Chapter Text
Words are building blocks, carefully added one by one to form a bigger structure that uses the weight of the meaning in each little piece to stand tall. A single block holds no power like a grand structure, yet is essential in its own way, keeping the one next to it from bending over and helping the one over it reach a little further. While language is a world in itself and can do more than we could ever imagine, most people would fail to see just how amazing it truly is — an entire universe carefully constructed by small, individual pieces that lean on and stick to each other in an effort to make something better.
One word next to the other forms a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph. One block touching each other ever so delicately forms a verse, a stanza, a poem. One piece paired with the next forms a rhyme, a verse, a song. They could be simple, carrying just the essential, or they could construct an image so vivid that it pulls you in, molds your thoughts and feelings until you become much more than the one who first started reading. Words have a kind of power that is much greater than they're ever given credit for.
That's why it takes a special kind to know how to handle them right, to pick out the blocks that best serve their purpose and not be scared to connect them in unexpected ways, to switch them out and turn them around and disconnect each piece before bringing them back together. The writer is not simply an artist, but someone who has the ability to twist and pull abstract concepts, to give sound and color and life to something that otherwise looks so stale: black ink on white paper, thousands of pages with the same.
A good writer understands their words like no one else, using this knowledge to not only tell stories and create worlds, raise skyscrapers, put together whatever scene they wish to — they pour out some of their soul into the paper, transferring their life into the page where characters start to take form. They pull the strings and join letters using more than a pen and paper, and when the reader is taken through a journey that is so real, with all the emotions poured on the page, there is no saying these characters never lived.
But people tend to have the wrong idea about writers, judging them capable of predicting and controlling everything around them just like they do with fiction, to be able to hold control of their own lives too and to know what to do. What most don't know is that the writer tends to be a fragile being who lives vicariously through their stories and characters and who is in constant search of something that can help their mind. Writers who absorb reality and turn it into art, crafted characters and scenery in each building block, wishing it could all be real — be there — because they don't have control of their lives.
Well, some of them might, but Seo Changbin did not. He hadn't known order in a long time, fingers trembling around the black pen as he scribbled over his words on a sidenote.
"Another one?"
The young man looked at him through square glasses that were just a little foggy near the middle. His brows were shot up in question, voice strained in an attempt to reach Changbin through all the other voices and the music — oh, the music was so loud today. He nodded at the guy, letting his eyes fall back to the paper with so many words written and scratched, whole sentences circled and underlined with arrows in all directions and scribbled notes on the margins. It was a mess, that much he could tell.
He felt more than heard the shot glass hit the wooden counter in front of him, reaching an arm and turning it all at once into his mouth, throat burning as the vodka made its way down. He was already sweating under the collar of his shirt, thoughts slowing down as if his brain was dissolving with the drink. It allowed him to pick out the ideas that seemed better, more fitting with his work, overexposed lights tracing his mind like racing cars on a dark road — he loved the feeling, dived head-first in it in search of the inspiration he needed. And it worked just as well as he expected, the sounds around him getting muffled by the buzz in his ears. Taking a breath, he willed his hands not to shake so much as he wrote another sentence on the page, and another, repeating the process as one more shot made its way down his throat.
The music was so loud today. Changbin could feel the bass through his feet rested on the metal legs of the stool — it was too tall for him to touch the floor, but he would bet that was vibrating too — and his drunken state didn't make it any better, getting him more disoriented than he'd normally be at this point of the night. He turned to look at the back of the bar, where the tables were pushed around to open space for the sound equipment and the band instruments.
Every other week, the bar would have a night with live music from local bands the owner invited; Changbin was there each time, watching as the different groups walked in with their guitar cases, huge sound boxes, and what seemed like hundreds of cables that were set around the members. He would recognize them by the unique style each of them had, even knowing one or two guys that played there quite often. It was a fun experience and a nice way to shake his routine up every once in a while, though Changbin always turned his attention back to what he had come there to do — working on his latest project.
(And also maybe having a drink or two in the process, what bad could that be?)
Changbin was used to the bar atmosphere, the colors and sounds in every corner. He wouldn't say he spent a lot of his time there — "I only come here to work at night, it's no big deal," he'd said once — but he did in some way become one of the most frequent clients of the place. Just because it's near his house, of course. And they had good vodka for a low price.
He sighed, looking around once again. His mind wasn't as clear as it should be, frustration bubbling up in the form of black ink staining the paper. Nothing good was coming out. Changbin knew better than to try too hard.
Admittedly, that wasn't the ideal place for someone who's trying to work, especially not a novel writer who insisted on having his first drafts entirely handwritten on a block of lined paper that he carried around wherever he went. It was quite dark, so Changbin always sat on the stool closest to the center where there wasn't such a big shadow casting down. But then that also meant more movement disturbed the space around him, people pushing him in an attempt to reach the bartender, or yelling over his shoulder like he wasn't even there.
There was constant noise, from glasses clinking on wood and then on each other to people who were most certainly straining their voices just to be heard better, the humming of multiple and simultaneous conversations as their background. Every so often, a couple drunk guys would yell at each other over their own heated arguments, but that was nightlife. Changbin got used to the busy environment and the low lighting, and he liked the music that played through the speakers every night — a mix of classic rock n' roll and some alternative music, courtesy of the owner's playlist, as he'd learned from the bartender. In some way, he found it easier to focus when all these sounds and textures blended out behind him, and got more inspired like that.
Today's guest band had an interesting style. He asked for a double shot this time and downed it quickly, eyes searching the small stage. He managed to make out four band members through the blurry heads of the people dancing in front of the stage — one of them had bright red hair that reflected the warm lights that surrounded the stage, and Changbin couldn't help but be drawn to it in his haze, the textures matching up so well with the melodic cry of the guitar it was like an oil painting forming right in front of him. The song had a heavy bass to it, thrumming through the place with an emotion Changbin couldn't exactly pinpoint — all he knew is it made his chest tight, heart following the beat —, but what really called his attention was a sweet voice that traveled higher and louder than all the other instruments, pouring everywhere like fresh honey. He couldn't see the vocalist's face from here, only the shadow of a microphone and the tip of a string instrument peeking out from behind the crowd, and his eyes strayed back to the red strands on the other side of the stage as the music continued.
He watched as they finished another song, the last few chords fading and leaving the familiar hum of chatter through the place. The band members now paused at the center of the stage, the main vocalist leaning away from the microphone and mouthing something to the others, lips moving in muted words. When the shadows covered the red spot that had him staring, Changbin blinked hard and forced himself to turn back around. It wasn't so long until the music vibrated the floor again, but by then he wasn't watching anymore.
He looked at the pages in front of him, held in place by an empty glass. The pen had rolled toward the edge of the bar, almost threatening to fall over. It'd be a hassle to get it in case it did, the floor dark and slippery too. He imagined it rolling away from him and getting stuck under one of the tables filled with people — how he'd have to walk over there and maybe talk to them in order to retrieve the ballpoint. Maybe it'd be easier to get another pen, a new one that doesn't fail so often causing blotches on the text that made the word almost illegible, but he liked that one... Changbin blinked fast, eyes focusing again on the pen that still stood dangerously close to the edge as he tried to break away from his mind's wandering. He saved it from the imminent fall with a sigh, putting it back in his pocket and looking down at his left wrist where the digital watch stared tauntingly back at him. It was late now, and he realized he couldn't hear the band.
Waving a hand to call the bartender again, Changbin started gathering the pages and carefully — or as carefully as he could manage — folding them to fit his handbag. He was just about to ask for a last double shot when someone else spoke first to his right, honey seeping through him like it had a while before. The voice echoed in his ears as it ordered a drink, Changbin turning his head in its direction.
"Writer?" The voice spoke to him. He was sure it had spoken directly to him, but he still only stared back with a frown, round eyes glued on him. They were brown and shiny, soft around the edges, and Changbin knew he could match those eyes to the sweet voice in any universe — they went well together, had the same sharp end that connected them back to one character. It was a pretty set of eyes, and a pretty voice too. He was reaching for the ballpoint in his back pocket again, eager to capture this exact description on paper, when he noticed the character had asked him something. What was it again?
"Oh, sorry. I asked if you're a writer," it repeated, and Changbin realized he'd asked that last question out loud. "I mean, you have all these papers on you."
He was faster this time, nodding as he mumbled a quick yes and shot the question back. Maybe it didn't even make sense to do it, there was no reason to think this stranger would be a writer like him, but he didn't have enough time to reconsider as the answer came, in the form of a light chuckle, "I might be, in some way."
As the bartender came back to hand the character a glass of Jack Daniel's whiskey, Changbin couldn't help but smile at the scene. It was incredibly fitting, a color palette too consistent in its golden tones to belong to a real person — or maybe it didn't. Maybe it was a character right in front of him, one that had jumped right out of a good novel and got lost in this world, not knowing how to get back home. Maybe it was one of his own characters, even, and he was just too drunk to recognize them. So he laughed, then, pointing at the drink in front of them as he mused, "Honey?"
"Yes, dear?"
The stranger was smiling at him, teeth glimmering under the faint light. It was quite a sight, Changbin being dragged into it as they laughed at the silly comment. He could feel his mind a bit more grounded now, the vodka settling down as a faint haze in the background, his eyes focusing more easily. It's only then that he realized they hadn't really introduced each other yet — he didn't usually talk to people he didn't know, but he guessed he should at least put a name to the sweet voice and round eyes. So he opened his mouth to ask just that, but what came out was closer to, "Your guitar?"
Good job, Changbin. That makes no sense. Was it even the guitar that he'd seen all the way on the stage? He couldn't be sure. Being honest, he couldn't even be sure that he was talking to the vocalist of the band right now, though his instincts were rarely wrong about such things.
"Excuse me?"
It was too late to go back now, the question he wanted to ask sinking to the back of his mind. He mirrored the other's frown, pointing a finger in between those brown eyes and trying to sound as sober as he possibly could with the way his mouth wasn't much willing to follow his brain's orders, "You in the band, no?"
By the amused glint he got in response, his super serious look hadn't worked so well.
"I don't play the guitar, but nice try." Changbin used all the will he could gather in his body to pull his gaze away from the other — not that it worked too well. He got so far as looking at the other's lips when they started moving again, corners pulled up just slightly, "I'm Han Jisung, by the way. Bassist."
Jisung. Han Jisung. He felt it slip through his lips just like the honey that glowed around them, saw the other's lips open in a full smile, gums peeking through ever so delicately at his reaction. He felt his own face stretch in a smile. Something about Jisung flowed so naturally it made him want to stay there just a little longer, hear that sweet voice a little bit more. Honey. Thick, fresh, beautiful honey. Changbin couldn't help the way his mind wrapped around this new character.
"Seo Changbin. Writer," he looked back up at Jisung's eyes, now shining with curiosity. He liked how genuine and expressive they were. "But you already know that."
"Would love to know more, if you won't mind telling me about it."
"There isn't much to know." He broke eye contact, focusing on his hands. A little white lie, he supposed. It wasn't really a lot, even if it took so much of him. And there was no way this stranger wanted to know about such a part of Changbin after just having met him.
Writing was just what he always did, had done his whole life. One constant, one compass to follow through the hard times. It was simple as much as it was complex, the way he was drawn to it, the things that had changed through the years because of it — things he wouldn't even access so often, only when his mind got the best of him. He wouldn't know where to start talking about his writing. But then, no one had even asked until this moment. He was just another guy in a bar full of people that had their own lives, their own friends to care about. Just another voice in an ocean of different sound waves that fill up the space, hiding in a dark spot. He couldn't figure out what in the things he did was so interesting — they couldn't be.
But this wasn't just another day, and Jisung didn't seem to believe Changbin was just another guy either, because there was the golden sound again twinkling in his ears.
It was a nice sound. Soft with a teasing edge to it. Like it knew all his secrets, could see through the lies and the thousands of words on the papers he carried around. He felt them crumple in his hand. Forced his eyes back up once again, around those lips, the mole on the cheek. The silver earring dangling just slightly. Han Jisung. Maybe Changbin should give it the benefit of the doubt, let his walls come down just a bit for this character.
"Music's good."
One block at a time, he supposed.
Jisung's head tilted to the right with a frown, and Changbin realized he hadn't been so clear. "Your band. The music's good," he completed, a smile reaching his face when Jisung's expression switched from adorably confused to surprised, mouth falling open. That was interesting. He'd want to write about it later.
And then Jisung was blabbering a response, cheeks flushed a sweet rose, and Changbin still smiled. He hadn't done it in a while, really. They talked more, about the band and the music, and Changbin felt another block slipping out of place, the walls getting shorter around him. It was a nice feeling, though he didn't understand it quite yet, and didn't know how it could happen so quickly. Jisung was really the vocalist of the band, after all, and Changbin had been right when he counted four members — one guitar, one bass, one in the drums, one keyboard. Han Jisung liked to talk as much as Seo Changbin liked to listen closely, it seemed.
He finished putting the papers away in his handbag as he'd been doing when Jisung showed up, took another peek at his watch. The blue digits didn't look so mean anymore.
"Is it late, already? 'Must be keeping you up…"
Changbin startled up, humming in question. "No, I just… You said you started your band in high school?"
He watched as Jisung nodded, bringing the glass up to finish the whiskey, and felt his walls get a little bit shorter again. Maybe he'd see past it soon enough, get over the knot in his brain that insisted on making everything so complicated. He breathed in as the other put the glass down. "Started writing that age, too… Finished my first book at eighteen."
"Romance?"
"Something like it."
"That's fucking cool!" Jisung was so bright, he wondered if people around them could see the golden aura. And there were those honey eyes, wide and shiny, so simply excited to get that little bit more out of Changbin. He liked to watch them closely, background fading so easily into a soft blur as he dived into the sweet brown. Maybe a bit too much, as an unfamiliar sound broke his wandering the next moment.
"Aye, Sung, you still giving me a ride?"
It took Changbin a second to tune back into reality, focus leaving the golden character to search the direction of the new voice that sounded so close. Took another one to notice it'd spoken to Jisung, based on the nickname. And when they turned their heads, Changbin felt his own breathing falter, caught in his throat as another wave washed over him.
Red. Not any red, but a saturated scarlet, backlit by the faint blue of the bar. It was so bright it took all of his vision, fogging whatever thoughts he was having right before. Red that painted everything as he tried to follow the brush strokes to figure it out. So close he could almost touch it, hands moving on their own to reach but falling midway. He had half a mind to consider he might have seen red before today, but it was so strong he could barely form a coherent string in his brain. The way it bounced around and reflected the world felt fictional, like the Universe just had to pull this grand trick on him. Red, red, red-
"You can just call me Chris," Red said. Red talked? Changbin must have gone overboard with the vodka tonight because he was sure that wasn't possible, thought it would have to be some kind of dream or a book scene he was stuck in, because real life couldn't be like this. And then he realized Han Jisung was holding Red — Chris — by the arm, warm tones blending at the edges. Red and honey. So they knew each other. Maybe they were two characters in the same novel, could've even escaped whatever world they came from together. What genre would it be? He'd like to read it if there was ever a chance.
Chris… Jisung mentioned Chris a while back. "The real guitar."
"They sure are," Jisung completed, the sweetness of honey bringing Changbin back to reality as he blinked hard, vision switching back and forth between the two. He caught a glimpse of a smile and a furrowed brow, the two turning to each other with silent signals.
He pointed at Chris, now. "They?"
It was a dumb question, and he might have worded it better in a different situation, but Chris smiled and it didn't feel like the mocking kind. He saw them nod in confirmation, now looking amused as they pointed right back, "Him?"
And then he was getting lost in the red again, falling and drowning in the scarlet ocean. It was so warm, the way Chris smiled, the way they stood next to Jisung. It was so abstract and reflective, he couldn't bring himself to believe that this scene was real. He wanted to ask which work of fiction they'd both come out of, and needed to know more about it. Changbin didn't usually talk to people he didn't know, but these two had a pull to them. Maybe it was the color palettes. It had to be. How are they so consistent?
He barely noticed himself nodding back at Chris, heard Jisung feign exasperation at being left out of the interaction — "Him!" he'd said, pointing at his own chest — but at this point his body had gone into automatic mode. He was watching the colors dance before his eyes, one painting the other; warm honey, sweet red. Seeping through and taking Changbin's vision as if the world was nothing but a blank canvas to them.
It was too much. He wanted more.
"Changbin writes books," Jisung said, nudging Chris. Something in his tone made it sound like more than a simple introduction, the soft glow of the words hiding little pieces Changbin couldn't see. He turned his eyes down to the wooden surface of the bar.
"That true?" He nodded back at Chris, frowning a little at the cherry color before him. It seemed to have changed, the sweet, friendly tone carrying a curiosity that felt so foreign. He wanted to say more, add an explanation or ask a question, but he was stuck with his mouth moving in silent words.
They were looking at him. They were both looking at him, like he was such a curious thing to them, like they weren't two pieces of fiction that begged to be explored. It had been only a few minutes since he'd been around the two, yet they felt so special, carefully constructed characters someone must have spent time on. He imagined who their author would be, knowing they must be dedicated to this book, to these guys. Changbin wasn't a character, certainly wouldn't be an interesting one if anyone were to write it. There was no plot to him, no special items he could present. And yet those looks pierced through him like they could reach his soul, pull it out and consume it — like they wanted to know it.
But he could still see the wall around him, towering over with its heavy blocks. He couldn't have them see it too, turn their backs before the chapter was over because it lost rhythm. He breathed in softly, chest barely moving. "Weren't you one, too?"
One of their first words to each other. I might be, in some way. It echoed in his ears, and Jisung seemed to get what he was talking about before he thought to further explain. He smiled at Changbin like he was positively surprised he'd remembered it, even if that was not so long ago. Even if Changbin was caught onto every single word they'd been saying tonight. He wasn't sure he could make that less obvious if he wanted to.
"Not books," Jisung simply said.
"Sungie writes our lyrics." Chris was looking at Jisung even as they used third person to talk about him, as if the honey was pulling them in too, and Changbin's mouth fell open as two realizations hit him at once. One, that he wasn't the only writer in the room for the first time in what felt like his entire life. He'd just met someone else who put words together for a living, like it was one of those things multiple people do and not just him. Two — and maybe most importantly —, Chris might be just as hypnotized by the golden glow as he was. That second one brought a smile to his face, though he only filed it away in a safe corner of his mind.
So, Jisung was a lyricist. Not exactly a book writer, but definitely some kind of writer. They fell back into the music subject just like before, except this time Chris was there too, and it felt natural. As they talked more, the colors seemed to get more intense with each word and action — the way Jisung was still holding Chris by the arm, how Chris would look at Jisung so warmly and then back at Changbin. It was comfortable, in so many unfamiliar ways.
He asked questions. Partially out of curiosity, partially as a way to collect information about these characters so he could revisit them later. Maybe write on his usual sheets, try to make sense of it.
(Something told him that was not how social relationships worked, but he profusely ignored the thought.)
He talked about the band again, watched Chris light up when he hummed a bit of the melody he remembered and mentioned his impressions of the sounds. Changbin didn't know much about the art of music and instruments, but he knew how to describe the things he observed around him — especially the ones he enjoyed. He described the way he felt like the guitar complimented the beat, spared a second to smile at Chris at that. They had a nice smile, even nicer when it got wider and the dimple popped in. Changbin decided that making Chris smile wide like that was his new mission for the night.
Time passed fluidly like it never had before for Changbin. He watched as Jisung talked and Chris smiled, and he added his own remarks pretty often. They were funny and open and warm. He didn't order any more drinks, even as the effect washed away, leaving him with only a soft buzz in his brain — definitely not the type he'd get from the alcohol.
At some point, Changbin decided he could admit that human contact was something he missed more than he knew. It had been so long that it didn't quite register to him until the bartender tapped on the wood to call their attention, fingers coming up to adjust the thin glasses as he announced that it was last call. He was startled. It was already three in the morning, and he'd never stayed at the bar so late before.
He saw Jisung nod back at the bartender and lightly pull Chris by the arm to signal at them. The three ended their conversation a bit awkwardly, almost in a rush as they realized just how late it was. It wasn't long until the two characters had moved away into the dark space near the empty stage, red streaks turning faint quickly without the warm spotlight over it. Changbin sighed, moved to stick a hand in his bag and retrieve a beat up leather wallet to pay for the night. He confirmed how much was due, left some extra over the counter. Turned around, throat dry as he breathed in.
The dark sky could swallow him up right now, tiny twinkling lights spread unevenly above. It didn't really have a color at this time, reflecting nothing but itself as it spread over the street and the bar. Changbin's apartment block faced him in a silent question, curtains pulled in almost every window. He wouldn't see those characters again. Part of him was still convinced today was a dream, and going home meant waking up in a world where sweet honey didn't pour around the room and red was just a color like any other. He searched the sky, eyes pausing at each constellation in hopes of an answer coming to him, but all the stars did was melt away with the blurriness that took his vision. He didn't understand it. He didn't even know what that feeling was.
It wasn't long. Or maybe it was, and he hadn't realized. But his legs got tired and the stars wouldn't answer the silent questions that swirled in his mind, so he tightened the grip on his handbag and turned left, leaving the strange dream behind. He wouldn't remember it in the morning, never did anyway.
"Seo Changbin."
Honey.
"You never gave us your number."