least delays having to deal with these problems (read: people) face to face. It’s much easier to deny a request when you don’t have to stare at the downcast expression, or worse, listen to the bitching afterward.
So he ends the call, plucking his Bluetooth out of his ear and tossing it away, not caring where it lands. If it breaks, he can buy another one. He feels a headache coming on and raises a hand to his forehead, trying to relax. With the other hand he flips on the radio, for the first time in years, and tunes into the first station that isn’t 90% static.
…stening to K-CASS! I’m your DJ, don’t U-KNOW? Hahaha! We’ve got another half-hour of music to go, but stay tuned, because after the tunes we’ve got hot T-O-P-i-c singer here- That’s right, it’s TOP, Mr. Number One! But now we’ve got a fresh track from the newest, freshest of girl groups, it’s ‘Honey Bunny’ by The Flower Girls-!
Yoochun almost gags at how damned perky the DJ sounds, but then again that’s morning radio for you. And the song that starts is just as upbeat: bubbly auto-tune, sickly sweet, and god knows it’s probably got a dance that’s sure to go viral - but that’s what the market wants these days.
The songs ends, and the next one is so similar he can barely tell them apart; Yoochun switches off the radio completely. He gets enough of that shit at work.
And that’s when he spots him.
It’s from just a glance of his periphery, but Yoochun’s eye catches on holy mother of color and he finds his head turning against his will, unable to look away from the obscenity of fashion.
The kid is wearing bright orange pants topped by an equally fluorescent tie-dye shirt that looks like it probably started off green but then got in a fight with a washing machine, a pair of red socks and a bucket of bleach. Evidently it lost, horribly.
He’s got falling-apart sneakers (Yoochun’s instep aches just looking at them) and knock-off sunglasses that almost swallow his face, but his ears are encased in headphones that look top-of-the-line.
He’s standing at the intersection, waiting for the light to change, but he’s far from still. His head bobs and his shoulders rock back and forth and his feet shuffle in some sort of rhythm. Yoochun’s just catching on to the beat when the light changes; when the kid gets to the other side of the road he heads down a side-street, out of sight.
Yoochun leans back in his seat and doesn’t notice the way his fingers tap on the armrest.
*
Yoochun decides going into work later might not be such a bad thing. Jaejoong thinks it’s great- because, he decides, he can now fix breakfast for Yoochun every morning.
“You just want an excuse to buy that espresso machine,” Yoochun says, sipping on an instant grind. It tastes like shit. He sighs, and gives Jaejoong a blank check.
Jaejoong cackles, and blows a raspberry on Yoochun’s cheek. “Thanks, hun!”
He buys the machine, a $900 monstrosity, and makes scrambled eggs over rice every morning for a grand total of three days. 6:15 is too early, he says after that; morning domesticity just isn’t his thing. Yoochun knows he could go back to leaving early, but he’s not as young as he used to be and his body’s already adjusted to the extra-half hour of sleep.
It’s got nothing to with the kid. Not at all.
So what if the kid happens to be there at the same time, on the same corner of the same street every single damned day? It’s not his fault; the kid’s surprisingly punctual for someone who thinks it’s acceptable to wear skin-tight pastel-pink jeans in public.
Some days Yoochun’s a little late, and only catches a glimpse of him as he turns the corner. Sometimes he’s early, and less traffic means he drives right past him. And some days, his timing is just perfect- 6:50, on the dot, and today, he sees this:
Tattered denim under a red-checkered shirt tied around the waist, and a tee declaring in bold English letters FUCK THE MACHINE WINS, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Yoochun may be old but he knows fashion, at least as pop music calls it (to this day his nightmares come in shades of Candy Funky), but if what this kid wears is considered normal, he despairs for young people everywhere.
And this kid’s definitely young, Yoochun can really see it, idling in the lane closest to the sidewalk and looking at the kid in his sideview mirror. It’s the best look he’s gotten of him yet, and Yoochun can’t help but take in the fine details; a strong jaw, sloped shoulders, a weirdly prominent S-line. His hair’s messy, but in the no, I did not look in the mirror this morning, why you ask? way, not the it took thirty minutes to look this unstyled style. Dark-brown strands stick out from between a threadbare headband and that same pair of headphones.
He walks with purpose, though -up the sidewalk, next to Yoochun’s car, now; he’ll keep going and be out of sight in a few minutes, between the rate he’s going and the rate Yoochun’s not.
He’s way too young, Yoochun thinks. And he still can’t stop himself from looking.
Because what really gets Yoochun, what’s got him every single time, is the way he walks -like he’s dancing, too.
Yoochun doesn’t think this kid ever stops dancing. The headphones obviously have a strong beat going, because his head’s shaking like he wants it to fall off. Every other step is a side-step or a skip, his feet a flurry of motion and his arms an act of balance and tempo, and his hips… well, Yoochun tries not to look too much at his hips.
There isn’t anyone else on the sidewalk with him, but the way he dances, Yoochun doubts he’d care.
Yoochun doesn’t even realize he’s rolled down his window until his head’s halfway out. He’s straining to hear the music that isn’t here, that’s too far out of range, and two blocks later the kid turns that corner and is gone.
A car honks and Yoochun yanks himself back into his car self-consciously, looking around as if someone might jump out screaming Creeper! Everyone look here, look at his shame. No one does, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from sinking into his luxury leather seat and wondering what the fuck is wrong with him- what is it about this kid?
It takes him another :20 to get to work, and it take that long to admit to himself that he just might have a problem.
*
In April, two months before he’s going to get his hard-earned seven-year bonus and turn a very respectable thirty-six years old, Yoochun becomes a stalker.
He’s not quite sure how it happens, because it shouldn’t be possible to stalk someone when you only see them five minutes every other day. Yoochun doesn’t have time to stalk anyone, because he’s got a high-powered job that takes up all his time and because he’s got Jaejoong, who’s demanding on the best of days.
So it isn’t possible or practical or sane to stalk some kid who hates all good things good and fashionable but can dance like he’s… like he’s…
Like he’s something. Yoochun hasn’t figured what that is yet, but he’d like to, and quick, so he can go on with his hard-earned, respectable life.
“What’s up with you these days?” Jaejoong asks. “Are you having a mid-life crisis? I’m not old enough to have a friend who’s having a mid-life crisis.”
Yoochun mutters something like, “Thanks, Jaejoong. I love you too,” and cries on the inside, because it’s probably true.
He consoles himself that he’s at least not following the kid around. So what if he’s a little obsessive about getting to right spot on time? So what if the sight of the kid makes his day a little brighter? He doesn’t even know the kid’s name - so if he is in fact a stalker, then at least he’s a really shitty one. He doesn’t know whether that’s a good or bad thing.
“You’re so weird,” Jaejoong says.
Yooochun sighs.
It’s not like he’s following the kid around, right?
The Next Day.
There’s been a car accident or something, because traffic is even worse than usual. Yoochun keeps glancing at his radio-clock obsessively. His left foot bounces on the floorboard while his right ankle strains with the desire to press down, to go more than .5mph -but there are cars as far as they eye can see and they aren’t budging an inch.
But, finally, he reaches that corner, the intersection of Theplot and Main Street; he checks his mirrors every 3 seconds (side, side, rear) but that’s only because the law requires him to. Right.
He waits. He thrums with nervous energy.
He waits some more.
7:02 slides into 7:04, and Yoochun gives it up for a lost cause. He slumps his seat and damnit, when did he get this pathetic? With a shake of his head he lets his mind roll back to work- crunching numbers and that pile of progress reports on his desk that he swears is radioactive, because nothing natural should grow that fast-
And that’s when the kid races by.
The cord of his headphones flies behind him and there’s no dancing, just a concentrated, pained expression on his face. Yoochun almost laughs- looks like he isn’t the only one running late today.
The kid crosses through the intersection even though the little hand is flashing a countdown and warning- Don’t Walk!… 4… Don’t Walk!… 3… Don’t Walk!…
But he makes it across no problem, dodging around a tiny old lady on the other corner and (quite impressively) hurdling over the bus stop behind her. Then he disappears.
And Yoochun… Yoochun is still stuck in traffic.
“What is my life,” he says, and actually hopes for an answer.
A few more minutes pass and he’s managed to crawl across the intersection himself and sits level with the small one-lane street the kid always goes down. The kid’s not there, of course, but Yoochun can’t help glancing over (only six times. Maybe seven. Ok, fine, fifteen-) and he’s still caught by surprise when a door opens and spits the kid out. There’s a seconds pause, and then he heads further down the street. Dancing.
Damnit.
Yoochun doesn’t even think, doesn’t even realize he’s flipped his blinker until he’s already turned the corner. He doesn’t realize until it’s done, can’t be undone, and well, fuck.
There’s no tension in the kid’s form -evidently he’s not running late anymore, or he’s done whatever it is he does and is now worry-free.
Good for him, Yoochun thinks sourly. He’s cursing under his breath - at himself, at the universe - and coasting slow because he doesn’t know what else to do.
But then he’s reached the kid, is coasting along right next to him, and of course the kid isn’t blind or deaf or stupid, it only takes him about five freaking seconds to notice the creepy black car creeping like a creepy thing right next to him. And then he’s turning, he’s looking at Yoochun’s car, he’s looking at Yoochun-
Yoochun freezes, an honest-to-God might as well be a cartoon block of ice freeze. He’s caught like a deer in headlights, and all he can think is thank fuck for tinted windows.
The kid gives his car a long look over, and then starts walking again. And Yoochun, maybe because the universe hates him, probably because he’s the worst, most obvious stalker ever, starts coasting, too.
The kid falters, again.
Yoochun brakes.
The kid turns, tilts his head in this adorably confused manner.
Yoochun feels something die inside of him.
“Um…” the kid says, his voice high and a little raspy and only slightly muffled by the windows. “Anyone in there? ‘Cause this is a little weird.”
He actually reaches out and taps on the window, and Yoochun gulps and realizes shit, this is it even as he attempts to rearranage his face into something resembling self-control. He’s faced down diva musicians and bullshitted Fortune 500 execs -some kid off the street shouldn’t bother him in the slightest. So he presses two fingers that are not shaking to his arm rest and the window rolls down with a low hum, dropping the last barrier between stalker and unknowing stalker-ee.
“Hi,” the kid says immediately, blunt but surprisingly cheerful. “You’ve got a really nice car. Is there a reason you’re following me?”
“Yes,” Yoochun answers, choking only a little. “No, I mean, yes- thank you.”
The kid nods. “How much does something like this cost?”
Yoochun’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Excuse me?”
The kid actually blushes. “I, er. Sorry, is that rude? It just… looks really expensive…”
“It is,” Yoochun sniffs, pride curling up warm in his chest. “It’s a custom built model.”
“That’s cool,” he says. He gives Yoochun a once-over and nods like he’s settled something. “You definitely look like someone who could afford a fancy custom car.”
The way he says it, Yoochun’s not sure if it’s a compliment or not, but Yoochun’s going to take it anyway. “Thank you,” he nods.
“I’ve think I’ve seen you around,” the kid goes on, not giving him time to say more. “I like looking at nice cars. Don’t know anything about them, really, but walking downtown, you always see them driving around. It’s better when there’s no traffic, of course, so you can see them really move, but sometimes, y’know-”
He stops, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His forehead wrinkles like he’s come across a problem, like he’s run out of things to say. He’s a strange one, Yoochun thinks, but oddly enough he doesn’t care. So he takes a deep breath, thinks man up and grow a pair, Park-
“I’ve seen you around, too,” he starts, voice lowered to keep it from breaking. A second later he realizes he probably sounds like a pedophile. He chokes, and manages to cough out- “I mean, I drive by here most days, so I’ve seen you danc- walking. I’ve seen you walking. Around. On the street.”
“Oh,” the kid says. “That’s… cool.”
Smooth, Yoochun weeps. Real smooth.
“So…” the kid says, drawing the word out. “Is there a reason you’re following me now? Or were you following me? Because if not, er, my bad, I don’t mean to accuse your or-”
He stops again. Seems to be a thing of his. Yoochun takes a deep breath and scrambles for something to say, wracks his brains for something, anything that doesn’t make him sound like a freak. Something,
“I… was…” he stalls. C’mon. Something, anything- “I was trying a short-cut! Yes. Traffic is awful, like you said,” he chuckles weakly, and the kid’s mouth makes an ‘o’ of understanding. “I… thought going, this way… trying a different route. But then you… were… walking, and I didn’t want to… startle. You.”
Yoochun’s making this shit up as he goes, but the kid’s face clears seamlessly. “Oh, that’s nice! Sorry, I wasn’t really paying-” He lifts a hand, motioning to the headphones that he’s pulled down around his neck. “I kinda get into my own head, sometimes.”
“Of course, of course,” Yoochun soothes, feeling more in control of the situation. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” He puts his arm up on the windowsill and leans forward conversationally, catching a closer glimpse of his headphones, the familiar lettering and gold-casing and thick bowl pads. “Grado Prestige?” he comments. “Nice.”
The kid looks surprised, and his head drops, neck scrunching, like he needs to see the headphones to confirm it. “Uh, yeah, they are. How’d you know?”
Yoochun smirks. “I know a thing or two. You pick up these things, working in music.”
At the mention of that the kid’s eyes go wide. “You work in music? Like, you’re a musician?”
He holds in a sigh. “Close enough,” he says, hedging. It seems enough for the kid, though; his whole face lights up and he says “Wow, that’s awesome,” like he really means it.
It’s been a long time since Yoochun’s heard that sort of enthusiasm, honest and unsullied by the industry wear-and-tear. The kid smiles and Yoochun can’t resist smiling back.
“My name is Park Yoochun. What’s your name, kid?” he asks, and suddenly it’s so easy, slipping into the smoother-than-smooth I’m going to make this pitch so fast and hard you’ll be begging for more before it’s even over attitude that’s got him this far in the game.
“Junsu,” Junsu says.
“Junsu,” he repeats, and the name feels like butter melting on his tongue. “Pleasure to meet you.”
He offers his hand, and Junsu has to shift his satchel around before he can take it. He looks flustered, almost nervous; his cheeks are red. Nothing like the brash kid knocking on his window a minute ago. “Nice to meet you, too,” he murmurs.
“I’ve actually noticed you’re -ah, dancing,” Yoochun ventures. “You’re pretty good. Have you had training?” He’s actually pretty curious about that.
Junsu shrugs. “Not really. A little, when I was a kid…”
As if he’s not now, Yoochun thinks, despairingly. “You’ve certainly got moves,” he says instead; not a lie. “And I like you’re… style. It’s interesting.” A little bit of a lie.
“Thanks,” Junsu says. His hand comes up and rubs at a shock of bangs at his forehead. “It’s not really anything-”
“But it really is,” Yoochun says. “I know a thing or two, remember? You’ve got enough to catch my eye. You’ve got potential.”
While they’ve been talking his other hand has been reaching around, patting through his pockets, searching. When he finds what he’s looking for he gives himself a giant mental pat on the back. Outwardly he keeps his expression pleasant, disarming, as he drags his thumb over his prized business card- the raised lettering, the thick stock, the subtly indented watermark on the bone-colored 3.5 × 2” card. It’s a damned good card.
“Listen,” he says, when the right moment comes. He hands out the card and feels anticipation bubble in his stomach. It’s too much like acid reflux to be a nice sensation anymore. “This is my card. I specialize in new music, debuting artist… you should give me a call, sometime. We can talk.”
Junsu takes the card slowly, chewing on that lip again. “You haven’t ever heard me sing.”
Yoochun bites back on a laugh. “The voice isn’t everything these days, unfortunately. The ability to sell your music is just as important- if not more so.” Something nags at him, though; the way Junsu looks almost… imploring. “Can you sing?”
Junsu nods enthusiastically, but doesn’t look up from the card. “Yeah, yeah. I can, but…”
“But?”
“It just seems-” He pales, then, tossing a wide-eyed look Yoochun’s way. “Not to mean that you’re not being cool, I just, um. It’s really sudden, this, and I’m not sure-”
“No, I understand,” Yoochun says, fighting down a wave of disappointment. For some reason, the idea of hearing the kid sing- of knowing that he could (supposedly, anyway) but then being denied that… he knows it’ll torment him for a long time. “It is rather sudden. Trust me, I don’t give out my card lightly-”
It’s an offhand comment; he doesn’t mean it as a challenge, but Junsu stiffens anyway, shoulders squaring, chin tilting up. His whole demeanor changes in a second, going from guileless, quirky kid to this sudden, fierce… presence.
And then he opens his mouth, and he fucking sings.
*
“Hey, Yoochun-”
“Learn to knock, Changmin.”
“There’s nothing to knock on.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Yoochun says. “This is an office.”
Changmin looks at him, then at the space around them. “It’s a cubicle.”
He glares up at Changmin. “Same thing.”
“If it’s the same thing, then why is it a cubicle?”
Yoochun glares some more.
“C’mon, Yoochun, I’m standing here and I can see you over the partition, why do I need to-”
“Because I’m busy now, Changmin,” he snaps. “Do Not Disturb.”
The man sighs. “Alright, got it. But first, I really need you to look this chart over-”
“No.”
“Okaaaaay, but you see, PR? Heechul? He’s going to literally kick me in the nuts if I don’t-”
“Not now, Changmin!”
“Jeez, yeah. I get it. What crawled up your ass and died?”
Yoochun doesn’t answer, and Changmin grumbles and wanders off.
Yoochun stares at the screen, refusing to pull his head out of his spreadsheet. If he does, then he’s going to think about something other than the spreadsheet, and that something other is going to be the kid.
Junsu.
And he can’t think about Junsu now, because if he starts thinking about him then he isn’t going to stop. Today is Tuesday and they’re meeting for coffee on Saturday to “talk business” (a coffee date. On a weekend!, squeals Yoochun’s inner thirteen-year-old girl), and if Yoochun has to think about it for five straight days, he’s going to go insane.
Or maybe he’s already crazy- it’d explain a lot, Yoochun thinks, because he feels like he might just be in love.
[NEXT]
started writing: 3/17/11
finished writing: 6/19/11
master list
HOPE YOU LIKE IT BB ♥ ;A; Lots of wibbles went into getting this part finished, because it's pretty different from anything I've done before and it's very long and Yoochun was being spazzy and difficult lol. But Part 2 is currently in-progress and will be coming along shortly, and it will be filled with all sorts of Yoosu fail and flail and goodness :D 'Til then ♥!
/or some snappy title like that.
A Yoosu romcom (help_japan) fic for oldwillow_brook :D♥
In which Yoochun’s a corporate somebody and Junsu’s a street-dancing nobody, and they’ve got nothing in common and no reason to meet, but Yoochun’s somehow ended up stalking him anyway.
Pop-culture references abound! In disclaimer: the WENUS is property of Chandler Bing, some dialogue stolen from The Office, and if Yoochun could, he would have a nightly reservation to dine at Dorsia. There's more in there, somewhere. Candy funky for you if you can catch ‘em all!
Yoochun moves to Thebigcity three months after he graduates from university. He arrives with a head full of music theory, big plans, a lot of hope and an ironic appreciation of Avenue Q. The apartment he finds is in a shitty neighborhood and it’s I cook off my heater and pee in my sink small, but it’s not too shabby for the price he pays. He’s going to get a nothing-job and works on his songwriting on the side until The Big Break hits.
This plan sticks for two months, in which he works at the local indie coffee shop. He serves girls with angry-looking piercings and guys who were the same hoodie every day and smell like weed and, god, the hipsters- he doesn’t last long. He refuses to wait there until something better comes along.
So he trolls through newspapers and job search engines, bemoaning his fate like any good man going through his quarter-life crisis. It makes his music more angsty than it already is, and his not-really-a-roommate Jaejoong always complains about it.
“You need more happiness in your life,” he likes to say. “Not some boring career.”
“You need to get a career and get off my fucking couch,” Yoochun says.
Jaejoong rolls his eyes and shrugs. “I buy groceries, don’t complain.”
And Yoochun doesn’t, because Jaejoong also cooks said groceries and it’s better than making ramen and stealing muffins from the coffee shop, which is what he did for the first month, before he picked Jaejoong up at some bar and the man decided he liked Yoochun’s couch more than he liked Yoochun.
Two weeks later, he finds this:
thebigcity craigslist >> downtown >> jobs >> business/mgmt jobs
>ENTRY-LEVEL POSITION AT RECORD LABEL
Date: 2012-04-28, 1:23PM EST
Reply to: job-smdb5k-14102831@craigslist.org
Looking for motivated, self-starting individuals who have passion to work in music industry. We are new but growing rapidly, specialize in artist development, music production, and marketing. All areas currently hiring entry-lvl positions. Training provided, but background in music a plus. High possibility for upward mobility within company, great opportunity and experience. Salary with benefits, DOE.
Qualifications:
Confident, highly organized, creative
Work well with team
Able to work long hours under pressure
Familiarity with Music Licensing and EMSM preferred
Attach resume and cover letter via email
Location: Thebigcity
This is a full-time job.
Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!
Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
It’s corporate and that makes him wrinkle his nose, but it’s also kind of perfect (okay, really perfect). He needs the experience, the contacts, and a year or two at a real company will great on a resume. Why the hell not?
Twelve Years Later.
“…So I tell him, No, you peon, we don’t put those spreadsheets through until Friday, they’re part of the WENUS - and evidently I work with five-year-olds because he starts giggling. But then I call over Hyuk and he starts talking about the digital sales projections for the new guys, whatstheirname, I don’t know but it sounds like it’s got “fuck” in it and you know PR’s freaking over it - that’s why they’re making our lives hell, I’d bet my life on it - but anyway, Hyuk’s trying to implement these linear regression equations and I don’t think it’s a great idea, but… Yoochun. Hey. Hey, are you listening to me?”
Yoochun flicks his eyes up from his computer to Changmin, who’s hovering just outside Yoochun’s cubicle with his arms comfortably crossed over the top of the partition, the tall freak.
“Someone is an idiot, you’re a Stats nerd. Did I get it right?”
The younger man rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically. “Close enough. But seriously, the whole department is seriously on the bend. How are we going to send these spreadsheets in if these-”
Yoochun’s heard enough. “Go move your needle somewhere else, Changmin, I’m busy.”
He glances up long enough to see the smirk sneak across his coworker’s face and despairs, because evidently five-year-old humor is contagious.
“You do realize you’re thirty, right?” he asks.
Changmin snorts. “I’m thirty-two, thanks -and I’m still young. Just because you’ve given up on life doesn’t mean the rest of us have to wallow in self-pity.”
“You sound like you’ve been talking to Jaejoong,” Yoochun mutters, opening a new tab in Excel and starting in with zeal.
“Maybe I have,” Changmin leers, but when Yoochun doesn’t respond he slumps. “Well I would talk to him, if you’d just give me his number.”
“No chance in hell.”
“Why not?” he whines.
“Because then the two most annoying people in my life would join forces, and I would cry,” Yoochun says as dryly as possible. He imagines Changmin being dragged over by hot, sandy, Saharan winds, and wishes he would blow away completely.
“Harsh, man. Harsh.”
Very, Yoochun thinks.
“Well, whatever. I’ve got to work this shit out. But could you talk to Hyuk before he starts in on those projections? It’ll create a helluva lot more paperwork than we need right now-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Yoochun says, waving him off. It’s times like this that he hates being the boss, the go-to who can I take my asinine problems to guy.
Yoochun’s been the marketing division manager for the past six years- seven, come June. He likes his job, even though the work is dull. Paper-pushing, memos, meetings, and more paper-pushing. He hasn’t been in a real studio in years -they’re all downstairs, in the basement. Whenever he actually gets to speak to the artists, they all groan about how nice it must be, up on floor seventeen with the air conditioning and the cushy corner office and “gorgeous view.”
Yoochun despises the view. He’s afraid of heights and has been all his life- which is why he’s not in the cushy office, instead still working out of this dingy cubicle that his bothersome coworkers sometimes mistake for the company water cooler.
“See you at four!” Changmin says in parting, weaving his way back through the office maze.
Yoochun swears. He forgot about the conference meeting. He hates debut promotions; they always mess up his routine. He clicks on the second Excel tab and starts in, 75 wpm.
*
Yoochun leaves the office everyday at 7:00, give or take a minute, and takes another :30 to get home. His apartment is in the same district as his office building, but traffic is an epidemic in Thebigcity. Inescapable.
Today is no different; he opens the door to his apartment at 7:32, already tugging off his tie.
“I’m home!” he calls out, and counts down the seconds until Jaejoong yells back.
3…2… “’Bout time!”
His voice echoes through the penthouse apartment, which is massive and so far from the tiny little thing he’d existed in all those years ago. The only thing that hasn’t changed is Jaejoong, who still refuses to pay rent on the grounds that he doesn’t want to.
“I’m not late!”
“You said you’d be back early!” Jaejoong complains, and Yoochun tilts his head, listening for the source; it sounds like he’s in the studio, though it’s hard to tell. Jaejoong decorated the place sparse and white, like an albino Ikea catalogue, and sound travels strangely through the halls.
But he never complains, not even about the penthouse height. Jaejoong wanted penthouse and Yoochun wanted the status symbol -why not, when he could afford it?
“Got caught in a meeting,” he calls again, waiting for an answer like the grown-up version of Marco Polo.
“You should have called!” Jaejoong shouts, and this time his voice is accompanied by the tinkering sound of music. Definitely the studio, then.
The home studio is Yoochun’s haven, the only place the music is his- but it’s not like he ever has time for it anymore. The only reason the equipment isn’t gathering dust is because Jaejoong likes to play the piano. The man never had an interest in music till they met, but Yoochun has to admit he has quite an ear for it. Yoochun thinks Jaejoong would do pretty damn well for himself, if he’d ever actually commit to it -or to anything else besides his beloved status as a kept man.
But… he also has to admit, Jaejoong does “kept” pretty damn well. He leans against the doorframe and watches Jaejoong bend over the keys of his baby grand and thinks, He’s a beautiful creature.
Jaejong’s got his bottom lip caught between his teeth, a heavy bite of red against pale skin. He hums absently and it highlights the taut chords of his neck, the jut of his collarbones exposed by the low dip of his designer shirt. The sleeves are rolled up, hugging the tight line of his forearms, and his hands are manicured perfection, his fingers dancing smoothly over the keys.
And all these years later Yoochun is still head over heels but never going to do a damn thing about it in love, and when Jaejoong finally looks up and gives him a smile, he can only sigh and smile back.
“So… dinner?”
*
The battery in Yoochun’s alarm clock dies.
“No… No… No. Listen, don’t do anything until I get there, okay? Don’t. Do. Anything.”
He groans and puts his forehead to the steering wheel, giving the horn a full six angry seconds of life, but it does little good to get the car in front of him to move more than two inches further.
He lifts his head and stares blearily at the massive traffic disaster that’s sprawled out around him. Going home in traffic is one thing; sitting through it at seven in the morning - before his morning coffee - is just plain torture.
The grunt on the other end of the line is still mumbling and Yoochun sighs. “He wants to what?” Another mumble. “Tell him no. Yes, I know he has… no. What? He can’t possibly think that’s a good idea-”
Yoochun usually gets to work an hour early. But today is not “usually.” Today, Yoochun overslept and is just on time, and now he’s stuck in traffic and that means he might just be late. Yoochun is never late. Never. And, as he has always feared, it seems like the office is falling apart without him.
“I’m in traffic, I’ll be there soon,” he says instead. “Tell everyone to wait until I get there. If they can’t wait, then the answer is no. The answer will always be no.”
There’s a dejected sigh on the other end of the line, and Yoochun thinks that maybe he could get used to sitting in traffic; it at least delays having to deal with these problems (read: people) face to face. It’s much easier to deny a request when you don’t have to stare at the downcast expression, or worse, listen to the bitching afterward.
So he ends the call, plucking his Bluetooth out of his ear and tossing it away, not caring where it lands. If it breaks, he can buy another one. He feels a headache coming on and raises a hand to his forehead, trying to relax. With the other hand he flips on the radio, for the first time in years, and tunes into the first station that isn’t 90% static.
…stening to K-CASS! I’m your DJ, don’t U-KNOW? Hahaha! We’ve got another half-hour of music to go, but stay tuned, because after the tunes we’ve got hot T-O-P-i-c singer here- That’s right, it’s TOP, Mr. Number One! But now we’ve got a fresh track from the newest, freshest of girl groups, it’s ‘Honey Bunny’ by The Flower Girls-!
Yoochun almost gags at how damned perky the DJ sounds, but then again that’s morning radio for you. And the song that starts is just as upbeat: bubbly auto-tune, sickly sweet, and god knows it’s probably got a dance that’s sure to go viral - but that’s what the market wants these days.
The songs ends, and the next one is so similar he can barely tell them apart; Yoochun switches off the radio completely. He gets enough of that shit at work.
And that’s when he spots him.
It’s from just a glance of his periphery, but Yoochun’s eye catches on holy mother of color and he finds his head turning against his will, unable to look away from the obscenity of fashion.
The kid is wearing bright orange pants topped by an equally fluorescent tie-dye shirt that looks like it probably started off green but then got in a fight with a washing machine, a pair of red socks and a bucket of bleach. Evidently it lost, horribly.
He’s got falling-apart sneakers (Yoochun’s instep aches just looking at them) and knock-off sunglasses that almost swallow his face, but his ears are encased in headphones that look top-of-the-line.
He’s standing at the intersection, waiting for the light to change, but he’s far from still. His head bobs and his shoulders rock back and forth and his feet shuffle in some sort of rhythm. Yoochun’s just catching on to the beat when the light changes; when the kid gets to the other side of the road he heads down a side-street, out of sight.
Yoochun leans back in his seat and doesn’t notice the way his fingers tap on the armrest.
*
Yoochun decides going into work later might not be such a bad thing. Jaejoong thinks it’s great- because, he decides, he can now fix breakfast for Yoochun every morning.
“You just want an excuse to buy that espresso machine,” Yoochun says, sipping on an instant grind. It tastes like shit. He sighs, and gives Jaejoong a blank check.
Jaejoong cackles, and blows a raspberry on Yoochun’s cheek. “Thanks, hun!”
He buys the machine, a $900 monstrosity, and makes scrambled eggs over rice every morning for a grand total of three days. 6:15 is too early, he says after that; morning domesticity just isn’t his thing. Yoochun knows he could go back to leaving early, but he’s not as young as he used to be and his body’s already adjusted to the extra-half hour of sleep.
It’s got nothing to with the kid. Not at all.
So what if the kid happens to be there at the same time, on the same corner of the same street every single damned day? It’s not his fault; the kid’s surprisingly punctual for someone who thinks it’s acceptable to wear skin-tight pastel-pink jeans in public.
Some days Yoochun’s a little late, and only catches a glimpse of him as he turns the corner. Sometimes he’s early, and less traffic means he drives right past him. And some days, his timing is just perfect- 6:50, on the dot, and today, he sees this:
Tattered denim under a red-checkered shirt tied around the waist, and a tee declaring in bold English letters FUCK THE MACHINE WINS, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Yoochun may be old but he knows fashion, at least as pop music calls it (to this day his nightmares come in shades of Candy Funky), but if what this kid wears is considered normal, he despairs for young people everywhere.
And this kid’s definitely young, Yoochun can really see it, idling in the lane closest to the sidewalk and looking at the kid in his sideview mirror. It’s the best look he’s gotten of him yet, and Yoochun can’t help but take in the fine details; a strong jaw, sloped shoulders, a weirdly prominent S-line. His hair’s messy, but in the no, I did not look in the mirror this morning, why you ask? way, not the it took thirty minutes to look this unstyled style. Dark-brown strands stick out from between a threadbare headband and that same pair of headphones.
He walks with purpose, though -up the sidewalk, next to Yoochun’s car, now; he’ll keep going and be out of sight in a few minutes, between the rate he’s going and the rate Yoochun’s not.
He’s way too young, Yoochun thinks. And he still can’t stop himself from looking.
Because what really gets Yoochun, what’s got him every single time, is the way he walks -like he’s dancing, too.
Yoochun doesn’t think this kid ever stops dancing. The headphones obviously have a strong beat going, because his head’s shaking like he wants it to fall off. Every other step is a side-step or a skip, his feet a flurry of motion and his arms an act of balance and tempo, and his hips… well, Yoochun tries not to look too much at his hips.
There isn’t anyone else on the sidewalk with him, but the way he dances, Yoochun doubts he’d care.
Yoochun doesn’t even realize he’s rolled down his window until his head’s halfway out. He’s straining to hear the music that isn’t here, that’s too far out of range, and two blocks later the kid turns that corner and is gone.
A car honks and Yoochun yanks himself back into his car self-consciously, looking around as if someone might jump out screaming Creeper! Everyone look here, look at his shame. No one does, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from sinking into his luxury leather seat and wondering what the fuck is wrong with him- what is it about this kid?
It takes him another :20 to get to work, and it take that long to admit to himself that he just might have a problem.
*
In April, two months before he’s going to get his hard-earned seven-year bonus and turn a very respectable thirty-six years old, Yoochun becomes a stalker.
He’s not quite sure how it happens, because it shouldn’t be possible to stalk someone when you only see them five minutes every other day. Yoochun doesn’t have time to stalk anyone, because he’s got a high-powered job that takes up all his time and because he’s got Jaejoong, who’s demanding on the best of days.
So it isn’t possible or practical or sane to stalk some kid who hates all good things good and fashionable but can dance like he’s… like he’s…
Like he’s something. Yoochun hasn’t figured what that is yet, but he’d like to, and quick, so he can go on with his hard-earned, respectable life.
“What’s up with you these days?” Jaejoong asks. “Are you having a mid-life crisis? I’m not old enough to have a friend who’s having a mid-life crisis.”
Yoochun mutters something like, “Thanks, Jaejoong. I love you too,” and cries on the inside, because it’s probably true.
He consoles himself that he’s at least not following the kid around. So what if he’s a little obsessive about getting to right spot on time? So what if the sight of the kid makes his day a little brighter? He doesn’t even know the kid’s name - so if he is in fact a stalker, then at least he’s a really shitty one. He doesn’t know whether that’s a good or bad thing.
“You’re so weird,” Jaejoong says.
Yooochun sighs.
It’s not like he’s following the kid around, right?
The Next Day.
There’s been a car accident or something, because traffic is even worse than usual. Yoochun keeps glancing at his radio-clock obsessively. His left foot bounces on the floorboard while his right ankle strains with the desire to press down, to go more than .5mph -but there are cars as far as they eye can see and they aren’t budging an inch.
But, finally, he reaches that corner, the intersection of Theplot and Main Street; he checks his mirrors every 3 seconds (side, side, rear) but that’s only because the law requires him to. Right.
He waits. He thrums with nervous energy.
He waits some more.
7:02 slides into 7:04, and Yoochun gives it up for a lost cause. He slumps his seat and damnit, when did he get this pathetic? With a shake of his head he lets his mind roll back to work- crunching numbers and that pile of progress reports on his desk that he swears is radioactive, because nothing natural should grow that fast-
And that’s when the kid races by.
The cord of his headphones flies behind him and there’s no dancing, just a concentrated, pained expression on his face. Yoochun almost laughs- looks like he isn’t the only one running late today.
The kid crosses through the intersection even though the little hand is flashing a countdown and warning- Don’t Walk!… 4… Don’t Walk!… 3… Don’t Walk!…
But he makes it across no problem, dodging around a tiny old lady on the other corner and (quite impressively) hurdling over the bus stop behind her. Then he disappears.
And Yoochun… Yoochun is still stuck in traffic.
“What is my life,” he says, and actually hopes for an answer.
A few more minutes pass and he’s managed to crawl across the intersection himself and sits level with the small one-lane street the kid always goes down. The kid’s not there, of course, but Yoochun can’t help glancing over (only six times. Maybe seven. Ok, fine, fifteen-) and he’s still caught by surprise when a door opens and spits the kid out. There’s a seconds pause, and then he heads further down the street. Dancing.
Damnit.
Yoochun doesn’t even think, doesn’t even realize he’s flipped his blinker until he’s already turned the corner. He doesn’t realize until it’s done, can’t be undone, and well, fuck.
There’s no tension in the kid’s form -evidently he’s not running late anymore, or he’s done whatever it is he does and is now worry-free.
Good for him, Yoochun thinks sourly. He’s cursing under his breath - at himself, at the universe - and coasting slow because he doesn’t know what else to do.
But then he’s reached the kid, is coasting along right next to him, and of course the kid isn’t blind or deaf or stupid, it only takes him about five freaking seconds to notice the creepy black car creeping like a creepy thing right next to him. And then he’s turning, he’s looking at Yoochun’s car, he’s looking at Yoochun-
Yoochun freezes, an honest-to-God might as well be a cartoon block of ice freeze. He’s caught like a deer in headlights, and all he can think is thank fuck for tinted windows.
The kid gives his car a long look over, and then starts walking again. And Yoochun, maybe because the universe hates him, probably because he’s the worst, most obvious stalker ever, starts coasting, too.
The kid falters, again.
Yoochun brakes.
The kid turns, tilts his head in this adorably confused manner.
Yoochun feels something die inside of him.
“Um…” the kid says, his voice high and a little raspy and only slightly muffled by the windows. “Anyone in there? ‘Cause this is a little weird.”
He actually reaches out and taps on the window, and Yoochun gulps and realizes shit, this is it even as he attempts to rearranage his face into something resembling self-control. He’s faced down diva musicians and bullshitted Fortune 500 execs -some kid off the street shouldn’t bother him in the slightest. So he presses two fingers that are not shaking to his arm rest and the window rolls down with a low hum, dropping the last barrier between stalker and unknowing stalker-ee.
“Hi,” the kid says immediately, blunt but surprisingly cheerful. “You’ve got a really nice car. Is there a reason you’re following me?”
“Yes,” Yoochun answers, choking only a little. “No, I mean, yes- thank you.”
The kid nods. “How much does something like this cost?”
Yoochun’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Excuse me?”
The kid actually blushes. “I, er. Sorry, is that rude? It just… looks really expensive…”
“It is,” Yoochun sniffs, pride curling up warm in his chest. “It’s a custom built model.”
“That’s cool,” he says. He gives Yoochun a once-over and nods like he’s settled something. “You definitely look like someone who could afford a fancy custom car.”
The way he says it, Yoochun’s not sure if it’s a compliment or not, but Yoochun’s going to take it anyway. “Thank you,” he nods.
“I’ve think I’ve seen you around,” the kid goes on, not giving him time to say more. “I like looking at nice cars. Don’t know anything about them, really, but walking downtown, you always see them driving around. It’s better when there’s no traffic, of course, so you can see them really move, but sometimes, y’know-”
He stops, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His forehead wrinkles like he’s come across a problem, like he’s run out of things to say. He’s a strange one, Yoochun thinks, but oddly enough he doesn’t care. So he takes a deep breath, thinks man up and grow a pair, Park-
“I’ve seen you around, too,” he starts, voice lowered to keep it from breaking. A second later he realizes he probably sounds like a pedophile. He chokes, and manages to cough out- “I mean, I drive by here most days, so I’ve seen you danc- walking. I’ve seen you walking. Around. On the street.”
“Oh,” the kid says. “That’s… cool.”
Smooth, Yoochun weeps. Real smooth.
“So…” the kid says, drawing the word out. “Is there a reason you’re following me now? Or were you following me? Because if not, er, my bad, I don’t mean to accuse your or-”
He stops again. Seems to be a thing of his. Yoochun takes a deep breath and scrambles for something to say, wracks his brains for something, anything that doesn’t make him sound like a freak. Something,
“I… was…” he stalls. C’mon. Something, anything- “I was trying a short-cut! Yes. Traffic is awful, like you said,” he chuckles weakly, and the kid’s mouth makes an ‘o’ of understanding. “I… thought going, this way… trying a different route. But then you… were… walking, and I didn’t want to… startle. You.”
Yoochun’s making this shit up as he goes, but the kid’s face clears seamlessly. “Oh, that’s nice! Sorry, I wasn’t really paying-” He lifts a hand, motioning to the headphones that he’s pulled down around his neck. “I kinda get into my own head, sometimes.”
“Of course, of course,” Yoochun soothes, feeling more in control of the situation. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” He puts his arm up on the windowsill and leans forward conversationally, catching a closer glimpse of his headphones, the familiar lettering and gold-casing and thick bowl pads. “Grado Prestige?” he comments. “Nice.”
The kid looks surprised, and his head drops, neck scrunching, like he needs to see the headphones to confirm it. “Uh, yeah, they are. How’d you know?”
Yoochun smirks. “I know a thing or two. You pick up these things, working in music.”
At the mention of that the kid’s eyes go wide. “You work in music? Like, you’re a musician?”
He holds in a sigh. “Close enough,” he says, hedging. It seems enough for the kid, though; his whole face lights up and he says “Wow, that’s awesome,” like he really means it.
It’s been a long time since Yoochun’s heard that sort of enthusiasm, honest and unsullied by the industry wear-and-tear. The kid smiles and Yoochun can’t resist smiling back.
“My name is Park Yoochun. What’s your name, kid?” he asks, and suddenly it’s so easy, slipping into the smoother-than-smooth I’m going to make this pitch so fast and hard you’ll be begging for more before it’s even over attitude that’s got him this far in the game.
“Junsu,” Junsu says.
“Junsu,” he repeats, and the name feels like butter melting on his tongue. “Pleasure to meet you.”
He offers his hand, and Junsu has to shift his satchel around before he can take it. He looks flustered, almost nervous; his cheeks are red. Nothing like the brash kid knocking on his window a minute ago. “Nice to meet you, too,” he murmurs.
“I’ve actually noticed you’re -ah, dancing,” Yoochun ventures. “You’re pretty good. Have you had training?” He’s actually pretty curious about that.
Junsu shrugs. “Not really. A little, when I was a kid…”
As if he’s not now, Yoochun thinks, despairingly. “You’ve certainly got moves,” he says instead; not a lie. “And I like you’re… style. It’s interesting.” A little bit of a lie.
“Thanks,” Junsu says. His hand comes up and rubs at a shock of bangs at his forehead. “It’s not really anything-”
“But it really is,” Yoochun says. “I know a thing or two, remember? You’ve got enough to catch my eye. You’ve got potential.”
While they’ve been talking his other hand has been reaching around, patting through his pockets, searching. When he finds what he’s looking for he gives himself a giant mental pat on the back. Outwardly he keeps his expression pleasant, disarming, as he drags his thumb over his prized business card- the raised lettering, the thick stock, the subtly indented watermark on the bone-colored 3.5 × 2” card. It’s a damned good card.
“Listen,” he says, when the right moment comes. He hands out the card and feels anticipation bubble in his stomach. It’s too much like acid reflux to be a nice sensation anymore. “This is my card. I specialize in new music, debuting artist… you should give me a call, sometime. We can talk.”
Junsu takes the card slowly, chewing on that lip again. “You haven’t ever heard me sing.”
Yoochun bites back on a laugh. “The voice isn’t everything these days, unfortunately. The ability to sell your music is just as important- if not more so.” Something nags at him, though; the way Junsu looks almost… imploring. “Can you sing?”
Junsu nods enthusiastically, but doesn’t look up from the card. “Yeah, yeah. I can, but…”
“But?”
“It just seems-” He pales, then, tossing a wide-eyed look Yoochun’s way. “Not to mean that you’re not being cool, I just, um. It’s really sudden, this, and I’m not sure-”
“No, I understand,” Yoochun says, fighting down a wave of disappointment. For some reason, the idea of hearing the kid sing- of knowing that he could (supposedly, anyway) but then being denied that… he knows it’ll torment him for a long time. “It is rather sudden. Trust me, I don’t give out my card lightly-”
It’s an offhand comment; he doesn’t mean it as a challenge, but Junsu stiffens anyway, shoulders squaring, chin tilting up. His whole demeanor changes in a second, going from guileless, quirky kid to this sudden, fierce… presence.
And then he opens his mouth, and he fucking sings.
*
“Hey, Yoochun-”
“Learn to knock, Changmin.”
“There’s nothing to knock on.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Yoochun says. “This is an office.”
Changmin looks at him, then at the space around them. “It’s a cubicle.”
He glares up at Changmin. “Same thing.”
“If it’s the same thing, then why is it a cubicle?”
Yoochun glares some more.
“C’mon, Yoochun, I’m standing here and I can see you over the partition, why do I need to-”
“Because I’m busy now, Changmin,” he snaps. “Do Not Disturb.”
The man sighs. “Alright, got it. But first, I really need you to look this chart over-”
“No.”
“Okaaaaay, but you see, PR? Heechul? He’s going to literally kick me in the nuts if I don’t-”
“Not now, Changmin!”
“Jeez, yeah. I get it. What crawled up your ass and died?”
Yoochun doesn’t answer, and Changmin grumbles and wanders off.
Yoochun stares at the screen, refusing to pull his head out of his spreadsheet. If he does, then he’s going to think about something other than the spreadsheet, and that something other is going to be the kid.
Junsu.
And he can’t think about Junsu now, because if he starts thinking about him then he isn’t going to stop. Today is Tuesday and they’re meeting for coffee on Saturday to “talk business” (a coffee date. On a weekend!, squeals Yoochun’s inner thirteen-year-old girl), and if Yoochun has to think about it for five straight days, he’s going to go insane.
Or maybe he’s already crazy- it’d explain a lot, Yoochun thinks, because he feels like he might just be in love.
[NEXT]
started writing: 3/17/11
finished writing: 6/19/11
master list
HOPE YOU LIKE IT BB ♥ ;A; Lots of wibbles went into getting this part finished, because it's pretty different from anything I've done before and it's very long and Yoochun was being spazzy and difficult lol. But Part 2 is currently in-progress and will be coming along shortly, and it will be filled with all sorts of Yoosu fail and flail and goodness :D 'Til then ♥!