[fic] sing a good song.
sing a good song.
pg - jaejoong/chanmgin
summary: paris café au- jaejoong being just a little bit lonely in his life and finding something precious in a tiny corner café no one ever goes to. "The black apron around his waist almost suits him better then a guitar, maybe."
author's note: i made a jaemin fanmix a while back, with little drabbles that fit with the songs, and there was one little drabble that i continued on, this is it. you don't need to get the fanmix to understand the fic, i added the drabble here. [but just in case you're interested anyways, the fanmix is here. :D] oh, and the song that inspired this was "killing me softly, by the fugees.
jaejoong is worn down and tired out and sick of life when he stops at the small café he’s always passed on his way home from work and never stopped at. he knows they won’t serve anything stronger then black coffee but he thinks, maybe strong isn’t what he needs. the inside of the place is cool and the colors are browns and beiges and jaejoong thinks -ah, i would’ve loved to have designed this room. there’s a boy on the small stage singing, a guitar on his lap. jaejoong doesn’t even notice him at first, his voice too quiet to really carry, but there’s something about the way the boy’s hair curls across his face and spills to his shoulders that catches his attention. the boy strums softly, sings softer, and looks up for just a second. their eyes meet and jaejoong thinks -ah, so this is love.
You come in the next day, after work, and find the boy waiting at tables, not singing. The black apron around his waist almost suits him better than a guitar, maybe.
You sit at the same table you’d sat at before and wait and before long he’s in front of you, smile sweet but distant, and you want nothing more then to brush his hair out of his eyes and tangle the strands in your fingers.
“What can I get you, sir?” he asks in perfect, barely accented French.
“Peppermint tea,” you answer back, and he nods, notes your order on his pad and walks away.
A model, you think. Maybe, a model trying to be normal.
-
You come in day after day after day, but he’s always distant, always polite. You grow accustomed to it, you find yourself unwilling to get closer. There’s something so perfect about his aloofness; it’s so very Parisian, and you’ve never been one to try to change perfection.
-
“Are you Korean?” he asks you, one day long long long after that first day, as he sets your tea in front of you.
“Yes,” you answer, and the smile on your face is trembling.
“Can I talk to you in Korean?”
He has a little boy's voice and a little boy’s hesitation.
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” he says in Korean and you feel your heart break because there’s a French accent to the words.
How long has he been here alone?
-
“Do you go to any other cafes?” he asks one day, while a storm rages on outside.
He’s sitting on the edge of the stage because the café is empty, and that guitar that doesn’t quite suit him is on his lap.
You shake your head. “No. I like this one the best.”
He lapses into silence and the soft random plucking of strings, and sings in a voice that doesn’t quite suit him either, but is just perfect.
-
He’s a molecular biology major at the university, he tells you. He likes to know the little things about the little things.
“I want to know the little things about you, Jaejoong.”
You sip your tea and smile. “I’m not interesting.”
Not like you.
-
He kisses you the day you stay late at the café, the last customer to leave, and it’s tender and barely-there. All the waiting you’ve ever done seems to course out your fingertips and you run your hands in his hair and kiss him harder.
The small noises he makes sound better than his songs.
He pulls away first, eyes wide, but his fingers are clenched in your shirt.
“I want to be a part of you forever,” he whispers.
You kiss his cheek.
-
He isn’t at the café the next day.
-
You come before work and at lunch and after work for days and days.
One night, you climb to the roof of your apartment building and stare at the moon and wish there were clouds.
The next day, the café is closed up and dirty and the cobwebs look like lace curtains on the windows.
“The café down the street? Sir, it’s been closed for years now.” Your secretary’s eyes go from wide to sad in seconds. “The owners closed it down when their son died, some kind of sickness. It was very tragic, there was a lot of news. They wanted him to go to college, he wanted to be a singer. They say he died because he didn’t want to live doing something he didn’t love.”
-
You dream about him every night and think about him every day.
And then you wake up one morning and he’s smiling down at you and the guitar in his hands never looked so beautiful.
pg - jaejoong/chanmgin
summary: paris café au- jaejoong being just a little bit lonely in his life and finding something precious in a tiny corner café no one ever goes to. "The black apron around his waist almost suits him better then a guitar, maybe."
author's note: i made a jaemin fanmix a while back, with little drabbles that fit with the songs, and there was one little drabble that i continued on, this is it. you don't need to get the fanmix to understand the fic, i added the drabble here. [but just in case you're interested anyways, the fanmix is here. :D] oh, and the song that inspired this was "killing me softly, by the fugees.
jaejoong is worn down and tired out and sick of life when he stops at the small café he’s always passed on his way home from work and never stopped at. he knows they won’t serve anything stronger then black coffee but he thinks, maybe strong isn’t what he needs. the inside of the place is cool and the colors are browns and beiges and jaejoong thinks -ah, i would’ve loved to have designed this room. there’s a boy on the small stage singing, a guitar on his lap. jaejoong doesn’t even notice him at first, his voice too quiet to really carry, but there’s something about the way the boy’s hair curls across his face and spills to his shoulders that catches his attention. the boy strums softly, sings softer, and looks up for just a second. their eyes meet and jaejoong thinks -ah, so this is love.
You come in the next day, after work, and find the boy waiting at tables, not singing. The black apron around his waist almost suits him better than a guitar, maybe.
You sit at the same table you’d sat at before and wait and before long he’s in front of you, smile sweet but distant, and you want nothing more then to brush his hair out of his eyes and tangle the strands in your fingers.
“What can I get you, sir?” he asks in perfect, barely accented French.
“Peppermint tea,” you answer back, and he nods, notes your order on his pad and walks away.
A model, you think. Maybe, a model trying to be normal.
-
You come in day after day after day, but he’s always distant, always polite. You grow accustomed to it, you find yourself unwilling to get closer. There’s something so perfect about his aloofness; it’s so very Parisian, and you’ve never been one to try to change perfection.
-
“Are you Korean?” he asks you, one day long long long after that first day, as he sets your tea in front of you.
“Yes,” you answer, and the smile on your face is trembling.
“Can I talk to you in Korean?”
He has a little boy's voice and a little boy’s hesitation.
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” he says in Korean and you feel your heart break because there’s a French accent to the words.
How long has he been here alone?
-
“Do you go to any other cafes?” he asks one day, while a storm rages on outside.
He’s sitting on the edge of the stage because the café is empty, and that guitar that doesn’t quite suit him is on his lap.
You shake your head. “No. I like this one the best.”
He lapses into silence and the soft random plucking of strings, and sings in a voice that doesn’t quite suit him either, but is just perfect.
-
He’s a molecular biology major at the university, he tells you. He likes to know the little things about the little things.
“I want to know the little things about you, Jaejoong.”
You sip your tea and smile. “I’m not interesting.”
Not like you.
-
He kisses you the day you stay late at the café, the last customer to leave, and it’s tender and barely-there. All the waiting you’ve ever done seems to course out your fingertips and you run your hands in his hair and kiss him harder.
The small noises he makes sound better than his songs.
He pulls away first, eyes wide, but his fingers are clenched in your shirt.
“I want to be a part of you forever,” he whispers.
You kiss his cheek.
-
He isn’t at the café the next day.
-
You come before work and at lunch and after work for days and days.
One night, you climb to the roof of your apartment building and stare at the moon and wish there were clouds.
The next day, the café is closed up and dirty and the cobwebs look like lace curtains on the windows.
“The café down the street? Sir, it’s been closed for years now.” Your secretary’s eyes go from wide to sad in seconds. “The owners closed it down when their son died, some kind of sickness. It was very tragic, there was a lot of news. They wanted him to go to college, he wanted to be a singer. They say he died because he didn’t want to live doing something he didn’t love.”
-
You dream about him every night and think about him every day.
And then you wake up one morning and he’s smiling down at you and the guitar in his hands never looked so beautiful.