(for latchedwindows) the uncertainty principle ✸ part 1 of 2
❊ for: latchedwindows
❊ title: the uncertainty principle
❊ pairings: kai/d.o
❊ rating: pg13
❊ warnings: confusing stuff, physics jargon,[Spoiler (click to open)]travelling through parallel universes
❊ word count: 13,858
❊ summary: This is where the scene starts: this seaside is our secret, and that star is where we'll go next. -The whole world is a big equation for Jongin, and Kyungsoo draws him a map to first loves.
❊ a/n: Thank you so much to my r.a.d. friends who helped me throughout the fic. To my recipient, I hope you like it!
Kim Jongin does not travel a lot. But he leaps.
A change of scenery is a bit of a thrill and probably an excitement. But what lies in front of his eyes right now is too much. In his 24 years of living, he’s pretty sure this place of quick and busy pedestrians and huge color-coated glass of advertisements is not his home country.
He jolts up from his relaxed position, turning to his right, eyes narrowing in question. He skims aimlessly from vibrant neon lights to several pumped up faces of youth. The soft music of a violin fills his ears, but it does nothing to calm his nerves. He’s sitting on the backseat of a vehicle, his side pressed against the door with the view of crowded yellow cabs fueling more questions before he begins panicking. He flinches as uneasiness whirs in his gut, a mix of blurry and vivid images meld in his mind. His office desk, a photograph of his dog, and the photocopy machine distort in the surge of wheres and hows that follow.
An instant step on the break takes him to notice someone in the front seat. The chauffeur, Jongin assumes from the ivy cap and white gloves, pulls the gear down neutral and makes a contact through the rear-view mirror.
“We’re here.” English? It baffles him. A stranger in late 50’s, driving him somewhere he’s never been, and without forming words in his minds, he asks.
“Who are you?” The blatant question sets the person’s eyebrows scrunched.
“Jongin, sir, the show is in three hours.” He stares at the man, trying to decode the unfamiliar words. The chauffeur’s eyes are searching; the look on his eyes worried, lips starting off tight and turning into grin. “You feel okay?” This is in fact, not Korea.
Jongin feels his grip on the seat tighten. His heartbeat starts to tick down and feels like a punch. He shuts his eyes close, and if he concentrates enough, he’s going to wake up, right? No.
With shaky hands and a conviction he does not actually feel, he turns the door latch single-handedly and he feels his face go rigid in the cold air. He is assaulted with streams of faces and unfamiliar streets, ignoring the shouts of the old man back in the car. He almost runs, sidestepping from strangers and rubbernecks. The once muted sounds of bustling cars and street music in that suffocating vehicle are now animated in his ears.
He skips his steps because escaping is better than sitting with the mockery of something foreign. Another eyeful of disturbing crowd on high, a sight of fucking bright lights echoing in his grimace, his steps start becoming unhurried when flashes of lights blink towards him. A few people holding devices start to match his pace.
“Aren’t you… aren’t you Kai?” A woman speaks over the noise, and if wasn’t for the eager smile and eyes on his own widening pair, Jongin wouldn’t have known that question was directed at him. His way has been covered by crowd, and he thinks it is best to stop because, well-he doesn’t know his destination, but it was the urge of wanting to get out that pushes him to wherever. He realizes it was oversight when flashes of cameras blur everything down, pinning him in his casual shirt and pants as their subject. With difficulty he tries to walk past the minefield of people hooting cheers in his face, his feet finding a free space to run through. But disbelief came over the rush, tells a no chance of passing by this whole thing when something not new to him calls for his attention.
“The child wonder! Can you sign this for me please?” A red and white pamphlet, and a pen are being shoved in his hands. He freezes on his spot, conflicted when he sees himself, his photo, smiling back at him, and as caption it reads: Billy Elliot Broadway. Kai. Imperial Theatre. Strange. It all comes landing like blows, and crowd chatters cloud him in, the bustling cars and heavy street music too loud for his liking-
Jongin doesn’t know it yet, but that was just the first.
In a blink he stands by the photocopy machine, almost slumping over from the impact, but his legs remain firm. It was a sudden change of breeze, sunny, something that his thin shirt is more suitable for. It’s a drop down of silence, except for the pitter-patter of hands on keyboards beating the deadline. But the dullness it brings is much more okay than those of honking cabs and camera snaps. Maybe it was nothing, because the white walls are back, and the photocopy machine is making sounds, waiting for the input of another set of papers.
His head is constantly pulsating, and the sharp, thin force has Jongin rubbing his head.
“Hangover?” Someone quips from behind-he knows who it is from the voice. Park Chanyeol, another apprentice who wishes to extend his skills and write-ups for resume. It’s a tough world out there, and the short and lacking string of connections and network pulls you back before you make it anywhere else.
“No, no.” Jongin waves it off.
“I see.” The other loads more paperwork in the tray, wordlessly leaving him for more shitload to do. “They told me you should get this done before the product demo. Better not to upset the bosses.” Chanyeol sighs apologetically.
Jongin puts a sheet in the paper tray, shortly being consumed as he pushes a button.
“I haven’t seen you wandering around the dingy bar lately.” Chanyeol starts, grabbing the nearest stool.
“I’ve been preoccupied.”
“Really? Is it someone I know?” Chanyeol asserts loud enough, inviting the subtle-looking, eavesdropping sweeper’s eyes.
“Not that.” Jongin argues, his brows furrowing. Chanyeol bats him a snicker.
“From what then?”
“Making my time worthy. You should try it sometimes.” Jongin puts up a sheet from the stack towards the man, fingers stretched out emphasizing the article title. The Brightest Atom Laser to Date. “I’ve been attentive lately, a lot.”
“When are you not?” Chanyeol stands up and snatches the sheet before Jongin withdraws it, his eyes narrowing as he scans the words. “You’re seriously reading this?”
“The world is changing.” Jongin states matter-of-factly. “That’s why Wolfgang has lured in MIT’s belief; had them assuming that brightness and coherence makes the state stagnant, when there’s not even a technical description of the laser presented.”
“God, Jongin.” Chanyeol sighs in resignation. Jongin thinks he heard the screw squeaking when the other sits back heavily. “Still not over that issue?”
“Marching-in-lockstep. That’s just it.” Jongin places a stamp pad above the sheet, separating from others for further reading later. Somehow he knows what to say. “You were there, Chanyeol. Last week, when Yunho bucked the whole team’s work, opting to thrust the funds for the single mode operation instead.”
“Of course. It’s him.” Chanyeol rolls his eyes, making himself more pronounced. “Yunho doesn’t think twice elbowing aside the undone optic laser coupling, when the word comes from a big Bose-Einstein and science spouter, as long as the return of investment is extensive.”
“These trial-and-error notions don’t break into the table-top system’s good books.” Jongin now has his hand poised in his hip; the other gesturing towards the papers.
“You want to get your hands full with this R and D in the future?”
“Maybe.” Jongin shrugs. He doesn’t see anything wrong with that. Chanyeol whistles, teasing as Jongin huffs.
“Still having these late night erotic dreams about a Master’s degree. That’s the Jongin I know.”
The machine generates a screeching sound, startling Jongin to attend his eyes on the crunch. The fuser area fastens the multi-paper jam. Jongin groans as he clicks on the notification, face displeased as the loud drilling continues.
Chanyeol stands up and grins before turning his back, because he knows. A person does not improve his intellect especially if he’s been the photocopy man, operator or whatever, for 2 months running.
Chanyeol’s work is no better-sitting by a window without louvers, cutting papers for draft purposes in that sweltering area of the office almost everyday, his shirt sticking on his back.
It’s decent work, but everything is a continuity of his mundane life. Jongin is a fresh graduate, with an uncommon degree to boot. As what everyone expects, he also had yearned for a return of investment, but well again, connections. Your sickest years of pulling your own weight maybe twisted in lines of nothingness. After minutes filling up his timecard, and a substantial amount of work done, he goes back to his station.
Jongin plops down on the seat and stretches. He must have been used to the strain his arm gets, with those hours of continuously putting in and out papers, and lifting the cover up and down. In times of idleness, he does not loiter or express much with his officemates around. His demeanor remains quiet, tired and waiting for the sunset, occasionally checking his watch.
A look on the front and a white note catches his attention. A thing he had written yesterday and stuck on the computer (something he has never used, or perhaps, in the future he will). He supposes not to entertain the idea, but Jongin wasn’t raised to be rude.
Call the publisher.
The proposal comes with chains of opportunities that may streak recognition, a state-of-the-art catalyst also for his field. Enticing and tempting. But there’s something he doesn’t like that rims the idea with wariness.
His ideas do not circle Physics alone, and to sharpen his proficiency, he had always gone extra miles. Jongin remembers the free times he had killed, and publicity may not be so bad. But with media comes along the confinement of his views, a taint on his personal brand, and revisions as to what people want to see.
He tells himself he’s not interested, but he pulls down the note and pockets it anyway.
Now, what’s the publisher’s name again? Do Kyungs-
The scene bathes in a purple glow from the ceiling lights. Jongin sees an amount of empty booths, making him feel uninvited. He sits in front of a shiny steel counter, with a quantity of tacos and marinated pork ribs.
The high stool sets him up for anxiety. He isn’t supposed to be here, with the lace of a guitar case slung on his arm. What was that? He remembers the note, the pitter-patter of mouse clicks: a distinct memory. Jongin shifts on his seat, and over the counter he sees a young man from the office, now in a shirt vest, wiping a bottle of rum.
“Sehun? What the hell is happening?” At the mention of the name, the man flings off the cloth and walks towards him, putting down the piece of glass before sighing exasperatedly.
Jongin waits for a response, but Sehun’s glare is in the midst of blowing off, boiling up the puzzle even more, and maybe that tells something already.
“Sir, you know what’s happening.” Sir? Jongin grabs on the wooden armrest and leans forward, and probably looking long enough at the other will inject some sense into him. “If I were you, I will finish those tacos fast and leave.”
“Why? It’s me- Jongin!” Sehun scoffs, rolling his eyes, and it’s just a matter of seconds before Jongin finds it disturbing.
“I know. You’ve been a regular here for quite some time.” Sehun says. “You’re very young for this thing.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t it bother you?” Sehun fills him up seconds of Kraken, although neon signs advertise Bacardi. “The bad guy was here earlier, looking for you.”
As on cue, an answer comes in place when he hears the street door creaking open. Jongin turns to the source and sees a face mostly covered by a scowl, and arms with tattoos. He almost winces when the reek of alcohol wafts over him. It reminds him of those guys he’s seen on TV as a child-pirates, to be exact. But the foot isn’t amputated.
“Finally got some loot?” The man asks, his tone loud and unpleasant. “You’re not thinking about running away, are you?”
Jongin is quick to notice the strands of suspicion brimming in him. Sehun, as if knowing, folds his arms, smug-faced and leaves the counter.
“What have I done?”
“Oh, playing dumb? You’re not the only one who needs money here, Kim.”
The lack of explanation leaves him wondering. He checks his surroundings once again, and the folds on the other’s face scar his thoughts. His heart starts to pound in a quick pace, rendering him in a clusterfuck of confusion.
“I didn’t do anything!” He blurts, as if pleading, and it’s making him sick that he wants to pull his hair out.
“Fuck you. You said you would pay today!” Jongin springs up on his seat before a clenched fist meets him, and in return, the glass of rum, now flipped sideways-a great amount of spillage is wasted. In instinct Jongin hastily leaves his seat, with an extra baggage in his arm, almost knocking down the man in drunken state. A loud thud from behind him and Jongin is out of the run-down diner.
It gives him the same feeling of running away from the camera clicks and vibrant lights a few hours ago. Lately it has been always a surprise greeting him in trance. He quickens his steps away from the place-
Jongin is sitting in front of his desk, head pounding out of rush. His eyes adjust from the sudden brightness, moving slower than usual.
And everything is eerie once again, his work station, the dull white walls and a whole lot of unsettling awareness.
“I didn’t know you’re into music.” At the husky voice, Jongin swivels his chair, and sees Chanyeol sneaking a look over the divider, eyeing something beside him. And when he follows the other’s sight, Jongin sees the same guitar case from elsewhere.
“You can join me and my friends’ gigs sometime, when work’s not a bitch. The bar’s just across the square, facing the footbridge.” The other says, mixed with excitement.
“I-uh, yes. I play once or twice but, this isn’t mine.”
“Can you show me?” Astounded, Jongin’s mouth hangs. But curiosity crosses him as well, and so he does. He flips the zipper down the line until half of the form, and pulls out by the nut. It’s an acoustic.
“So, are you selling it then?” Chanyeol coos.
“No, I mean, look. Chanyeol, what the fuck happened? What the hell was that? I was in a diner, Sehun was there also, and there was this old man...” Jongin narrates, the sentence finishing as a murmur in case of an unwanted attention. And as he recalls there’s this void, a big gap of transition he can’t determine, a blank space which his mind aches to fill in gets him riled up. In his jargon-a null set.
Chanyeol blows out his cheeks and chuckles. “Must’ve been a wild dream for you, huh?” Jongin shakes his head, but he doesn’t push. “I was about to invite you today, boys’ night-out. But you were away for a while, and it seems you need a rest.”
“I was?”
“Whatever. I’ll be continuing my rounds now.” Chanyeol gives a quick glance on the red, shiny instrument-the strings seem new, before his form sinks down on the other side. “Classic.”
Today is more of a space which has so much mass concentration of paradox, but it’s alright. Jongin gets to go home with a new guitar and a set of doubts.
Truth is, as a boy of a musically inclined family, Jongin was in the brink of wrong decisions, almost choosing music as his degree program, but it was too subjective that he had trouble relating sometimes. And now he saw what could have happened if it pushed through-a man in his early 20’s with financial issues. Yikes. It’s a no-no.
It’s a several mixed-type use of occupancies before he gets on his road. It’s just three songs of parade spent of thoughts alone away from his work. He’s grateful for the proximity, because it’s a tough luck in competition bracketing in front of the bus stop. Unlike when he was a student, the boarding house is better though. But right now it’s summer and Jongin doesn’t like bringing umbrellas. He strides fast pass the prepared citizens, feet leaving the ground as soon as they meet.
Home takes in a form of apartment in one of the high streets of Suwon. His free times are spent lying on a mattress flopped on the floor, with the limited supply of a crisper beside it, and a brown pup howling upon his arrival.
Jongin rubs his eyes and flutters his eyelids to stay awake. He dips down on the mattress in depths of drowsiness; blinds filter the soft ends of light as he relaxes his back straight, arms stretching sideways. And before slumber takes over him, he jolts up and fishes out a number from his pocket. It’s time to refuse the publisher’s offer. Who even calls someone, only to say that they reject their ideas? Don’t people’s contacts usually just die out and leave it at that? But the man he was speaking to was nice. The past year was all a burst of black coffee, no sugar, because that keeps Jongin more awake. A bitter sweet flavour of all-nighters, some spent wallowing on self-pity, and Jongin was a struggle of a post-wasted night, but still a wandering cosmic talent. So credit is bound to be met, with means of a publisher wishing to, obviously, publish his undergraduate thesis. It’s a form of flattery that puts him on pedestal.
He puts up his phone, waiting for a hoarse voice from the other line. Through the ringing, Jongin wonders if Do Kyungsoo had saved his number, like he expects the man to perk up when his name flicker on the phone. It was an intrepid move for the man to jolt in the faculty, probing for his contact details underneath the restrictions of his alma mater. He must be very desperate.
“Hello? Kim Jongin?”
Jongin grins at the soft enthusiasm. He crumples on his bed, propping the receiver on his shoulder.
“Hello?” Kyungsoo says again.
“It’s me. You called before.” Jongin falls silent and he hears the shuffle of papers from the other side.
“Oh, yes. This is Do Kyungsoo, speaking. Um, so have you thought of it?” There’s a hopeful lilt on the other’s tone, but Jongin finds it nothing nearing professionalism. Kyungsoo speaks so casual.
“Yes.” Jongin hums.
“Great. I’m really hoping your decision is affirmative? Thank you for calling.”
“No. Actually-” Jongin stares at the ceiling. This actually reminds him of those heartless, rejected phone call confessions in high school.
“I really don’t want to bother you. We don’t have to meet. You can just send me your e-mail.”
“I don’t… I mean, I don’t approve of it. I’m sorry.”
And just like that Jongin hears a silent crack on Kyungsoo’s trill, though, everything lies on pregnant pause. “Why?”
“I- I mean, I understand. But please, consider.” He pretends to think, observing his pup at the end of the bed, playing. Probably the other line could hear the poodle’s cries over a plush toy. It’s getting dark; he needs to feed her.
“It’s confidential.” Kyungsoo knows this already, but he still says, pressing.
“Well, we can only include the synthesis, the a3 sheets, and your boards. Just the main gist.”
His output is deemed as something rewarding at the very end, a title that makes it special. Intellectual property doesn’t really blend well with media, so how can Jongin and Kyungsoo meet halfway?
“Look, not to be rude. But I’m pretty sure you know nothing about the field.” Aside from the short classes in high school, probably. Was that mean of him? He meant to say that no, it’s not really confidential. It’s just him bitching about publicity in his lonely abode. And you can’t just pull out references. The theory itself won’t be exact in the same way. You need every data or else everything wouldn’t matter. Jongin continues.
“Rydberg Atoms in Ponderomotive Potentials. Did you catch that?”
The other line recurs to stillness, instead of resorting to the casual formality of comprehension between a business and its prospect.
“I’m sorry.” Jongin nods after a pause.
“Mine’s not the only outstanding thesis of this year’s batch. There are 4 of us.” His voice is thin, an outward indication of disinterest until Kyungsoo grasps it.
“Okay. Thanks.”
The line remains nothing but a pinch of guilt. It’s kind of harsh, but he wasn’t exactly lying. When Jongin doesn’t hear anything else from the other line, he hangs up.
Jongin gets up and hauls a barking Monggu in his arms, moving him in his earned spot in the kitchen-a pull-out container just beneath the drawer. He pulls out two bags: Friskies and the Ol’ Roy, and gauges which weighs less. He rubs the pup’s belly as he fills the bowl 2 cups of the latter.
“Sorry for making you wait.” He chuckles when Monggu licks his fingers.
The time in his phone ticks 7:24. Morning at the end of the month finds Jongin lingering in his previous university. Arms situated above the railing, he eyes the students trudging and yawning their way on the campus. Sunrise usually comes with the sound of knives sharpening against steel inside this cafeteria serving his favorite Vanilla frappe, though this time Jongin’s not out for drinks.
He inhales the acquired flavorful taste, and watches the cigarette smoke form patterns from the glow of the tip he’s holding between his fingers.
His phone vibrates from his pocket and he grunts. That must be Sehun, ready to whine and complain that he’s done it again-not telling him that he’s taking a day-off. It has already been months, but the man isn’t still comfortable in the office without the closest person in his age. The previous time he was gone, Sehun took his lunch alone in his cubicle which left Jongin with a pang of guilt. The poor guy needs lessons on social skills.
Jongin takes another lungful of nicotine and slowly puffs out the rest, the smoke drifting to his left. It snaps him out of his reverie when he hears a cough, the person beside him shutting his eyes as a hand covers his mouth. Jongin tilts his head as he flicks the remaining stick and stubs out the end on the rail. Not his fault, really. Why did he go near me?
“I’m… sorry.” Jongin apologizes anyway.
His look does not falter when the man standing a meter away from him with his blaring auburn hair coughs, a hand rubbing his chest. Slowly, the man cracks his eyes open. Jongin deems the wide eyes startling.
Auburn haired man regains his ease and rests his side against the railing, casually rubbing his nose and putting down his messenger bag. It’s not an unusual reaction from a second-hand smoker, so he brushes the image away from his mind. His gaze drops back to the clamouring students down the street; the background streams again into chatters and fork clanks.
The man, probably not knowing how to call his attention, clears his throat.
“I have- I have issues with smoke. I’m sorry.” He mutters sheepishly.
Jongin murmurs an okay. He pretends to drift his focus on the pavement looking for bugs, or a bump on the asphalt which may be a considerable excuse to move further away from the other. The lull is disrupted when the man’s wristwatch clangs on the rail.
“Wait, is it my hair? It’s just an experiment, but I’m not going to hurt you, I swear.” The man forces. Jongin furrows his eyebrows, deadpan at the stranger’s impression; all the while the other’s round cheeks are screaming at him. He puts back his lighter in the pouch, opting to discontinue his second round.
It’s as effortless in his plane of thoughts to put in that the male raced up the flight of stairs as he wipes the sweat on his forehead by the heel of his hand. What is in front of him: a presence of a rebel’s hair, but a luster of a timid boy with a small posture. Jongin observes the smooth undercut and the man takes his silence as a prompt to continue.
“Do you maybe wanna go in?” The man smiles hesitantly and points with his thumb. Jongin raises his brows.
“Wow.” He scoffs, turning to slouch against the railing, hands on pockets. “What a way to pick up someone.” Jongin grins at the blank expression.
It takes time of the other’s fingers fondling his shirt before he responds. “I-I’m not… I’m Do Kyungsoo. Sorry I was late.”
Jongin tilts his head, lower lip falling open in surprise.
“I assumed you’re Kim Jongin, since you’re the only one here in the balcony,” Kyungsoo fiddles with his red hair strands-that thing people do when their self-consciousness escalates, “looking like waiting for someone.”
“But-” Jongin utters, placing the previous phone call in his mind at the moment, “I didn’t. I told you I don’t like it.” Something bugs him from within, and doubt is starting to reign again.
“But, wait… you said yes! You told me you’re free today.” Kyungsoo expresses; however it doesn’t correspond from what Jongin recalls. He takes in Jongin’s inquisitive look as if connecting the dots, and Kyungsoo beckons. “Sorry to meddle but, is this about you… being unconfident?”
It’s the thing that daunts him-the fact that Kyungsoo speaks in pauses, but an underlying authenticity over his words makes disbelief hard not to miss. He swallows hard and raises his eyes. His lips quiver as if ready to mutter a rejection again, and tell that Kyungsoo didn’t earn his nod, but the other beats him to it.
“There’s no need to worry, Jongin-ssi. People will always like someone smart as you.” The corner of Kyungsoo’s mouth turns up. The latter hoists up his bag and signals Jongin to go after him. He’s deep in daze that he feels a part of him stepping towards the door-
Jongin gasps and looks around him, blinking back on his ceiling. Part-frustrated because he had woken up before the ring, and a bit rattled over the switch from the sun-kissed area to the confines of his cold duvet. He strains to his left, a good amount of blanket sticking in his damp thin clothing; the clock reads 7:34.
He feels a bit lightweight, and there’s something akin to smoke that clings in his tongue. He sits up, rummaging in his desk for his phone. Feeling far from sleepy, his finger swipes down and rings the number. He absentmindedly waits for a hoarse voice, fiddling the sheets and winding up few seconds later when Kyungsoo mutters a low croon.
“Hey,” Jongin starts, “I never said yes!” He exclaims unabashedly, glancing at his silent abode.
It ripples on his chest-again something he can’t point out, but he stays still, not wanting to deduce anything alarming from that little escapade or whatever it is. He listens and waits for a few seconds more until a far-off groan travels across the line.
“What,” comes off low, “what are you…” Jongin grasps the phone, supposing he had woken up the male. “Jongin-ssi, you told me that already.” Kyungsoo’s voice bleeds sourness, a type of slur in veil.
It’s a few veins of shame that records him in silence, seeding more tangles in his thoughts. Impassively, he grazes his jawline with his free hand and feels the bed sheet imprints. Maybe Chanyeol is right. Though, Jongin is grown enough to distinguish a dream from not. He wants to hang up, but before he does, “Do you fancy hair dyes?” Stupid mouth.
“Are you sure you dialed the right number?” There’s a glint of humor in the other’s tone, and to bring up back a sliver of grace on his side, he asserts an affirmative.
Kyungsoo snorts, now fully awake. “Here I thought you, calling early in a Saturday have finally changed your mind.” Jongin stretches his arm, leafing through the pages of his planner and checks the date.
“I’m sorry I just,” Kyungsoo speaks throaty in dulcet tones, the same voice as that from the balcony, and Jongin is baffled- “…really need this deal. The offer’s still up.”
“I gotta go.” A glance on his phone and Jongin presses end.
His home is a multipurpose one room, though it does not close him in like those mischiefs of him misplaced in the map, as the four sides compliment the amount of openings, passively ventilating the area. It’s one of those days which attests to that, in which the rows of sun light beam too much in contrast to his light walls.
Jongin hastily runs his hand through his hair and he makes it to the sink, his countenance bathing in cold water as he splashes more to inject further consciousness.
His closet needs a fix, Jongin thinks as he observes the tees and cargo pants mixed in a one column pile. For a moment he meanders through some memories when he was a kid; he used to sort these all out by colors-all the black polos far from vivid hue at the back, and anime tees on the front (they take up most of the space).
In a jingle of thought he hurriedly slips on a pullover, not wanting to waste too much time because the oval comes close to full of vendors and loiters when it becomes late.
What could someone do better to spend in a morning, other than jogging with your dog?
Perhaps for a day or two worth of celebration, it’s no longer a mundane life when he passes up a stage, his days worthier. Jongin gets based regularly in a department dealing concretely not on his expertise, but he’d rather much say, something he’s more competent in. He gets to change seats for a better office computer to deal with on-site instrumentations, though his say in the organizational chart’s still not quite big, but it’s a start.
It’s also a different swivel chair he’s sitting in, looking compact, heavy and newly upholstered compared to the last unkempt stool. It seems that your status in the place can be traced by how wide and messy your desk is. And judging from what he has, his is 2 palms wider to fit in technical gauges and sensors, and some, a bit data of oil refineries.
“Missing the pungent smelly papers?” His gaze switches to a head over the partition. “You almost thought you’d throw up the first time. I remember you did.” Sehun clicks his tongue.
“Yeah, well,” Jongin sighs, grimacing at the memory, “I got used to it. Two months.” The wheels squeak as he moves back and pads his arms to his folders, filling the storage underneath the desk.
“No need to be sentimental. You’ve got a few months to go before the higher ups call for you again.” Sehun says matter of factly, fingertips feeling the pale fabric on the panel. “I’m positive. They really like you.”
Maybe Kyungsoo is right about people liking him. Jongin scoffs. “You’re not just saying that, are you?” He follows playfully, considering that his minimum wage raised in three-fold.
“Ah no, no.” Sehun’s eyes grow as he rebuts. “But, yeah. I wish to be promoted soon as well. God, I’m so sick back there.” He points with his mouth. “Chanyeol can’t shut up about the Pan Am semi-finals.”
“Right. About that, Clyde scored six in the closing minutes.”
“Oh god, not you also.” The other irks at the new found hobby, nose wrinkled in distaste. “Anyway, I think this calls for a celebration?” Sehun wiggles his eyebrows, his tone suggestive. “I think I’m ready to beat you in battleshots.”
Jongin rolls his eyes, rubbing his hands off dirt, and the rest he wipes in his pants. “After this,” Jongin’s not stingy. “Bring Chanyeol along. My treat.” Sehun grins widely at the invitation.
“Very impressive. That’s very senior of you.” Sehun chuckles. “By the way, 4th floor. The Ben & Jerry’s melting.”
“Sure.” Jongin puts the puncher in its place. “What flavour?”
“Mint Chocolate.”
Evening comes. He’s currently drying his hands when he declares it futile to speculate. There’s no line of reasoning under normal circumstances befitting.
The fourth time he leaps, Jongin feels contempt over the same thing, deeming the predicament analogous to a run-on subject. He no longer ponders.
A woman’s authoritative voice tells something about scaffoldings and huge cranes being a part of everyday furnishing of the church when he finds himself in the midst of clicking the shutter button.
“-the rows of windows almost wrench the observer-”
Jongin blinks through the viewfinder. He tilts the Instax as rough sounds generate, showing his inexperience, and later finds a film hanging from the exit slot. He pulls out the ejected picture, perplexed at the white vacant film.
“The eastern façade as a whole was meant to be bright and colourful-” The same woman in her 40’s, wearing a conservationist’s vest speaks more of the designer wanting the facade of Suffering in somber colors, pointing up to several towers tapered towards the top, instilling knowledge as she eyes each one of the listeners.
There’s a complete lack of uniformity in ornaments. Jongin finds it unnatural. The creed flares up between the bell towers in glowing letters, directing his eyes upwards, the way the architect wants the people be joyful in cheer at the ascent. Jongin acknowledges the hint, the way the letters seemingly intending to point repeatedly to the messages conveyed by the worship. He takes in the array of pointed vaults, his neck arched, eyes lining the ceiling as he get the impression that he doesn’t know where one sculpture starts and the others finish.
Kyungsoo’s eyes, in fact, are sharp and striking, making Jongin drift to his direction as they hang onto his peripheral. Jongin takes a full turn when the darting eyes cling more to him. The man sports a brown curtained hair, what Jongin sees from where he stands, a distance of 3 ochre benches. His posture may be a bit dauntless, though it’s the same full lips he’s seen, now smiling slyly.
The male saunters towards him, maintaining eye contact. Jongin stills, waiting.
“You,” Kyungsoo grins, his voice honey, “you took a photo of me.” He chuckles teasingly.
Jongin raises a brow, tipping his head to the side as eyes bore on him. And then it clicks. Carefully he pulls out the thin material from his pocket, and presses his lips thin when he sees the film. It’s Kyungsoo standing beside the ironwork tracery, captured looking at him.
“Oh, this-this is… nothing.” He stutters, all the more the other finds it amusing.
“Thank god you’re Korean.” Kyungsoo speaks in relief. He looks around and catches the sight of the group going on the center nave, leaving them behind. “It’s okay. You’re cute.”
Kyungsoo walks two steps past him, clutching a Kodak slung on his neck and clicks on the slanting columns with his tourist stance.
“So, why are you alone?” Kyungsoo marvels, looking up for a picturesque scene. He steps forward and backward until he gets the right amount of exposure.
Jongin asks himself whether he’d bring someone or not, when he earns enough money. Although, any plans do not crisscross his list. He imagines: someday it could be a colossal folders of photos, him posing in markers, stacks of selfies, a collection of risks and travel mixtapes. He laughs-there’s no “someone” to bring along.
“It’s for a change, I guess.” He makes up. “Why are you alone?”
“I do this a lot.” Kyungsoo puts down his camera, facing Jongin fully. “I’m one of them: people who work on their bucket list. I’m entertaining myself. Besides, it’s challenging: coordinating the whole trip by yourself, but it’s not that hard when you get used to it. And, you meet new people.”
Like how you approached me. Kyungsoo shoots him an endearing smile.
“Okay.” Jongin says. “Where else have you been?”
“Well, it’s not much, but I’ve been to Manchester,” he holds out his fingers as he counts, “and London. I also went to Detroit, New York and some places on the West Coast. Last month I went to Naples a week after Florence. After this Barcelona tour, Paris will be the last though.” He finishes with a shrug.
“That’s a pretty impressive list. Why last?”
“I’m preparing for my graduate school.” Jongin listens. The man’s getting big pay, he thinks. The cushion squeaks as he plops down the nearest kneeling pad. “It’s my last free days.”
“What do you do for living, if you don’t mind me asking?” Jongin expects a hold back from Kyungsoo, thinking he’s prying a bit.
“I’m a health care assistant. You?” Kyungsoo stretches forward, popping the question back.
“Taking research apprenticeship.” About atom lasers, he chooses not to add, as the information seems unneeded.
Judging by the place where a yell is considered blasphemous, the conservationist under the multitude shaped bells waves her hand up to call their attention. In his mind, they’re a rough intimation of kids skipping classes.
“I’m Kyungsoo, by the way.” The other informs, focusing on the viewfinder one last time for the parabolic arches. “We’ve got the rest of the tour to talk.”
The last thing he sees is Kyungsoo’s back before he hears someone banging the restroom door, loud and insistent. Sehun is the next in line.
The new camera earns a place in his shelf back home, on top of his textbooks and worn catalogues. Perhaps he could browse tutorials online to fit for the new acquired gadget. However for the new photograph, it takes a few seconds of review before settling to put it back in his purse where it was. It’s just the voice Jongin has, like a reminder that it’s the same publisher he talks to. Jongin remembers it hoarse, but it’s the same as low whenever the pitch strides up or down.
He tells himself the whole thing is coincidence, but the intrigue pokes at him, making him wonder if he gets to meet him again.
Tonight he thinks what he is-the mass he’s made of. A remnant of antimatter perhaps, considering there has been a distortion of spacetime lately. Out of his will he has been plunged into different apertures, maybe authenticating the continuum limit of theories. It’s nothing near methodical, as there’s no checkpoint of reasons.
He shakes his head off the thoughts. Maybe he needs college again.
( part 2 )
❊ title: the uncertainty principle
❊ pairings: kai/d.o
❊ rating: pg13
❊ warnings: confusing stuff, physics jargon,[Spoiler (click to open)]travelling through parallel universes
❊ word count: 13,858
❊ summary: This is where the scene starts: this seaside is our secret, and that star is where we'll go next. -The whole world is a big equation for Jongin, and Kyungsoo draws him a map to first loves.
❊ a/n: Thank you so much to my r.a.d. friends who helped me throughout the fic. To my recipient, I hope you like it!
Kim Jongin does not travel a lot. But he leaps.
A change of scenery is a bit of a thrill and probably an excitement. But what lies in front of his eyes right now is too much. In his 24 years of living, he’s pretty sure this place of quick and busy pedestrians and huge color-coated glass of advertisements is not his home country.
He jolts up from his relaxed position, turning to his right, eyes narrowing in question. He skims aimlessly from vibrant neon lights to several pumped up faces of youth. The soft music of a violin fills his ears, but it does nothing to calm his nerves. He’s sitting on the backseat of a vehicle, his side pressed against the door with the view of crowded yellow cabs fueling more questions before he begins panicking. He flinches as uneasiness whirs in his gut, a mix of blurry and vivid images meld in his mind. His office desk, a photograph of his dog, and the photocopy machine distort in the surge of wheres and hows that follow.
An instant step on the break takes him to notice someone in the front seat. The chauffeur, Jongin assumes from the ivy cap and white gloves, pulls the gear down neutral and makes a contact through the rear-view mirror.
“We’re here.” English? It baffles him. A stranger in late 50’s, driving him somewhere he’s never been, and without forming words in his minds, he asks.
“Who are you?” The blatant question sets the person’s eyebrows scrunched.
“Jongin, sir, the show is in three hours.” He stares at the man, trying to decode the unfamiliar words. The chauffeur’s eyes are searching; the look on his eyes worried, lips starting off tight and turning into grin. “You feel okay?” This is in fact, not Korea.
Jongin feels his grip on the seat tighten. His heartbeat starts to tick down and feels like a punch. He shuts his eyes close, and if he concentrates enough, he’s going to wake up, right? No.
With shaky hands and a conviction he does not actually feel, he turns the door latch single-handedly and he feels his face go rigid in the cold air. He is assaulted with streams of faces and unfamiliar streets, ignoring the shouts of the old man back in the car. He almost runs, sidestepping from strangers and rubbernecks. The once muted sounds of bustling cars and street music in that suffocating vehicle are now animated in his ears.
He skips his steps because escaping is better than sitting with the mockery of something foreign. Another eyeful of disturbing crowd on high, a sight of fucking bright lights echoing in his grimace, his steps start becoming unhurried when flashes of lights blink towards him. A few people holding devices start to match his pace.
“Aren’t you… aren’t you Kai?” A woman speaks over the noise, and if wasn’t for the eager smile and eyes on his own widening pair, Jongin wouldn’t have known that question was directed at him. His way has been covered by crowd, and he thinks it is best to stop because, well-he doesn’t know his destination, but it was the urge of wanting to get out that pushes him to wherever. He realizes it was oversight when flashes of cameras blur everything down, pinning him in his casual shirt and pants as their subject. With difficulty he tries to walk past the minefield of people hooting cheers in his face, his feet finding a free space to run through. But disbelief came over the rush, tells a no chance of passing by this whole thing when something not new to him calls for his attention.
“The child wonder! Can you sign this for me please?” A red and white pamphlet, and a pen are being shoved in his hands. He freezes on his spot, conflicted when he sees himself, his photo, smiling back at him, and as caption it reads: Billy Elliot Broadway. Kai. Imperial Theatre. Strange. It all comes landing like blows, and crowd chatters cloud him in, the bustling cars and heavy street music too loud for his liking-
Jongin doesn’t know it yet, but that was just the first.
In a blink he stands by the photocopy machine, almost slumping over from the impact, but his legs remain firm. It was a sudden change of breeze, sunny, something that his thin shirt is more suitable for. It’s a drop down of silence, except for the pitter-patter of hands on keyboards beating the deadline. But the dullness it brings is much more okay than those of honking cabs and camera snaps. Maybe it was nothing, because the white walls are back, and the photocopy machine is making sounds, waiting for the input of another set of papers.
His head is constantly pulsating, and the sharp, thin force has Jongin rubbing his head.
“Hangover?” Someone quips from behind-he knows who it is from the voice. Park Chanyeol, another apprentice who wishes to extend his skills and write-ups for resume. It’s a tough world out there, and the short and lacking string of connections and network pulls you back before you make it anywhere else.
“No, no.” Jongin waves it off.
“I see.” The other loads more paperwork in the tray, wordlessly leaving him for more shitload to do. “They told me you should get this done before the product demo. Better not to upset the bosses.” Chanyeol sighs apologetically.
Jongin puts a sheet in the paper tray, shortly being consumed as he pushes a button.
“I haven’t seen you wandering around the dingy bar lately.” Chanyeol starts, grabbing the nearest stool.
“I’ve been preoccupied.”
“Really? Is it someone I know?” Chanyeol asserts loud enough, inviting the subtle-looking, eavesdropping sweeper’s eyes.
“Not that.” Jongin argues, his brows furrowing. Chanyeol bats him a snicker.
“From what then?”
“Making my time worthy. You should try it sometimes.” Jongin puts up a sheet from the stack towards the man, fingers stretched out emphasizing the article title. The Brightest Atom Laser to Date. “I’ve been attentive lately, a lot.”
“When are you not?” Chanyeol stands up and snatches the sheet before Jongin withdraws it, his eyes narrowing as he scans the words. “You’re seriously reading this?”
“The world is changing.” Jongin states matter-of-factly. “That’s why Wolfgang has lured in MIT’s belief; had them assuming that brightness and coherence makes the state stagnant, when there’s not even a technical description of the laser presented.”
“God, Jongin.” Chanyeol sighs in resignation. Jongin thinks he heard the screw squeaking when the other sits back heavily. “Still not over that issue?”
“Marching-in-lockstep. That’s just it.” Jongin places a stamp pad above the sheet, separating from others for further reading later. Somehow he knows what to say. “You were there, Chanyeol. Last week, when Yunho bucked the whole team’s work, opting to thrust the funds for the single mode operation instead.”
“Of course. It’s him.” Chanyeol rolls his eyes, making himself more pronounced. “Yunho doesn’t think twice elbowing aside the undone optic laser coupling, when the word comes from a big Bose-Einstein and science spouter, as long as the return of investment is extensive.”
“These trial-and-error notions don’t break into the table-top system’s good books.” Jongin now has his hand poised in his hip; the other gesturing towards the papers.
“You want to get your hands full with this R and D in the future?”
“Maybe.” Jongin shrugs. He doesn’t see anything wrong with that. Chanyeol whistles, teasing as Jongin huffs.
“Still having these late night erotic dreams about a Master’s degree. That’s the Jongin I know.”
The machine generates a screeching sound, startling Jongin to attend his eyes on the crunch. The fuser area fastens the multi-paper jam. Jongin groans as he clicks on the notification, face displeased as the loud drilling continues.
Chanyeol stands up and grins before turning his back, because he knows. A person does not improve his intellect especially if he’s been the photocopy man, operator or whatever, for 2 months running.
Chanyeol’s work is no better-sitting by a window without louvers, cutting papers for draft purposes in that sweltering area of the office almost everyday, his shirt sticking on his back.
It’s decent work, but everything is a continuity of his mundane life. Jongin is a fresh graduate, with an uncommon degree to boot. As what everyone expects, he also had yearned for a return of investment, but well again, connections. Your sickest years of pulling your own weight maybe twisted in lines of nothingness. After minutes filling up his timecard, and a substantial amount of work done, he goes back to his station.
Jongin plops down on the seat and stretches. He must have been used to the strain his arm gets, with those hours of continuously putting in and out papers, and lifting the cover up and down. In times of idleness, he does not loiter or express much with his officemates around. His demeanor remains quiet, tired and waiting for the sunset, occasionally checking his watch.
A look on the front and a white note catches his attention. A thing he had written yesterday and stuck on the computer (something he has never used, or perhaps, in the future he will). He supposes not to entertain the idea, but Jongin wasn’t raised to be rude.
Call the publisher.
The proposal comes with chains of opportunities that may streak recognition, a state-of-the-art catalyst also for his field. Enticing and tempting. But there’s something he doesn’t like that rims the idea with wariness.
His ideas do not circle Physics alone, and to sharpen his proficiency, he had always gone extra miles. Jongin remembers the free times he had killed, and publicity may not be so bad. But with media comes along the confinement of his views, a taint on his personal brand, and revisions as to what people want to see.
He tells himself he’s not interested, but he pulls down the note and pockets it anyway.
Now, what’s the publisher’s name again? Do Kyungs-
The scene bathes in a purple glow from the ceiling lights. Jongin sees an amount of empty booths, making him feel uninvited. He sits in front of a shiny steel counter, with a quantity of tacos and marinated pork ribs.
The high stool sets him up for anxiety. He isn’t supposed to be here, with the lace of a guitar case slung on his arm. What was that? He remembers the note, the pitter-patter of mouse clicks: a distinct memory. Jongin shifts on his seat, and over the counter he sees a young man from the office, now in a shirt vest, wiping a bottle of rum.
“Sehun? What the hell is happening?” At the mention of the name, the man flings off the cloth and walks towards him, putting down the piece of glass before sighing exasperatedly.
Jongin waits for a response, but Sehun’s glare is in the midst of blowing off, boiling up the puzzle even more, and maybe that tells something already.
“Sir, you know what’s happening.” Sir? Jongin grabs on the wooden armrest and leans forward, and probably looking long enough at the other will inject some sense into him. “If I were you, I will finish those tacos fast and leave.”
“Why? It’s me- Jongin!” Sehun scoffs, rolling his eyes, and it’s just a matter of seconds before Jongin finds it disturbing.
“I know. You’ve been a regular here for quite some time.” Sehun says. “You’re very young for this thing.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t it bother you?” Sehun fills him up seconds of Kraken, although neon signs advertise Bacardi. “The bad guy was here earlier, looking for you.”
As on cue, an answer comes in place when he hears the street door creaking open. Jongin turns to the source and sees a face mostly covered by a scowl, and arms with tattoos. He almost winces when the reek of alcohol wafts over him. It reminds him of those guys he’s seen on TV as a child-pirates, to be exact. But the foot isn’t amputated.
“Finally got some loot?” The man asks, his tone loud and unpleasant. “You’re not thinking about running away, are you?”
Jongin is quick to notice the strands of suspicion brimming in him. Sehun, as if knowing, folds his arms, smug-faced and leaves the counter.
“What have I done?”
“Oh, playing dumb? You’re not the only one who needs money here, Kim.”
The lack of explanation leaves him wondering. He checks his surroundings once again, and the folds on the other’s face scar his thoughts. His heart starts to pound in a quick pace, rendering him in a clusterfuck of confusion.
“I didn’t do anything!” He blurts, as if pleading, and it’s making him sick that he wants to pull his hair out.
“Fuck you. You said you would pay today!” Jongin springs up on his seat before a clenched fist meets him, and in return, the glass of rum, now flipped sideways-a great amount of spillage is wasted. In instinct Jongin hastily leaves his seat, with an extra baggage in his arm, almost knocking down the man in drunken state. A loud thud from behind him and Jongin is out of the run-down diner.
It gives him the same feeling of running away from the camera clicks and vibrant lights a few hours ago. Lately it has been always a surprise greeting him in trance. He quickens his steps away from the place-
Jongin is sitting in front of his desk, head pounding out of rush. His eyes adjust from the sudden brightness, moving slower than usual.
And everything is eerie once again, his work station, the dull white walls and a whole lot of unsettling awareness.
“I didn’t know you’re into music.” At the husky voice, Jongin swivels his chair, and sees Chanyeol sneaking a look over the divider, eyeing something beside him. And when he follows the other’s sight, Jongin sees the same guitar case from elsewhere.
“You can join me and my friends’ gigs sometime, when work’s not a bitch. The bar’s just across the square, facing the footbridge.” The other says, mixed with excitement.
“I-uh, yes. I play once or twice but, this isn’t mine.”
“Can you show me?” Astounded, Jongin’s mouth hangs. But curiosity crosses him as well, and so he does. He flips the zipper down the line until half of the form, and pulls out by the nut. It’s an acoustic.
“So, are you selling it then?” Chanyeol coos.
“No, I mean, look. Chanyeol, what the fuck happened? What the hell was that? I was in a diner, Sehun was there also, and there was this old man...” Jongin narrates, the sentence finishing as a murmur in case of an unwanted attention. And as he recalls there’s this void, a big gap of transition he can’t determine, a blank space which his mind aches to fill in gets him riled up. In his jargon-a null set.
Chanyeol blows out his cheeks and chuckles. “Must’ve been a wild dream for you, huh?” Jongin shakes his head, but he doesn’t push. “I was about to invite you today, boys’ night-out. But you were away for a while, and it seems you need a rest.”
“I was?”
“Whatever. I’ll be continuing my rounds now.” Chanyeol gives a quick glance on the red, shiny instrument-the strings seem new, before his form sinks down on the other side. “Classic.”
Today is more of a space which has so much mass concentration of paradox, but it’s alright. Jongin gets to go home with a new guitar and a set of doubts.
Truth is, as a boy of a musically inclined family, Jongin was in the brink of wrong decisions, almost choosing music as his degree program, but it was too subjective that he had trouble relating sometimes. And now he saw what could have happened if it pushed through-a man in his early 20’s with financial issues. Yikes. It’s a no-no.
It’s a several mixed-type use of occupancies before he gets on his road. It’s just three songs of parade spent of thoughts alone away from his work. He’s grateful for the proximity, because it’s a tough luck in competition bracketing in front of the bus stop. Unlike when he was a student, the boarding house is better though. But right now it’s summer and Jongin doesn’t like bringing umbrellas. He strides fast pass the prepared citizens, feet leaving the ground as soon as they meet.
Home takes in a form of apartment in one of the high streets of Suwon. His free times are spent lying on a mattress flopped on the floor, with the limited supply of a crisper beside it, and a brown pup howling upon his arrival.
Jongin rubs his eyes and flutters his eyelids to stay awake. He dips down on the mattress in depths of drowsiness; blinds filter the soft ends of light as he relaxes his back straight, arms stretching sideways. And before slumber takes over him, he jolts up and fishes out a number from his pocket. It’s time to refuse the publisher’s offer. Who even calls someone, only to say that they reject their ideas? Don’t people’s contacts usually just die out and leave it at that? But the man he was speaking to was nice. The past year was all a burst of black coffee, no sugar, because that keeps Jongin more awake. A bitter sweet flavour of all-nighters, some spent wallowing on self-pity, and Jongin was a struggle of a post-wasted night, but still a wandering cosmic talent. So credit is bound to be met, with means of a publisher wishing to, obviously, publish his undergraduate thesis. It’s a form of flattery that puts him on pedestal.
He puts up his phone, waiting for a hoarse voice from the other line. Through the ringing, Jongin wonders if Do Kyungsoo had saved his number, like he expects the man to perk up when his name flicker on the phone. It was an intrepid move for the man to jolt in the faculty, probing for his contact details underneath the restrictions of his alma mater. He must be very desperate.
“Hello? Kim Jongin?”
Jongin grins at the soft enthusiasm. He crumples on his bed, propping the receiver on his shoulder.
“Hello?” Kyungsoo says again.
“It’s me. You called before.” Jongin falls silent and he hears the shuffle of papers from the other side.
“Oh, yes. This is Do Kyungsoo, speaking. Um, so have you thought of it?” There’s a hopeful lilt on the other’s tone, but Jongin finds it nothing nearing professionalism. Kyungsoo speaks so casual.
“Yes.” Jongin hums.
“Great. I’m really hoping your decision is affirmative? Thank you for calling.”
“No. Actually-” Jongin stares at the ceiling. This actually reminds him of those heartless, rejected phone call confessions in high school.
“I really don’t want to bother you. We don’t have to meet. You can just send me your e-mail.”
“I don’t… I mean, I don’t approve of it. I’m sorry.”
And just like that Jongin hears a silent crack on Kyungsoo’s trill, though, everything lies on pregnant pause. “Why?”
“I- I mean, I understand. But please, consider.” He pretends to think, observing his pup at the end of the bed, playing. Probably the other line could hear the poodle’s cries over a plush toy. It’s getting dark; he needs to feed her.
“It’s confidential.” Kyungsoo knows this already, but he still says, pressing.
“Well, we can only include the synthesis, the a3 sheets, and your boards. Just the main gist.”
His output is deemed as something rewarding at the very end, a title that makes it special. Intellectual property doesn’t really blend well with media, so how can Jongin and Kyungsoo meet halfway?
“Look, not to be rude. But I’m pretty sure you know nothing about the field.” Aside from the short classes in high school, probably. Was that mean of him? He meant to say that no, it’s not really confidential. It’s just him bitching about publicity in his lonely abode. And you can’t just pull out references. The theory itself won’t be exact in the same way. You need every data or else everything wouldn’t matter. Jongin continues.
“Rydberg Atoms in Ponderomotive Potentials. Did you catch that?”
The other line recurs to stillness, instead of resorting to the casual formality of comprehension between a business and its prospect.
“I’m sorry.” Jongin nods after a pause.
“Mine’s not the only outstanding thesis of this year’s batch. There are 4 of us.” His voice is thin, an outward indication of disinterest until Kyungsoo grasps it.
“Okay. Thanks.”
The line remains nothing but a pinch of guilt. It’s kind of harsh, but he wasn’t exactly lying. When Jongin doesn’t hear anything else from the other line, he hangs up.
Jongin gets up and hauls a barking Monggu in his arms, moving him in his earned spot in the kitchen-a pull-out container just beneath the drawer. He pulls out two bags: Friskies and the Ol’ Roy, and gauges which weighs less. He rubs the pup’s belly as he fills the bowl 2 cups of the latter.
“Sorry for making you wait.” He chuckles when Monggu licks his fingers.
The time in his phone ticks 7:24. Morning at the end of the month finds Jongin lingering in his previous university. Arms situated above the railing, he eyes the students trudging and yawning their way on the campus. Sunrise usually comes with the sound of knives sharpening against steel inside this cafeteria serving his favorite Vanilla frappe, though this time Jongin’s not out for drinks.
He inhales the acquired flavorful taste, and watches the cigarette smoke form patterns from the glow of the tip he’s holding between his fingers.
His phone vibrates from his pocket and he grunts. That must be Sehun, ready to whine and complain that he’s done it again-not telling him that he’s taking a day-off. It has already been months, but the man isn’t still comfortable in the office without the closest person in his age. The previous time he was gone, Sehun took his lunch alone in his cubicle which left Jongin with a pang of guilt. The poor guy needs lessons on social skills.
Jongin takes another lungful of nicotine and slowly puffs out the rest, the smoke drifting to his left. It snaps him out of his reverie when he hears a cough, the person beside him shutting his eyes as a hand covers his mouth. Jongin tilts his head as he flicks the remaining stick and stubs out the end on the rail. Not his fault, really. Why did he go near me?
“I’m… sorry.” Jongin apologizes anyway.
His look does not falter when the man standing a meter away from him with his blaring auburn hair coughs, a hand rubbing his chest. Slowly, the man cracks his eyes open. Jongin deems the wide eyes startling.
Auburn haired man regains his ease and rests his side against the railing, casually rubbing his nose and putting down his messenger bag. It’s not an unusual reaction from a second-hand smoker, so he brushes the image away from his mind. His gaze drops back to the clamouring students down the street; the background streams again into chatters and fork clanks.
The man, probably not knowing how to call his attention, clears his throat.
“I have- I have issues with smoke. I’m sorry.” He mutters sheepishly.
Jongin murmurs an okay. He pretends to drift his focus on the pavement looking for bugs, or a bump on the asphalt which may be a considerable excuse to move further away from the other. The lull is disrupted when the man’s wristwatch clangs on the rail.
“Wait, is it my hair? It’s just an experiment, but I’m not going to hurt you, I swear.” The man forces. Jongin furrows his eyebrows, deadpan at the stranger’s impression; all the while the other’s round cheeks are screaming at him. He puts back his lighter in the pouch, opting to discontinue his second round.
It’s as effortless in his plane of thoughts to put in that the male raced up the flight of stairs as he wipes the sweat on his forehead by the heel of his hand. What is in front of him: a presence of a rebel’s hair, but a luster of a timid boy with a small posture. Jongin observes the smooth undercut and the man takes his silence as a prompt to continue.
“Do you maybe wanna go in?” The man smiles hesitantly and points with his thumb. Jongin raises his brows.
“Wow.” He scoffs, turning to slouch against the railing, hands on pockets. “What a way to pick up someone.” Jongin grins at the blank expression.
It takes time of the other’s fingers fondling his shirt before he responds. “I-I’m not… I’m Do Kyungsoo. Sorry I was late.”
Jongin tilts his head, lower lip falling open in surprise.
“I assumed you’re Kim Jongin, since you’re the only one here in the balcony,” Kyungsoo fiddles with his red hair strands-that thing people do when their self-consciousness escalates, “looking like waiting for someone.”
“But-” Jongin utters, placing the previous phone call in his mind at the moment, “I didn’t. I told you I don’t like it.” Something bugs him from within, and doubt is starting to reign again.
“But, wait… you said yes! You told me you’re free today.” Kyungsoo expresses; however it doesn’t correspond from what Jongin recalls. He takes in Jongin’s inquisitive look as if connecting the dots, and Kyungsoo beckons. “Sorry to meddle but, is this about you… being unconfident?”
It’s the thing that daunts him-the fact that Kyungsoo speaks in pauses, but an underlying authenticity over his words makes disbelief hard not to miss. He swallows hard and raises his eyes. His lips quiver as if ready to mutter a rejection again, and tell that Kyungsoo didn’t earn his nod, but the other beats him to it.
“There’s no need to worry, Jongin-ssi. People will always like someone smart as you.” The corner of Kyungsoo’s mouth turns up. The latter hoists up his bag and signals Jongin to go after him. He’s deep in daze that he feels a part of him stepping towards the door-
Jongin gasps and looks around him, blinking back on his ceiling. Part-frustrated because he had woken up before the ring, and a bit rattled over the switch from the sun-kissed area to the confines of his cold duvet. He strains to his left, a good amount of blanket sticking in his damp thin clothing; the clock reads 7:34.
He feels a bit lightweight, and there’s something akin to smoke that clings in his tongue. He sits up, rummaging in his desk for his phone. Feeling far from sleepy, his finger swipes down and rings the number. He absentmindedly waits for a hoarse voice, fiddling the sheets and winding up few seconds later when Kyungsoo mutters a low croon.
“Hey,” Jongin starts, “I never said yes!” He exclaims unabashedly, glancing at his silent abode.
It ripples on his chest-again something he can’t point out, but he stays still, not wanting to deduce anything alarming from that little escapade or whatever it is. He listens and waits for a few seconds more until a far-off groan travels across the line.
“What,” comes off low, “what are you…” Jongin grasps the phone, supposing he had woken up the male. “Jongin-ssi, you told me that already.” Kyungsoo’s voice bleeds sourness, a type of slur in veil.
It’s a few veins of shame that records him in silence, seeding more tangles in his thoughts. Impassively, he grazes his jawline with his free hand and feels the bed sheet imprints. Maybe Chanyeol is right. Though, Jongin is grown enough to distinguish a dream from not. He wants to hang up, but before he does, “Do you fancy hair dyes?” Stupid mouth.
“Are you sure you dialed the right number?” There’s a glint of humor in the other’s tone, and to bring up back a sliver of grace on his side, he asserts an affirmative.
Kyungsoo snorts, now fully awake. “Here I thought you, calling early in a Saturday have finally changed your mind.” Jongin stretches his arm, leafing through the pages of his planner and checks the date.
“I’m sorry I just,” Kyungsoo speaks throaty in dulcet tones, the same voice as that from the balcony, and Jongin is baffled- “…really need this deal. The offer’s still up.”
“I gotta go.” A glance on his phone and Jongin presses end.
His home is a multipurpose one room, though it does not close him in like those mischiefs of him misplaced in the map, as the four sides compliment the amount of openings, passively ventilating the area. It’s one of those days which attests to that, in which the rows of sun light beam too much in contrast to his light walls.
Jongin hastily runs his hand through his hair and he makes it to the sink, his countenance bathing in cold water as he splashes more to inject further consciousness.
His closet needs a fix, Jongin thinks as he observes the tees and cargo pants mixed in a one column pile. For a moment he meanders through some memories when he was a kid; he used to sort these all out by colors-all the black polos far from vivid hue at the back, and anime tees on the front (they take up most of the space).
In a jingle of thought he hurriedly slips on a pullover, not wanting to waste too much time because the oval comes close to full of vendors and loiters when it becomes late.
What could someone do better to spend in a morning, other than jogging with your dog?
Perhaps for a day or two worth of celebration, it’s no longer a mundane life when he passes up a stage, his days worthier. Jongin gets based regularly in a department dealing concretely not on his expertise, but he’d rather much say, something he’s more competent in. He gets to change seats for a better office computer to deal with on-site instrumentations, though his say in the organizational chart’s still not quite big, but it’s a start.
It’s also a different swivel chair he’s sitting in, looking compact, heavy and newly upholstered compared to the last unkempt stool. It seems that your status in the place can be traced by how wide and messy your desk is. And judging from what he has, his is 2 palms wider to fit in technical gauges and sensors, and some, a bit data of oil refineries.
“Missing the pungent smelly papers?” His gaze switches to a head over the partition. “You almost thought you’d throw up the first time. I remember you did.” Sehun clicks his tongue.
“Yeah, well,” Jongin sighs, grimacing at the memory, “I got used to it. Two months.” The wheels squeak as he moves back and pads his arms to his folders, filling the storage underneath the desk.
“No need to be sentimental. You’ve got a few months to go before the higher ups call for you again.” Sehun says matter of factly, fingertips feeling the pale fabric on the panel. “I’m positive. They really like you.”
Maybe Kyungsoo is right about people liking him. Jongin scoffs. “You’re not just saying that, are you?” He follows playfully, considering that his minimum wage raised in three-fold.
“Ah no, no.” Sehun’s eyes grow as he rebuts. “But, yeah. I wish to be promoted soon as well. God, I’m so sick back there.” He points with his mouth. “Chanyeol can’t shut up about the Pan Am semi-finals.”
“Right. About that, Clyde scored six in the closing minutes.”
“Oh god, not you also.” The other irks at the new found hobby, nose wrinkled in distaste. “Anyway, I think this calls for a celebration?” Sehun wiggles his eyebrows, his tone suggestive. “I think I’m ready to beat you in battleshots.”
Jongin rolls his eyes, rubbing his hands off dirt, and the rest he wipes in his pants. “After this,” Jongin’s not stingy. “Bring Chanyeol along. My treat.” Sehun grins widely at the invitation.
“Very impressive. That’s very senior of you.” Sehun chuckles. “By the way, 4th floor. The Ben & Jerry’s melting.”
“Sure.” Jongin puts the puncher in its place. “What flavour?”
“Mint Chocolate.”
Evening comes. He’s currently drying his hands when he declares it futile to speculate. There’s no line of reasoning under normal circumstances befitting.
The fourth time he leaps, Jongin feels contempt over the same thing, deeming the predicament analogous to a run-on subject. He no longer ponders.
A woman’s authoritative voice tells something about scaffoldings and huge cranes being a part of everyday furnishing of the church when he finds himself in the midst of clicking the shutter button.
“-the rows of windows almost wrench the observer-”
Jongin blinks through the viewfinder. He tilts the Instax as rough sounds generate, showing his inexperience, and later finds a film hanging from the exit slot. He pulls out the ejected picture, perplexed at the white vacant film.
“The eastern façade as a whole was meant to be bright and colourful-” The same woman in her 40’s, wearing a conservationist’s vest speaks more of the designer wanting the facade of Suffering in somber colors, pointing up to several towers tapered towards the top, instilling knowledge as she eyes each one of the listeners.
There’s a complete lack of uniformity in ornaments. Jongin finds it unnatural. The creed flares up between the bell towers in glowing letters, directing his eyes upwards, the way the architect wants the people be joyful in cheer at the ascent. Jongin acknowledges the hint, the way the letters seemingly intending to point repeatedly to the messages conveyed by the worship. He takes in the array of pointed vaults, his neck arched, eyes lining the ceiling as he get the impression that he doesn’t know where one sculpture starts and the others finish.
Kyungsoo’s eyes, in fact, are sharp and striking, making Jongin drift to his direction as they hang onto his peripheral. Jongin takes a full turn when the darting eyes cling more to him. The man sports a brown curtained hair, what Jongin sees from where he stands, a distance of 3 ochre benches. His posture may be a bit dauntless, though it’s the same full lips he’s seen, now smiling slyly.
The male saunters towards him, maintaining eye contact. Jongin stills, waiting.
“You,” Kyungsoo grins, his voice honey, “you took a photo of me.” He chuckles teasingly.
Jongin raises a brow, tipping his head to the side as eyes bore on him. And then it clicks. Carefully he pulls out the thin material from his pocket, and presses his lips thin when he sees the film. It’s Kyungsoo standing beside the ironwork tracery, captured looking at him.
“Oh, this-this is… nothing.” He stutters, all the more the other finds it amusing.
“Thank god you’re Korean.” Kyungsoo speaks in relief. He looks around and catches the sight of the group going on the center nave, leaving them behind. “It’s okay. You’re cute.”
Kyungsoo walks two steps past him, clutching a Kodak slung on his neck and clicks on the slanting columns with his tourist stance.
“So, why are you alone?” Kyungsoo marvels, looking up for a picturesque scene. He steps forward and backward until he gets the right amount of exposure.
Jongin asks himself whether he’d bring someone or not, when he earns enough money. Although, any plans do not crisscross his list. He imagines: someday it could be a colossal folders of photos, him posing in markers, stacks of selfies, a collection of risks and travel mixtapes. He laughs-there’s no “someone” to bring along.
“It’s for a change, I guess.” He makes up. “Why are you alone?”
“I do this a lot.” Kyungsoo puts down his camera, facing Jongin fully. “I’m one of them: people who work on their bucket list. I’m entertaining myself. Besides, it’s challenging: coordinating the whole trip by yourself, but it’s not that hard when you get used to it. And, you meet new people.”
Like how you approached me. Kyungsoo shoots him an endearing smile.
“Okay.” Jongin says. “Where else have you been?”
“Well, it’s not much, but I’ve been to Manchester,” he holds out his fingers as he counts, “and London. I also went to Detroit, New York and some places on the West Coast. Last month I went to Naples a week after Florence. After this Barcelona tour, Paris will be the last though.” He finishes with a shrug.
“That’s a pretty impressive list. Why last?”
“I’m preparing for my graduate school.” Jongin listens. The man’s getting big pay, he thinks. The cushion squeaks as he plops down the nearest kneeling pad. “It’s my last free days.”
“What do you do for living, if you don’t mind me asking?” Jongin expects a hold back from Kyungsoo, thinking he’s prying a bit.
“I’m a health care assistant. You?” Kyungsoo stretches forward, popping the question back.
“Taking research apprenticeship.” About atom lasers, he chooses not to add, as the information seems unneeded.
Judging by the place where a yell is considered blasphemous, the conservationist under the multitude shaped bells waves her hand up to call their attention. In his mind, they’re a rough intimation of kids skipping classes.
“I’m Kyungsoo, by the way.” The other informs, focusing on the viewfinder one last time for the parabolic arches. “We’ve got the rest of the tour to talk.”
The last thing he sees is Kyungsoo’s back before he hears someone banging the restroom door, loud and insistent. Sehun is the next in line.
The new camera earns a place in his shelf back home, on top of his textbooks and worn catalogues. Perhaps he could browse tutorials online to fit for the new acquired gadget. However for the new photograph, it takes a few seconds of review before settling to put it back in his purse where it was. It’s just the voice Jongin has, like a reminder that it’s the same publisher he talks to. Jongin remembers it hoarse, but it’s the same as low whenever the pitch strides up or down.
He tells himself the whole thing is coincidence, but the intrigue pokes at him, making him wonder if he gets to meet him again.
Tonight he thinks what he is-the mass he’s made of. A remnant of antimatter perhaps, considering there has been a distortion of spacetime lately. Out of his will he has been plunged into different apertures, maybe authenticating the continuum limit of theories. It’s nothing near methodical, as there’s no checkpoint of reasons.
He shakes his head off the thoughts. Maybe he needs college again.
( part 2 )