I want to be loved by you (part ii)
Jongin woke up in the evening and didn't even bother to get out of bed until Minseok walked in and nudged the mattress. “C'mon. Dinner's ready.”
“You cook?”
“My neighbor will make me food a lot or give me leftovers. She's kind of the mother to everyone who lives here.”
“Sounds nice,” Jongin yawned. It turned into a happy coo at the spread of chicken and potato salad on the small table.
They ate in silence until Minseok asked if Jongin wanted to hear him play. “You saw a bit of the place yesterday, but it'll be a lot busier tonight. Hobnob with some real knobs.”
He still hadn't figured out a way to get home, but there was nothing better to do, and passing up any opportunity to hang out with Minseok would be a huge waste. “Okay.”
Jongin helped clear the table when they finished eating and went to the bathroom to get dressed.
“We can drop your old clothes with Mrs. McNeil down-Ow!” Draping the clothing over an arm, Minseok bent and picked up a dark rectangular object with a reflective but also dark surface. “What's this?”
“What?” Jongin bounced on one foot as he struggled with his sock. “Oh, crap; my cell phone!” He collapsed on the bed and held his hand out to nervously examine his one piece of precious technology.
“Cell phone?” Minseok looked dubious. He tilted it this way and that before passing it to Jongin. “There's no wires. How's it work?”
“That's the whole point. It's a portable telephone.”
Minseok's brows rose. Whether he was surprised at the very idea of a wireless phone or concerned for Jongin's mental health wasn't apparent.
Jongin struggled to remember his American history classes to help him explain the little device. After World War I, the “Great War,” Prohibition took off. Judging from the number of hip flasks and giggling couples weaving through the night, it was not as strict as class lead him to believe. Cars were invented and became mass-produced thanks to Ford and his assembly line. Women's fashion changed considerably enough to be noted in text books, and he couldn't remember much else except the two months spent on Al Capone and Chicago gang activity.
“Oh!” He pointed to the radio, a Stewart Warner 300, on the table beneath a pinned poster from a movie that was probably stolen right off the signboard. “It's kind of like radio. Waves are produced from some source and picked up by a receiver.”
“If I didn't believe that you come from when you say you do, I'd ask if you got into moonshine.”
Jongin shrugged sheepishly. He clipped his socks to the garters provided by Minseok, another bizarre necessity Jongin doubted he'd ever embrace. Before sitting upright, the light reflected off something beneath the bed.
“Is this,” he held up a box with a lens on the front, “a camera? It's made of … cardboard.” It was a very basic cardboard box camera with a simple meniscus lens, bent to make up for the lack of manual focus, that took 2¼-inch square pictures on rollfilm. A super early Polaroid before Polaroid was even a thing.
“Yeah! That's my newly-used Brownie. Got it from a guy for less than a dollar. It's one of the first ones made.” He took it from Jongin's hands and backed up, looking at the top of the box. “'You push the button, we do the rest.' Smile.”
Jongin blinked. “Did you just take a picture of me?!”
“Yep, and I really can't wait until it's developed.”
“That's not fair!”
“Life isn't fair. You have wireless telephones.”
“Not anymore, I don't. Here; gimme.” Jongin stooped behind Minseok, chin on his shoulder, and pushed his arms up. “Get both of us.”
“I can't see what it looks like.”
“So guess. Who really cares?” The box clicked, and Jongin frowned. “I think I blinked again.”
“Third time's a charm. One, two-” Minseok turned to kiss his cheek just as he flipped the switch to capture the moment.
Jongin swallowed, cheeks pink. “Pretty sure my eyes were open that time.”
“Good. Can't wait to get these developed.”
“You know, where,” when, “I'm from, we have instant photographs.”
“You're kidding.”
Jongin shook his head and waved his phone. “This'll be easier.”
“It has a photomajig?” Minseok set his camera aside, curiosity piqued.
“Yep. This is the single most handy piece of the future … .” Jongin held the phone up after switching the camera settings to show the two of them on the screen. Minseok looked dumbfounded; Jongin tapped the screen, and it blinked white a moment before a tiny square jiggled in the lower left corner.
“That's amazing! Take another one where I don't look like a deer in the headlamps.”
Jongin leaned over Minseok's back again and held the phone out. “Ready?” The screen flashed catching their soft smiles.
“Photo proof you were here,” Minseok commented softly.
“Huh?”
“C'mon. Get a wiggle on.” Minseok set his hat on his head and waited at the door for Jongin.
The silence between them on the way to the club was heavier than before, and Jongin wanted to ask when the musician meant, but he didn't know how.
John the soda jerk didn't say anything when they entered the shop and walked to the back. Patrons gave them curious looks, but they quickly returned to their ice cream and malts when John glared.
They parted ways when Minseok pointed to the bandstand. Talking was nearly impossible with the noise from the numerous conversations going on. Jongin was again struck with a distinct feeling of displacement. Even if he looked the part in his suit, he didn't feel like he belonged. Without Minseok, he felt completely lost in the unfamiliar time.
He wove through the crowd until he found a relatively secluded area of armchairs where he could still see the small stage. Minseok greeted the other musicians but lost his smile when one of the men waved his arms, trying to explain something.
It wasn't important, Jongin assumed, but rather than a shiny saxophone, Minseok jogged back up the short steps with a long, black clarinet. He looked a bit lost, but after a few notes, he seemed to relax.
The whole group did small warm-ups until the leader, Jongin assumed, looked at them all, gave a minute nod, and began to play, beginning with Minseok.
Jongin knew the song. Rhapsody in Blue, by George Gershwin. It was a staple song to any music historian, jazz or piano student. It's been used extensively since it was written, but no one now would know that for a long time. Jongin felt like he was witnessing a secret part of history, the everyday that was usually overlooked in classes in favor of the more attention-keeping wars and conflicts.
At the first glissando, a trombone-like sound for a clarinet, Jongin's knees went weak, and he sat heavily on the nearest-and thankfully unoccupied-arm chair. Baekhyun bounced over to him and leaned over the back.
“You've never seen Minseok perform, have you?”
Jongin could only shake his head dumbly.
“Close your mouth, honey. You're catching flies.” He arranged Jongin's elbow on his lap and coaxed his fingers around a glass of whiskey. “Maybe this will help. It only gets better from here.”
He didn't touch the liquor at all-he might have forgotten to breathe, to-even as the band took a short break, and Minseok was waved over by Baekhyun. “Sounding swell, Minseok.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. Jongin here agrees, if his silent, catatonic state, means anything. I was ready to start searching his pockets for change.”
Minseok plucked the glass from Jongin's hand and downed the drink in one gulp. He shuddered at the burn. “Still better than that panther sweat at the Cotton Gin.”
His brain finally caught up and recovered. “You-You play really well!” The butterflies in Jongin's stomach started puking when Minseok smiled at him.
“Thank you! It's been a while since I played clarinet, but it's like getting back on a bicycle, I suppose.”
A man in a tuxedo with a gut that had all six buttons of his vest straining called, “Bun Bun! Go get ready; you're on in twenty.”
Baekhyun rolled his eyes. “Can't ask nicely? I'm doing him a favor, working here.” He stuck his tongue out at the portly man's back as he stood. “See you later.”
“He wouldn't have to ask at all if you'd be ready beforehand,” Minseok replied sweetly. Baekhyun stuck his tongue out.
“Good luck.”
Minseok sat beside Jongin, on another armchair. “So what do you think?”
“It's … interesting.”
“It's one of the few establishments that hire people who aren't white and even … outside of the respectable norm. Like Baekhyun. There's a lady in Harlem who's larger than life, I've heard-larger than you and me, anyway-who always performs in a white tuxedo and has a girlfriend. She doesn't hide it at all, and no one cares. It's a lot easier to make a living around here.”
“Does that mean, I mean, are you … ?” School didn't teach Jazz Age etiquette about asking someone's sexuality.
Minseok grinned his gummy grin, looking almost coy as he casually looked everywhere but Jongin. “Maybe. Depends on the guy.”
Oh. Oh my.
Jongin covered his mouth with a hand and tried to remember to breathe. The comment could mean anything. He knew what he wanted it to mean, and he had a couple kisses to back it up, but it was ridiculous to be so bold with a friendly stranger. He thought he'd have learned after the couple of one-night stands his freshman year in college. “Where did you live before this?” Diversion is more acceptable than denial.
“Uh … Here and there. My family moved here from Korea when my mom was a baby. They lived in California, in an area with a lot of other immigrants, where she met my father. They moved east after having me. My sister was born in Oklahoma but raised in Detroit, where my dad got work. Chicago a short while, back to Detroit, down to St. Louis … .”
“You've moved a lot.”
“Yeah, but I enjoyed it. I got to see a lot and learn a lot. I came to New York on my own. I heard it was the place to be, and my parents were just glad I wasn't in Chicago, like some cousins of mine. There's a big gang there that's causing a lot of rumpus.”
“Aren't there gangs here, too?”
Minseok gave an easy shrug. “Sure, but they're not too bad. Some guys are worse than others, but they're also family for those who don't have anyone.” If that wasn't a thinly veiled confession, Jongin didn't know what was.
“Are you-?”
“Excuse me,” a deep voice rumbled between them. Jongin flinched, eliciting a warm laugh. “Hey, sorry about that. Kim, you're on again. Oh, I'll take that.”
“Thanks, Chanyeol.” Minseok handed the empty glass over and stood. “Chanyeol Park is the bartender. If you need anything-ever-he's the guy to ask. Feel free to look around; don't be such a wallflower.”
Left to himself, Jongin ducked his head and sat quietly. Socializing wasn't his strong point, and there seemed to be a class difference, adding to the feeling of displacement. He felt like that friend of a friend who was invited to a party but abandoned when the friend went to hang out with others. Without Minseok, or even the bubbly Baekhyun, to distract him, his shyness got the better of him.
He noticed the hem of a green skirt and shiny white T strap heels. “Hi.”
“Hello … .”
“My girlfriends and I saw you're alone. Wanna dance?” She smiled shyly, a pretty blush on her cheeks. Her hair was bobbed and curled in towards her jaw.
He tried to reject the offer gracefully. “I'm not really much of a dancer … .”
“Don't you know how?”
Of course he did. Modern dance. More modern than the Lindy Hop and Charleston.
She took his hesitation for embarrassment and took his hand, giggling, “We'll teach you! Come on!” She lead him away from the secluded safety of the chairs through the crowd to the dance floor, where two other girls immediately joined them.
“Hey, he's pretty cute!”
“How come we've never seen you around here, before?”
“Isn't he the absolute berries? He says he doesn't know how to dance, though!” This shocked the girls, whom Jongin assumed had had more than one drink each already, and they pulled him further onto the floor with laughs of “We'll teach you!”
Three partners was unusual, but the dances all allowed flexibility and improvisation, so after learning the basic hops, spins, shuffles, and shimmies, Jongin easily spun among the three girls and managed three consecutive songs before needing to sit down. “You're a regular Oliver Twist, mister!” He promised them more dances, and they returned to the floor in search of other partners.
“You looked good.” The bartender, Chanyeol, set a glass of clear liquid, “Water,” he assured, on the counter for Jongin.
“Thanks. We don't-We don't really dance like this back home.”
Chanyeol twisted a white towel inside a glass, scrutinizing it in the light. “You're new here?”
“Just visiting, but yeah.”
Maybe it was a bartender thing, but Chanyeol Park was really easy to talk to, even if his wide smile showed a terrifying amount of teeth. He and his sister, a journalist, lived in the city while their parents had a small business in New Jersey. He loved animals but was allergic to cats, which made working with one of the busboys difficult, because he either lived with cats or was a cat himself.
“Speaking of Zitao, actually … ” Chanyeol set the drinking glasses down and pushed his own up his nose. “Do you see him? Tall, dark eyes. He's Chinese. He's supposed to be serving customers.”
Jongin looked but saw no one that looked right. Lots of expensive suits, silks, feathers, and jewelry and some other busboys and waitresses … “No, sorry.”
“Not again.” The giant of a man threw Jongin a sheepish smile as he filled more glasses with amber liquid. “I hate to ask, but I can't leave the bar. Would you take a peek through that door and see if he's sleeping? If he is, kick his ass out here. Bun Bun should be getting out here, too; tell him if you see him.”
“S-Sure.” Jongin slipped passed a cluster of older gentlemen smoking cigars and pushed open the inconspicuous door behind the bar. The hall behind it was dimly lit and rough with a few doors on either side. Immediately to Jongin's left was a storeroom of clothes and glassware. Across from that was filled with bottles and casks and seemed to extend the entire length of the ballroom outside.
An office and a couple small dressing rooms later, Jongin found both the singer and the busboy. The dressing room door barely stood open, but it was enough to peer into.
While Baekhyun evidently had very nice legs for a man, seeing them in their nearly-bare entirety and wrapped around the busboy's waist was entirely unexpected and something he wasn't about to forget anytime soon, no matter how much brain bleach he used.
Jongin leaned against the wall outside and knocked on the door frame.
All sounds of shuffling and little grunts stopped, probably in panic. “Y-Yeah?”
“You're on soon, Bun Bun.”
“Jongin? I'll be out soon. I just … I just need to finish dressing.”
“Okay, good. See you soon.” He wanted to leave. “The bartender's looking for Zitao, too.” He booked it back down the hall without waiting for a reply and immediately sat behind the bar.
Chanyeol gave him a funny look. Jongin accepted it. “You find them?”
“They should be out in a minute or two … maybe more … .” Understandably, when Baekhyun hustled out the door, looking impeccable but with a slight twinge as he walked, Jongin hid behind Chanyeol's legs. The busboy followed soon after, bright-eyed and not a hair out of place until Chanyeol smacked him over the head with a towel and growled something in Korean.
Zitao waved his hand and swept away into the crowd with a tray of drinks.
“He's a good worker, when he's actually working.”
“I'm sure.” Jongin hid his face in his knees.
“Here.” Chanyeol tapped Jongin's head with a glass. “You look like you could use it; sorry.”
Whatever it was burned when Jongin drank it, making him shiver, but it chased away the embarrassment enough for him to stand and leave the bar.
He danced some more, drank a lot, and passed out on an armchair only to be woken minutes later by soft nudging. “Jongin.” Minseok tried to hide his smile when Jongin finally opened his eyes. “They're closing now,” he explained softly. “Ill take you home.”
Jongin was just drunk to still understand but not able to walk unassisted.
“I can't let you out of my sight, can I?”
“Ssssurry.”
The cool evening air woke him up some, and he drunkenly marveled at the night sky. In his time, it was nearly impossible to see the stars. Skyscrapers and ambient light blocked the natural beauty, but here, now, it was relatively open and visible.
Head tilted back, Jongin managed to trip over his own feet and fall heavily against Minseok, who grunt under the sudden weight. “Y'smell nice … .”
“I smell like cigar smoke and sweat. C'mon; get your feet under you.”
“Problem, gentlemen?” Cops. Jongin wanted to throw up.
“My cousin's running a fever.” Not entirely a lie; Jongin felt really hot. He couldn't wait to get out of his clothes. “I told him not to go to work.”
The officers looked dubious, but after a few seconds of critical staring and not breaking Minseok, they tipped their hats and continued on their rounds, chatting lowly.
City living is great; everything is close by, and Minseok's jobs are mere blocks from his apartment. It's plain incredible how far it seemed while dragging someone alongside him.
There was no doorman. The neighborhood wasn't ritzy enough, and no one cared to try breaking in to a crumbling, peeling building of immigrants and minorities. Minseok paused inside the door to catch his breath and eyed the stairs warily. Someday, the building may be fitted with an elevator. Until that day, he has to haul himself-and Jongin's near dead-weight-up four stories of stairs.
“Can't you walk at all?” he grunted.
Minseok propped Jongin against the wall to dig for his key, simply rolling his eyes when the boy slid to the floor. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open with his foot and dragged Jongin up by his lapels to awkwardly waddle him through the living area, pausing to toe the door shut, and manover him to the bedroom.
Jongin fell back with a squeaky bounce and nearly fell to the floor. With the abuse Minseok's putting his suit through, grabbing his lapels-and suspenders-again, Joonmyun was going to have a cow trying to press the wrinkles out.
“There,” Minseok sighed. “You're on your own. Sleep it off.” He turned to leave but was tugged back and barely managed to catch himself over Jongin with a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Stay. I don't like kicking you out of your own room.”
“It's fine. I have work in a few hours, anyway.” Nighttime musician; daytime soda and coffee shop help.
Jongin wriggled a bit and shimmied up the bed so he could sit up, invading Minseok's personal bubble and popping it with a kiss.
Minseok didn't say anything; he didn't even move until Jongin's kisses left his face and tiptoed behind his ear.
“This is bad,” Jongin said against Minseok's jaw. “I really like you.”
“What's so bad about that?” The musician took Jongin's chin gently with his hand and teased Jongin's mouth with barely-there drags of his lips and tongue.
“I have to go home.” Minseok stilled, and Jongin laid back on the mattress, eyelids heavy but eyes alert. “At some point, I have to go back.”
He could stay. It was an unspoken option. He'd already made friends here, and there was Minseok …
But he had friends at home, too, and family. School, dance, maybe even a job, still, if someone covers for this explainable absence.
Minseok looked at him, really stared at everything, as if seeking a solution or trying to memorize his face. The rising sun highlighted his hair and collarbones. He smiled, and it wasn't sad. “You're here, now.” He leaned down to kiss him, and Jongin surged up to meet him halfway, hooking an arm behind his neck to pull him down on top of him.
•••---•••
Jongin woke up alone.
His head pounded, and his body ached, but the afternoon sunlight poured over the messy bed, warming his bare skin and making it difficult to want to move.
He rolled over to dig his phone from the pile of his clothes and turned it on. His battery was almost dead. There were no bars of service, and trying to send a text went no where. The opened a file folder and stared at the photo he had taken of himself and Minseok.
If he couldn't go home, would he be able to completely adjust?
Thinking about it, he adjust pretty well pretty quick. Dancing his way nearly 90 years and meeting a man who didn't haul him to the nearest hospital for being a total nutbar and accepted his story, sticking with that same guy and being treated to new clothes, food, and a place to stay … .
His stomach swooped.
Even if he stuck around, there was no guarantee Minseok would let him stay any longer than necessary. He could find a job and his own place and hopefully not die when the Depression hit. Good plan.
He tried to make mental lists in his head. Pros of staying: Minseok. Cons of staying: everything and everyone he knows isn't around. Not much for lists, but neither option looked all to appealing.
“Whatever happened to the best of both worlds?”
As far as he knew, there was no way home, anyway, unless he could go the way he came. It was worth a shot.
He fell asleep again trying to think up a plan, and by the time Minseok was sneaking back into the apartment, he had an idea to try out.
If it worked, he wanted to say his goodbyes beforehand.
Minseok set the freshly laundered clothing on the low table and greeted Jongin with a kiss, not at all expecting to be wrapped in a tight hug and flipped onto the bed. His heartbeat escalated and stuttered a little when Jongin squirmed down the bed to curl himself against Minseok's front and press his face to Minseok's neck. “Jongin?”
“I'm sorry. I really want to go home.”
The man pet his hair. “I understand.”
They discussed Jongin's plan, and Minseok agreed it was worth a try. “I'd do whatever I could to get home. I can't live without my family.” He touched Jongin's cheek. “Even if I could make my own.”
Their shower together was more kissing-and possibly tears, who really knew-than bathing, and it took a while to get dressed and when they kept picking at one another's clothes.
Eventually, they made it down the sweltering stairs. Jongin's feet tingled in his shoes with each step.
Minseok had his saxophone case; Jongin wondered if he was playing tonight or meeting up with someone again.
The walk was shorter than he remembered, and music from the speakeasy was dull and flat to Jongin's ears. He wanted to join those girls he met-better yet, Minseok; Jongin didn't know if he ever danced-to keep his promise and dance and dance until he passed out from exhaustion.
“Well,” Minseok sighed unevenly, “do your thing, Oliver.”
Jongin wanted to kiss him again, but he knew that if he did he'd never want to stop and would never even try to get home. He closed his eyes and swept his leg out.
Shff.
If this didn't work, no big deal. Jongin knew he would be okay.
Shff. Shff. Tappity.
He'd made friends, thanks to Minseok, who wanted nothing but the best for Jongin.
Tappity. Shff. Shff.
Nothing but Jongin.
Tappity. Shff. Scccrrrrf.
He stopped and opened his eyes. A sleeping bag was collecting dust and grime against one wall, surrounded by empty cardboard boxes. The windows were entirely boarded up.
•••---•••
Baekhyun bounded up the back stairs, following the weird shuffling and tapping and hoping to catch someone or somebodies in a compromising position but only found Minseok on the top step with the door entirely open, apparently talking to the dust.
“Minseok? Hey, what're you doing in the dark? Where's Jongin?”
“He went home.”
“Already?” Baekhyun flopped against Minseok's side. “I really liked him.”
“I did, too.”