2014

The salty breeze was the first thing Boo Seungkwan noticed when he slid out of his Lexus, for it slapped him clearly on the cheeks as it rushed past. He winced, shielding his face almost immediately as he tried to make out Lee Jihoon’s words over the harsh wind.

“What did you say?”

He could see Jihoon glaring up at him—a result of his impatience. “As I was saying, this is the only house I could find with your unreasonable demands!”

Seungkwan pursed his lips as he pulled his gaze up. The house towering before him was certainly underwhelming for his high expectations. It was two-stories high and quite large, but it was horribly unkempt. Its discolored white painting was peeling off from the wooden walls, the tinted glass windows were cracked in random zigzags, and almost every blue tile on the left side of the roof were broken.

“Are you sure this is the only one?” he asked. “I’m not going to spend the rest of the summer here, hyung, I specifically told you that—”

“Shut your mouth for a second and come check out the view,” Jihoon cut him off menacingly, taking strides up the steps and onto the front porch.

Seungkwan heaved a helpless sigh and tailed behind him. The steps were so frail they creaked noisily as his feet hustled upwards, and the porch’s floorboards mildly shook once he stood there. He couldn’t help another wince from appearing as Jihoon struggled with the jammed door, minutes slowly passing by before he could swing it open.

The sitting room was grim and dingy and Seungkwan was glad that Jihoon led him straight to the kitchen, where it was less dark though more dusty. White-paneled windows lined the pale blue walls, this time their glass intact. Seungkwan unlocked one from its latch and let a gust of wind flow inside, gratefully inhaling the clean air.

“Well, what do you think?” Jihoon broke the silence, sweeping the thick dust off of a spinning stool and taking a seat on it. “And don’t tell me you think I should find you another house.”

Seungkwan tapped his fingers against the metal latch. “It has the best view so far,” he remarked, nodding his head to the outside view of glimmering golden dunes that belonged to a densely congested Coopers Beach.

“So far?” Jihoon repeated, not bothering to mask the annoyance in his voice.

“Fine, fine, fine.” Seungkwan waved his hand dismissively. “You’ve worked hard. I’ll go with this one. Congratulations, Best Manager on Earth,” he said in a flat tone.

Jihoon managed a triumphant chuckle as he stood up from his seat. “At last. I can sleep peacefully now. I can call a couple of handymen to fix the broken stuffs for you and maybe a temporary housekeeper, but fortunately, that’s as far as I can go.”

Seungkwan scowled. “Not even arranging their work schedules for me? I’ll be busy searching for inspiration!”

“I’ve been your manager for four years, Seungkwan. I think I deserve some break after all those house-hunting,” he chirped cheerfully, walking back towards the door. “Enjoy your writer’s block!”

After two long weeks, the house was finally, properly habitable, although Seungkwan couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was now creepier than it seemed, in a way or two. Other than that, it was alright. He could begin ending his writer’s block and write the new book everyone kept pushing him to.

Being a writer was definitely not the career choice he had made in his fifth grade English paper, but being rich and famous (and devilishly handsome) were certainly things that he could comfortably settle in to. Boo Seungkwan was known for his endlessly rambling mouth, and writing was the only thing that shut him up. Even then, words were pouring out of him. Albeit they were silent, they were the most powerful ones, and when his debut novel rose to bestseller, he figured he could get used to writing. People told him he was good at it, anyway.

Except that being a writer—a rich, famous, devilishly handsome one—meant that he had to produce great works.

And he did.

The only thing standing in between was a good old, unbelievably frequent writer’s block.

So here he was, in Southampton, Long Island, in House #53 in his Writer’s Block-Vanishing Houses list. It just kept getting longer and longer due to boredom attacking him easily, and he hoped, for his sake and Jihoon’s, that he would stay here for more than just a week.

There was no time to check out the polished house, he decided. He was already behind the deadline his editor had set for him. Yawning, he settled in the kitchen and placed his laptop against the counter.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Here we go.”

By the next three hours, Seungkwan only wrote six sentences, and they all described the kitchen he was currently in. He huffed exasperatedly and stared hard at the beach scenery outside, as if it were to blame for his own creativity stagnation. He finally surrendered and snapped his laptop shut.

“What do you have for me, #53?” he clasped his hands expectantly before striding out of the kitchen.

The entire house was spot-on clean when he inspected it, and it turned out to be home for a ridiculous amount of stuffs. There were shelves of alphabetically-arranged records propped on every wall, and most of them were jazz ones, which Seungkwan wasn’t familiar with. Even so, he popped a random record (after much struggle) from the C section of the shelf into an ancient-looking gramophone in the sitting room (he’d discovered that there was one in every room).

He expected a low, throaty voice to blast out of the gramophone, as he usually encountered in the very, very minimum amount of jazz he listened to, but there was nothing except for the sound of classic saxophone and the faint rhythm of brass in the background. Seungkwan clicked his tongue in distaste as he picked up the record’s cover. 1961, My Favorite Things, John Coltrane.

He decided he was not a fan of jazz.

Seungkwan had no idea how to stop the record from playing, so he let the saxophone haunted him to the basement, muffled slightly as he stepped closer to the only area he had not examined. To his surprise, there was a black grand piano in the center of the room. He pressed his finger along several keys; the instrument was out of tune.

“What in the world are these,” he mumbled aloud, darting his gaze along (more!) shelves of records that surrounded him. “The previous tenant must be a huge music fan. Why didn’t he—or she—bring these with them? Leaving records and gramophones and a ing piano behind and—what is this—”

He had reached the corner of the room, where a mysterious black case was leaning against the grey wall. Seungkwan wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t walked around—the massive piano had hidden it from view. He fumbled with the lock, but it was the one with numbers, and he reminded himself that he could always call Jihoon to call one of the handymen to open the case for him. Besides, his short-lived attention had found another place to focus on.

Small-sized cardboard boxes littered the floor, and they were full of black cassette tapes stacked neatly inside. There were at least sixty in every box, and a paper was labeled on the side of each tape, containing a date that went all the way back to the 1970s. Curiosity got the best of him, and he gingerly carried two boxes back to the sitting room, bringing the last one up just as John Coltrane rang out his final tune.

“Alright!” he said, clapping his palms in excitement. “Let’s see what secrets you hold.”

He managed to get the cassette deck operational, and judging from its timeworn, rust-caked exterior, Seungkwan presumed it was from the seventies as well. It was already connected to a brown-and-white television with knobs on its left side, but Seungkwan guessed this kind of tapes was for audio only.

Christmas was his favorite holiday, so he settled for the one marked December 25^th, 1976.

The deck buzzed loudly when he inserted the tape. It had not been in use for thirty-eight years, if the house were abandoned since 1976. Biting his lips in anticipation, Seungkwan plopped himself down on the battered couch.

The buzzing abruptly stopped five minutes later and was replaced with a low yet cheerful voice of a man.

“Christmas day, December twenty-fifth, nineteen seventy-six.”

Rustling noises came out of the deck, but Seungkwan didn’t think it was static or malfunction. Then there was a bed creaking, and a giggle.

“Comfortable now?”

A second voice erupted, this time higher but not high enough to be a woman’s. “Comfortable. You may begin, Cheol.”

Cheol cleared his throat and began. “Okay. So, today. It’s Christmas day, and I was so excited. It’s not my favorite holiday, but who could resist presents? Well, obviously not you. Anyway, the excitement didn’t last long. I remembered I had to go to work on Christmas and you spent half a morning cursing my boss while I ate breakfast. Don’t worry, you look y when you curse. Hey—ow—stop hitting me!”

A faint chuckle escaped Seungkwan’s lips. He crossed his legs, waiting for more.

“Done—done—are you done?! Okay. Okay. So, where was I? Ah yes, you cursing. So, I went to work, leaving a certain pouting boyfriend behind—”

“Boyfriend?” Seungkwan mumbled, nodding slightly. Interesting.

“—and reached New York in no time. But it was Christmas, and the snow was evil, and there were lots of people. Lots of ‘em. I think it was a mistake taking the usual route, because every street I passed through had a traffic jam due to the amount of people around; but I dived in anyway. So, I arrived thirty minutes late and got a good curse-and-threat session from my boss. I was the one who pushed back the schedule, though, so there was nothing to blame on him.”

“Nonsense,” the second voice cut off. “He made you work on Christmas day. That’s punishment enough. Who the hell works on Christmas day?”

“My boss, my colleagues, and me. Hmph. Anyway, so my co-worker—I know you don’t remember his name—was pissed off at me too, but we carried the broadcast without a hitch. There were no games today, so we only updated our listeners about the upcoming ones. We still ended up late, though, and after I’d gotten more cursing and yelling at me, I went back home.”

“Tsk. Poor you. You don’t know how much I really want to punch your boss in the face right now.”

“You’re tired. You can do that sometime else. Anyway, I went back home, and there you were practicing by the window, your hair beautifully cascading—”

“Don’t go all Shakespearian on me, Choi Seungcheol.”

“Psh, fine. So you were practicing, and I hugged you from behind, and you got mad at me too because you almost had Maple Leaf Rag perfect, but then I bribed you with cakes—I know you love them—and we had lunch and we went to the club. That was where all the fun started, huh?”

Another giggle. “Yep. Jisoo closed the club for Christmas but we came anyway.”

“To jam to jazz! Only the most perfect music imaginable. Everything was settled, Soonyoung got his guitar, Seokmin on drums, you on sax, and me on piano, which is recently retuned. Everyone brought their friends and wives and relatives but we didn’t bring anyone but ourselves. There were roughly twenty people in the room, and it was the largest number of people we’d ever seen that came for the music and not the food! And they’re not even real customers!”

Both of them were laughing, and Seungcheol continued afterwards.

“We started out with a classic My Favorite Things, and Seokmin fell a bit behind in the middle but he caught up quickly. Then it was our Maple Leaf Rag duet and can I say that it was amazing? We’re perfect for each other, aren’t we, Jjeongie? Musically and romantically and—”

“If you say physically or ually next, I’ll kill you.”

“Fine, fine! So, we moved on to Skyliner, and a number of songs that we arranged, and… more people kept coming. There were bystanders at first, but Jisoo couldn’t help it and let them in, free of charge. That dude, really. You know, I argued with him after Just a Gigolo, before Unforgettable, and he told me that it’s Christmas and it’s only a one-time thing. I couldn’t believe it, the crowd is getting bigger by the second and he’s not picking up any fees? But then yeah, alright, Christmas spirit and whatever.”

“Was that why you in Unforgettable?” Jjeongie—Seungkwan doubted this was his real name—inquired. “I knew something was up. Jisoo was practically shooting daggers at you when we performed.”

“Yeah, that was why,” Seungcheol grudgingly admitted. “But I grew to be okay. I just reveled in the jazz spirit. We all did. The club was bursting with people and everyone cheered the loudest when we played Hit the Road Jack. How many times did we play that?”

“Five times. Or more.” A pause. “Amazing night, wasn’t it?”

Seungcheol’s voice got lower, and Seungkwan could barely catch it. “Yeah. But I didn’t get to kiss you onstage as I planned.”

The tape grew silent, and Seungkwan could feel his chest clench a little.

Someone heaved a sigh. Then, Jjeongie spoke, “Babe…”

“If Jisoo hadn’t let them in, I would’ve still been able to kiss you. It was only our friends present, and they all knew about us, and goddammit I just wanted to show everyone how much I love you and you’re mine and I can’t and I—and I—”

Seungcheol was crying.

“I just—it’s just like I’m carrying this big secret with me. And it’s so heavy and stifling and there are many times that I just want to tell everyone that I’m in love with the most wonderful guy on earth and he loves me back. I can’t even hold hands with you in public. You—you don’t know—how many times I wanted to. How many times… I just want to crash our lips together and not give a damn about what people would say—”

Seungkwan turned off the tape.

He was crying as well.

Seungkwan spent the rest of the day rummaging through the tapes and shoving them inside the deck. He selected them randomly—April 25^th, February 16^th, September 8^th—and laughed at the funny parts and choked on the sad parts. He still couldn’t bring himself to finish listening to the Christmas tape—the distinct anger and frustration he’d heard in Seungcheol’s voice was too much for him to bear.

For the next two days, Seungkwan maintained a steady routine of sitting on the couch, playing a tape, and listening while munching on snacks. It was like reading an audiobook, only this time it was real and raw and personal and the narrator was also the character of the story.

He also scribbled down details about the speakers—he assumed they were also the previous tenants of the house—he had gathered from hours of listening to cassette tapes on a yellow notebook. The one who spoke the most was Choi Seungcheol, who had a comfortable baritone voice and a nice, low laugh. He worked in New York City as a radio broadcaster for sports events, although he had several other side jobs, and every single one involved much talking: volunteering storyteller at a hospital’s children ward, motivational public speaker, even stand-up comedian. Seungkwan loved the fact that both of them had something in common.

Seungcheol’s boyfriend was Yoon Jeonghan, the owner of a soft, soothing voice. According to Seungcheol, he had long blonde hair that reached below his shoulders and the brightest smile a human being could ever manage. He was a lifeguard at Coopers Beach, and he only had morning and afternoon shifts, which explained why he rarely talked and let Seungcheol do all the reminiscence. Seungkwan figured it must be boring to sit watching a crowded beach for most of the day.

The two notably met on November 30^th, 1970, when they were new recruits of a jazz band that performed in a restaurant-slash-music club called Jackpot Jazz (Seungkwan cringed whenever he heard the name). Seungcheol was on piano and Jeonghan was on saxophone, and they seemed to be good friends ever since. Seungcheol recounted that there was a huge hard-to-get game going on between them before the two began dating on February 2^nd, 1972, with Jeonghan confessing first on the back alley of the club after a midnight shift. (In Seungcheol’s words: “It was dark and smelly and raining, but it was romantic.”)

The tapes seemed to be recorded at the end of every day, with Seungcheol reciting the events that had occurred with military precision, Jeonghan’s sarcastic remarks every now and then, nasty but cute quibbles between the two, and often a soft “Good night, honey” ending the documentation. One time, Seungcheol insisted Jeonghan on trying to recount the day’s (January 15^th, 1973) events, and Jeonghan failed so terribly Seungcheol took over ten minutes in.

By the next week, Seungkwan had listened to all the tapes, save the 1976 Christmas one and one marked June 26^th, 1977. The latter had another label pasted on the side, below the date: SPECIAL TAPE. Seungkwan feared this was another tear-inducing narration, so he purposefully kept them for another time when he thought he would be completely ready. Seungcheol and Jeonghan’s story was already enormously special from what he had heard, and he couldn’t imagine how much of a hot, emotionally stirred, crying mess he would be if he listened to the other two till the end.

When Jihoon stopped by to make sure he was still alive, Seungkwan was perched on a spinning stool, typing maniacally on the laptop before him. Jihoon cleared his throat to signify his presence as he tossed a grease-stained brown bag onto the kitchen counter. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable here?”

Seungkwan only hummed, his fingers continuing to dance along the buttons of letters and numbers. “I guess. It has a good view.”

“Uh-huh,” Jihoon replied. “I brought you lunch from Burger King. I can’t be in charge of the death of the world’s most successful fiction author.”

“Yeah, right,” Seungkwan scoffed. “You’re the first person who wants me dead.”

Jihoon propped his arms against the marble, chuckling. “As long as you’re still a troublesome bastard. What are you working on?”

He took a peek at Seungkwan’s laptop screen, showing a white document specked with bunches of words.

“My next novel,” Seungkwan proudly answered. “My editor’s been pressuring me for my next manuscript, and here it is.”

“What about your writer’s block? You’ve only been here for days.”

“I know! It’s weird, right? But this house really gets my creative juices flowing. Well, not the house exactly—I found a muse.”

Jihoon crinkled his forehead, unconvinced. “A muse?”

“A muse,” Seungkwan confirmed. “Here—take a look—”

He lifted one of the boxes from its position on the floor and placed it before Jihoon. “I found this in the basement, a whole lot of them. They’re these really old cassette tapes that I assumed belonged to and recorded by the previous tenants. They were a couple, guy and guy, and their story is just… fascinating. Did you know—”

“No, I didn’t, you haven’t even told me—”

“—that one guy, Jeonghan, chased the other guy, Seungcheol, all across America when Seungcheol was traveling for work just to celebrate their anniversary? Did you know that Seungcheol wrote numerous piano arrangements for Jeonghan and always played them for him every weekend? Did you know that—”

“Shut the up, for crying out loud—”

“Alright, alright! I figured, a story so special must be told to everyone, right?” He paused. “And I’m here to do just that.”

Jihoon frowned at the collection of tapes as he lifted an August 11^th, 1974, staring at it as if it were an alien object. “You’ve been listening to ancient tapes? What is it, is it them talking or—”

“Yes, yes,” Seungkwan interjected, rather impatient. “They recorded whatever happened at the end of every day before they went to sleep. The funny thing is I can’t figure out why.”

“Well, you’re a writer, aren’t you?” Jihoon yawned. “Make something up.”

“I can’t just make something up! I’m doing a story inspired by this story; at least I have to know why to add a little authenticity to my work—”

The manager rolled his eyes. “You write fiction. They’re all in your head. Since when is it authentic?”

Seungkwan pursed his lips. “What I need is more answers, hyung. And…”

The corners of his lips gradually lifted in a sly smile.

“I think you’re just the guy who can help me.”

“He’s here.”

Seungkwan gulped.

“Do you need a hand with that?” the nurse asked, pointing to the box he had in his arms.

“No thank you,” he croaked, and he stepped inside before she could bombard him with more questions.

The entire room was sparkling white: the walls, the floor, the whole furniture. It took a while for Seungkwan’s eyes to adjust, and when they did, he quickly spotted a silver-haired elderly sitting with his back facing the door, staring out at the garden beyond the glass-paneled wall.

This is it. This is it.

A few weeks prior, Seungkwan had enlisted the help of his reluctant manager to track down the presence of Choi Seungcheol and Yoon Jeonghan. This involved lots of back-to-back trips to and from The Hamptons’ police station, resulting in a 24-hour frowning Jihoon. When Seungkwan got tired of waiting, he used his prestigious reputation to squeeze answers faster from the police. And those answers led them to where he was right now: Lakewood Retirement Community, New Jersey.

“Yoon Jeonghan lives there now,” Jihoon had told him, closing his eyes as he recalled more information. “He’s been living there since the early eighties. He’s never had a visitor until now—you. He also knows you’re coming. He’s confused why, but he agrees to be visited, so that’s good.”

“And what about Seungcheol?”

“He’s dead.” The casual way Jihoon had said it had made Seungkwan wince in horror. “What? I don’t know him, not like you do. Anyway, he’s been dead for over thirty years. 1980, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That explains why the tapes don’t go further than 1979,” Seungkwan had mumbled. “Go on.”

“Car accident in Louisiana. Nasty. Jeonghan got sick and lived in there ever since, but he only sold the Southampton house a few years back. I guess that’s about it.”

Seungkwan bit the insides of his cheeks, ending his train of recall as he approached the elder with tentative steps. I’m not disturbing, am I? Hyung already said he’d made an appointment, so I wouldn’t be intruding—

“You walk very slowly for a young man.”

Seungkwan stopped abruptly. His voice was similar to that in the tape, only more hoarse and quiet. A sheepish chuckle escaped the younger’s lips, and the elder turned his head around, his lips curving a warm, polite smile.

Seungkwan suddenly knew what Seungcheol was talking about.

“The brightest smile a human being could ever manage,” he gasped.

Jeonghan let out a chuckle as he patted an empty spot on the sofa he was sitting on. “Now I’m no longer curious why you’ve been so keen to meet me.”

Seungkwan carefully took a seat, his eyes never leaving the elder’s face. Yoon Jeonghan was tall yet frail, his waist-long hair framing his crinkled, sunken face. Nevertheless, his eyes shone with excitement and his smile was welcoming, and as Seungkwan pulled the box close to his chest and circled his arms around it, his nervousness instantly diminished and quickly replaced by delight. “I assume you’ve had your suspicions?”

“Not many.” Jeonghan shrugged. “Most people I was close with are no longer around. You can imagine my shock when a world-class writer signs up to meet me.”

“I won’t take up much of your time, I promise.” Seungkwan nodded fervently. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

With that, a loud guffaw slipped out of Jeonghan’s lips. “My boy, when you’re seventy years old and crippled and diagnosed with numerous diseases, a good disturbance is needed.”

Seungkwan managed an amused smile. “I’ll try my best. Well, first of all, it’s an honor to meet you. I’m the current tenant of your beach house in Southampton. Does it ring a bell?”

“Loud and clear,” Jeonghan replied simply. “It’s the only house I’ve ever lived in since I moved there.”

“I see. I moved there weeks ago myself, and I can’t help but notice that—”

“I left too much stuffs?” he giggled.

Seungkwan’s smile grew wider. “Yes, indeed.”

“Forgive me. I hope you didn’t have a hard time getting rid of everything.”

He shook his head. “No, no, as a matter of fact, I didn’t get rid of anything.” He swiftly opened the box and showed its content to Jeonghan, who gave a soft gasp and extended his hand towards the stack of tapes. “I found these in the basement. I… listened to them. And I took the liberty of arranging them in sequence. This is only partial—I have all of them in my car.”

They both lapsed into silence, as Jeonghan brushed his fingers along the cassettes, his brown eyes now glassy with tears. “I never thought I’d see them again.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something more, so Seungkwan kept his mouth shut.

“It’s been a… long time. The reason I moved in here was because I was sick. , collapsed lung, you name it. I couldn’t afford to take trips from home to hospital all alone, so moving here seemed like a better option. I would be taken care of. But I never sold the house. I just… abandoned it for years. I thought there would be a time when I would be healthy enough to return.” He smiled sadly. “I’m still waiting for that moment.”

Seungkwan pursed his lips. “You moved in here after he died.”

“Oh, yes,” Jeonghan confirmed. Seungkwan was rather surprised that the elder didn’t ask him why he knew or at least avoid his question like he’d expected him to. “Seungcheol’s death… took a great toll on me. I couldn’t—I couldn’t believe it at first.” He paused, retracting his hands back to his lap. “Being in the house where we’ve lived the best bits of our lives together was… too much for me. Especially since he was gone. Mementos of him were everywhere in that place, and I…” He choked. “That was the reason I moved in here also. To avoid the pain.”

“But you can’t avoid pain,” Seungkwan blurted out.

Jeonghan nodded his head in agreement. “No, you can’t. The first few years here were the most difficult for me. But I’m okay now. I know he’s somewhere better. Playing jazz piano with all our other buddies and waiting for me and my sax to catch up.”

The two exchanged knowing smiles, and Seungkwan asked, “So that was why you sold the house? Because you’ve moved on?”

“Not really,” the elder answered. “I think I will never be able to move on. I just get used to the fact, to the pain that he’s no longer around. With my rapidly deteriorating health, I didn’t think I’d be able to go back there anymore. So I didn’t think there was no use in keeping it.”

“I’d be glad to drive you there and show you around,” the writer piped up.

Jeonghan chuckled again as he brushed a strand of silver hair away from his face. “It’s alright, son. The only thing that matters the most to me is the tapes, and you bring them with you now. And you listened to them, say?”

“Yes, almost all of them. Your story with him is incredibly touching. I never felt as much heartfelt as I did whenever I listened to these.”

“I’m both glad and sorry that you did. What do you think of them?”

Seungkwan halted. “Well, I’m a writer, you see, and this story… it’s really special. I think, if I’d earned your permission, I could—”

“Write a book out of it?” Jeonghan guessed.

He nodded his head, expectant.

“I suppose you can,” Jeonghan agreed after a moment. “As long as it’s not some kind of strange zombie things that are around nowadays. I don’t understand any of them.”

Seungkwan laughed. “No need to worry. I think I’ll stick closer to the resources than what I come up in my head. It can be more of a biography.”

“I don’t mind.” He clasped his hand atop Seungkwan’s, squeezing it gently. “I’m sure you’ll do our story justice.”

A blush crept over Seungkwan’s cheeks. “I’ll—eh—certainly try my best. If you don’t mind, Mr. Yoon—”

“Just call me Jeonghan.”

“—Jeonghan, I would like to ask you a few questions, just to clarify the story.”

“Of course. Fire away.”

Questions had been buzzing endlessly in Seungkwan’s mind for weeks, but now, when they were needed the most, when they were supposed to come out and be spoken, his mind went blank.

“I—um—why?”

Jeonghan raised a brow. “Why what?”

“Why did you two record a narration of whatever you did in a day every night?”

“Ah.” Jeonghan nodded. “That started when Seungcheol was about to go on one of his sports travel for work, a few months after we started dating. You must know by now that he’s a broadcaster for a sports radio, though at times he had to travel to where a game was being held and commentate there for real. It was always for weeks at a time, so I asked him to record himself talking a few nights before he left, so that I could play it all over until he returned.”

“You love hearing him talk?” Seungkwan couldn’t help a smile.

“Yes, I do.” He nodded earnestly. “Very much. I was always more of a listener than a speaker, so I think we matched well. I thought he would stop recording when he returned, but it just… stuck on. We would lie on bed in each other’s arms, and I’d insert a new tape for every new session and he would speak and I would listen.”

Jeonghan’s eyes were practically b with tears, and he swept a delicate finger along his orbs to wipe them away. Seungkwan leaned closer and placed a hand on the elder’s thigh. “It’s okay to cry.”

“I haven’t in years,” he murmured, a small smile on his lips. “Anyway, do continue with your questions.”

Seungkwan nodded, but he waited a little while before he fired his next. “Is jazz something very memorable for both of you?”

The topic of music seemed to cheer him up, and Jeonghan showed him his dazzling smile again. “Why, yes. We both grew up with it and learned it since a young age. Cheol with his mildly out-of-tune piano, and me with my dad’s old tenor Buescher 400 Top Hat—it’s a kind of a saxophone,” he straightened out when he noticed Seungkwan’s baffled expression. “We met at a jazz club, and jazz clicked us together. Our friend Jisoo, who was also the boss and owner of Jackpot, let us stay overnight to jam, just the two of us. And when we got together, we still did, jazzing the hell out of our basement.”

“That’s wonderful,” Seungkwan complimented. “I tried listening to one of your jazz records. Something by John Coltrane? But it turns out jazz isn’t my thing. But to you, well, no need to ask.” He chuckled. “Are there any personal favorites?”

Jeonghan tilted his head to the side, contemplating for a while. “My all-time favorite would be Cry Me a River, but me and Seungcheol have our own song: I Wanna Be Loved by You. It was the first song we ever played together.”

“Fitting title,” Seungkwan commented as he embedded that small detail into his mind. “Do you still play the saxophone?”

Jeonghan was no liar—he couldn’t mask how that question affected him greatly, and Seungkwan was about to take it back when the elder raised a hand.

“It’s alright. It’s alright, really. But no, I don’t, albeit I still want to.” He heaved a long sigh. “My lungs aren’t as healthy as they used to be.”

Seungkwan knew the last thing Jeonghan wanted was pity, so he said a curt “It must’ve been hard.”

“Immensely. Saxophone was the second best thing that’s ever happened to me—you certainly know the first one—and to not play it, just when I’ve lost Seungcheol… it drove me crazy. I did things back then that I’m not proud of.”

“Things?” Seungkwan curled his brows.

“I nearly murdered myself after grabbing a sax in a music store and playing half of an extended version of Hit the Road Jack,” Jeonghan recounted with a grimace. “Paramedics came in an instant. The doctors told me that I was lucky. If I do that again, there won’t be a chance of me surviving.”

Seungkwan widened his eyes. “Not a single chance?”

“Not a single chance,” the elder repeated. “But I still have jazz—the third best thing. As long as I don’t damage my ears too, I think I’ll get along just fine.”

Their talk went for hours, continuously jumping from topic to topic, and Seungkwan never thought he would admire someone as much as he did Jeonghan. The elder, despite his feeble and decrepit demeanor, still had some fire burning within him, prickling red flames on edges of half-burnt-out wooden logs. He chattered silently on the lips but animatedly in the eyes, his kind hands squeezing Seungkwan’s gently, throwing subtle jokes and his own kind of sarcasm that Seungkwan could not obviously miss.

“You said you listened almost all of the tapes?” Jeonghan reminded.

Seungkwan nodded his head. “Only two. I didn’t listen to 1973 Christmas day until the end, and I haven’t listened to the special tape at all.”

Jeonghan clicked his tongue. “That’s a shame. I’ve still got a little something from the seventies—that cassette deck over there. Shall we listen together?”

The idea of listening to that certain tape alone was already morbidly terrifying, and now he had to listen it with Jeonghan next to him? Seungkwan stuttered, unsure of what to say, but Jeonghan already snatched the June 26^th, 1977, rose slowly from his seat, and tucked it into the deck.

“Wha—why is it labeled special tape?” Seungkwan voiced as he helped Jeonghan settle back onto the sofa.

“You’ll see,” Jeonghan mysteriously uttered, wearing a playful smile. “Or rather, hear.”

Seungkwan complained internally, but he only let out a small huff and leaned his head against the back of the sofa, waiting for Seungcheol’s voice to fill the room.

It did moments later.

“June twenty-sixth, nineteen seventy-seven.”

The sound of Seungcheol’s raw voice was all too familiar for Seungkwan’s ears, but it must be a different sensation for Jeonghan, who hadn’t listened for over thirty years. Jeonghan immediately gasped, and he brought his hands to his face, covering his cheeks that were stained with promptly descending tears.

“Today. Was. Magical. I have no other word for it.”

Jeonghan wept wordlessly, his weak shoulders shaking. Seungkwan drew his arm out to wrap it gently around him, hoping that it would provide a sense of calmness.

“Magical, Jjeongie. Do you hear me? Do you hear me?!”

A groan came out of the tape. “Yes, I hear you perfectly, Cheol,” the voice of thirty-seven-years younger Jeonghan said.

“Good. Okay. So, when I woke up today, I felt disoriented at first because you weren’t next to me. Then I remembered that today was our important day and you’d told me that you’d be going to Jisoo’s early to prepare. Soonyoung was already at the house, and he was bombarding me to get ready quickly since it’s already one in the afternoon. Screw you, Jeonghan, why didn’t you set an alarm for me—”

“No alarm could wake you up from your sleep, Seungcheol, have you not noticed what kind of a sleeper you are—”

“Of course I have not noticed! I was sleeping so how could I? Ugh. Anyway, Soonyoung told me to get ready, so I did. The tux was tight in the arms because I’d been stress-eating. I opted for a blazer change, but Soonyoung said there was no time. That bastard. He just likes seeing me suffer—sorry, I’m getting off topic!

“I won’t bore you with the bits of my preparation. Long story short, I was nervous. I was nervous as hell. I mean… I’ve been looking forward to this day for years. Ever since I realized how much I love you. And it was going to happen. Sure, it wasn’t official or anything, but… it was still going to be special.”

A pause.

“Are you crying, Jjeongie?”

“Not yet,” Jeonghan from the tape answered, and the real Jeonghan let out a chuckle. “Keep going.”

Seungcheol laughed. “Alright. So, when I was ready, Soonyoung went downstairs. I could hear many people talking. How many did we invite? Ten? Fifteen? I was getting more nervous by the second. I kept fixing my tie. Then I heard it. A jazz version of The Wedding March.”

“Typical,” Seungkwan mumbled, and Jeonghan chuckled again.

“I knew that was my cue,” continued Seungcheol, “so I pulled myself together and walked downstairs. Gracefully. I walked gracefully. People were so stunned by how handsome I was—I could just see by the look on their faces—no no no don’t hit me!

“Okay, okay. So, as I was saying, I walked down the stairs. I saw Soonyoung playing the guitar and Seokmin on the drums. I saw Jisoo humming the tune on the microphone he’d brought from Jackpot. I saw Bob the Bartender and Kelly the Waitress, smiling up at me. I saw Junhui and his wife and their little baby, waving and cheering at me. And I saw the rest of our friends, and—and I’m just so grateful that I have them and I have you.

“Then I sat on the piano and caught up with the boys. As I played, I remembered the struggle we’d gone through to put it in the sitting room. But it paid off, didn’t it? Junhui decorated the place beautifully too. He brought shells from the beach and hung them on the ceilings. I thought it would look weird, but it didn’t.

“The tempo grew faster, and that was when I knew it was your cue. I kept hitching on my breath, because I was nervous and excited at the same time. My fingers seemed to froze, but somehow I kept playing. And—and—you appeared.”

Seungcheol was choking, and the real, present Jeonghan was, too.

“You were so beautiful. Goddammit, so beautiful. And I don’t mean that in a girly way like I usually do. Like… you were like an angel. That tux suited you perfectly. And with your blonde hair and your wide smile and everything else… I was just awestruck. I stopped playing, remember? I stopped playing the piano because I was too focused on you. That’s how much of an effect you are able to give me, Yoon Jeonghan.

“I knew the other three were looking at me weirdly because I stopped playing, but I didn’t really care. It was our wedding, anyway. And then at some point, I was pulled from my trance and I smiled at you. And you smiled back. And I... I fell in love with you all over again.

“You took the sax in your hands and you began playing. You had your eyes on me all the time and I was back in a trance once again. How could I snap out of it? Well, turned out Seokmin crushed my shoulder with his drum stick, so I managed to play again. That little . But we didn’t keep our eyes off each other, did we? We played March till finish, and when it was over, everyone clapped. And we still couldn’t keep our eyes off each other.

“We stood up, left our instruments, and held hands. I remember Kelly squealing. Soonyoung—who’s probably going to get jailed for doing this, I thought, but again, I didn’t care—started with the most inappropriate words for a wedding ceremony. I guess it was something along the lines of, ‘Dear gay-rights supporters, we are gathered here today to illegally celebrate the union of two jazz-loving bastards’. Was that it?”

“That was it,” both Jeonghans uttered in unison.

Seungcheol hummed. “The nerve of him, really. So, we exchanged our vows. You went first. You promised to make me breakfast in bed every Saturday, you promised to kiss me every day and night, you promised to save me whenever I drown because I can’t swim, you promised to snuggle back more often instead of shooting one of your snarky comments, you promised to never cut your hair and let me play with it all the time, you promised to—”

“Geez, do you have eidetic memory or something?” Jeonghan grumbled.

“I remember everything when it comes to you,” Seungcheol airily replied. “Then it was my turn! I promised to… well damn, I forgot.”

Jeonghan giggled softly. “You promised to play me one of your own arrangements whenever I’m feeling down. You promised to narrate every single day at every single night just for me. You promised to be with me whenever things get rough. You promised to iron your clothes more often. You promised to not misplace more of your stuffs. You promised to help me arrange our jazz records in order. You promised to be more clingy even though I love it and hate it. And many, many more.”

“Someone’s done their homework, huh?” Seungcheol emitted a chuckle.

“I remember everything when it comes to you,” Jeonghan remarked cheerfully.

“Sure you do. So, we were married, and we kissed. Did I go too all-out? I wouldn’t be that sorry if I did, though. You were mine and I wanted everyone to know. Then, we drank beer. Bob brought many crates from Jackpot and we drank while we danced. Then we realized we weren’t good dancers, because I kept stepping on your foot and you kept tripping. So, we took our instruments once again and let the guests dance while we played.”

“We were our own wedding band.”

“Truly. Then we ate in the kitchen, and it was such a mess but it was a happy mess. I couldn’t stop hugging you whenever I got the chance and I remember kissing you so many times you blushed furiously. But you looked cute, so I couldn’t really complain. And then we played some more and drank some more and ate some more.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re too drunk to remember what had happened.”

“You caught me. I’m a husband who couldn’t even remember his own wedding. Happy now?”

“No. You still haven’t told me how you felt about the entire wedding.”

Another pause.

“I felt lucky. I felt lucky that I found you and fell in love with you and that I am surrounded by people who love us for who we are. Our wedding was illegal, and nobody apart from the ones who witnessed it would ever know about it, and… I died a little inside.”

Some rustlings Seungkwan knew all too well—he’d normally guessed that the two were pulling each other closer to one another.

“I thought that it was stupid. That gays and lesbians getting married and having proper rights were not allowed by law. We’re humans, aren’t we? We’re allowed to love each other just how we like and I think the law shouldn’t limit that. And it feels stuffy—that we’re married but at the same time we’re not.

“I guess, mostly… it just breaks my heart. We’re happy and we allow ourselves to be, but the whole world doesn’t. I keep worrying if somebody is going to rat us out and I’m going to spend the rest of my life in jail and not being with you. I just… just want our wedding to be as real as anyone’s is. It’s our celebration of love and trust and commitment and if the law limits that, then well, it.”

Sobs and whimpers were heard.

“I’m—I’m crying now,” Jeonghan choked. “And it’s real. It’s very real, baby.”

Seungcheol heaved a sigh. “I love you so much.”

Click.

Seungkwan wrapped his arm tighter around Jeonghan, who was practically bawling his eyes out. It took fifteen minutes for his sobs to cease, and when they did, Jeonghan retracted his palms from his face. His cheeks were swollen red and his eyes screamed pain, and Seungkwan couldn’t resist the urge to hug the elderly man.

“I’m alright,” Jeonghan sighed, patting Seungkwan’s shoulder after they disentangled from their embrace. “Now you see how it is special.”

Seungkwan shook his head in disbelief. “You two played at your own wedding?”

“We had high standards,” Jeonghan stated, a sheepish smile forming, “and we’re the only ones who could overcome them.”

“You love him so much,” Seungkwan carefully held onto his hand and gave it a light squeeze. “It must be unbelievably joyful for you to spend time together with him back in the day.”

Jeonghan shrugged. “I cherished them, the little moments. It was like spending time with a golden treasure. Unimaginably jubilant, but you keep feeling like it’s going to be taken away from you.”

“It may have been,” Seungkwan spoke through his own, newly-formed tears, “but no one can take away the memories.”

When he arrived at the beach house, Seungkwan dashed inside, activated his laptop, and began writing like a madman. He didn’t stop to eat or sleep or even take a breath of fresh air. Words were flowing and tumbling and running out of him and he didn’t care how—they were finally here, after weeks of absence, and Seungkwan welcomed them like an old friend.

The first draft of The Golden Hour was completed two months later. Seungkwan’s whole body was sore after being hunched for so many hours on the kitchen counter. Groaning, he stood up and cracked his joints and knuckles, feeling every fatigue released with every click of the bones.

After he’d eaten a few dry toasts and burnt eggs for dinner, he jogged downstairs to the basement. He walked towards the corner and placed the mysterious black case from the corner on the piano—it creaked in protest as he did so. Fumbling with the lock in the dark, Seungkwan squinted his eyes as much as he could and turned the numbers with his fingertips.

062677.

He didn’t know much about saxophones or Buescher or any kind of musical instrument for that matter, but he was certain that the golden contraption in front of him, engraved with A Present from Your Love (December 31^st, 1979), the date coincidental with the date of the last tape ever recorded, was a brand new tenor Buescher 400 Top Hat.

2015

Seungkwan had just finished signing the last copy of his book that belonged to the last of the people in line when the band began playing. It was a jazz song, though he didn’t know which. Straightening his sleeves, he descended the stage and waltzed to the dance floor, into the groups of people mingling with champagnes in hand and shimmering jewelries on skin.

“The book was sensational!”

“A classic literature in the modern days.”

“I’ve bought seven copies just today!”

“A wonderful read; such a splendid story.”

“The Golden Hour is rumored to be racking up all the prestigious literature awards!”

“Who knows, a Pulitzer may be just around the corner.”

Seungkwan wore his best and widest smiles as he wove his way through the crowd, shaking their hands and posing for pictures. His gaze occasionally wandered to the double doors, where increasing streams of people were milling in, packing the grand hall of the New York City penthouse in just moments.

“Maybe he’s late,” he murmured to himself, watching closely as yellow-jacketed attendants handed rainbow-colored flags to every passing guest. He could hear phrases “love wins” and “today finally came” and “about time they legalize this” being swapped on lips, ensuing a jittery feeling building up inside him. Had Jeonghan heard the news? Could that possibly be the reason to why he was late? To join a marching parade through Times Square, carrying large posters in the blazing heat?

“Here’s the man of the hour!”

Jihoon clapped him on the back of his shoulder, a huge grin playing on his lips. “Did you see what I did there? Man of the hour. Ha! I’m a genius.”

Seungkwan rolled his eyes not-so-subtly. “Sure you are.”

“Everyone’s pretty pleased,” his manager talked conspiratorially, leaning forward so that his voice would be heard above the other guests’ loud, reverberating chatter. “Everyone keeps talking of a Pulitzer, but we never know. Though I personally suggest you start crafting your acceptance speech now, it’s a big event, you—”

“We just started our fan-signing tour, hyung,” Seungkwan groaned. “We can talk about this later.”

Jihoon frowned, but he nodded in agreement nonetheless.

“Anyway, have you seen Jeonghan?” Seungkwan inquired, his brows furrowing. “He hasn’t come, I think.”

“Same- marriage is legal now!” Jihoon practically yelled in his ear. “He’s been waiting for that for what, more or less forty years? And it’s also his anniversary! Do you still expect him to show up at your little book party?”

Seungkwan punched him in the guts (gently, he supposed, he didn’t know), and Jihoon scurried away after firing a sequence of loud cursing at him, his short figure swallowed by the thriving crowd.

When the band switched to their fifteenth song of the afternoon, Seungkwan spotted Jeonghan atop the stairs. He gleefully declined the flag from a widened-eyed attendant—Seungkwan could clearly see why.

Jeonghan was dressed in an eccentric, rainbow-colored suit, matched with white, polished shoes and a straw hat atop his silvery hair. He looked vibrant and happy and like a candy, and he descended the stairs while shouting, “I can proudly and freely say that I’m gay!” and everyone instantly cheered and hooted for him.

“Nice way to steal all the attention,” Seungkwan muttered, feigning hurt as Jeonghan strode towards him.

The elder laughed hard and slapped him on the small of his back. “This is a happy day, Seungkwan. A happy day. Have I ever told you that I let Seungcheol pick the date for our wedding? That bastard. I love him so much. And he would’ve loved this day. Seungcheol would’ve loved this day.”

Seungkwan shook his head with a smile and motioned for him to sit down. “I think you’ve been through one hell of a day. Take a seat and I’ll get you some water to drink.”

Luckily, Jeonghan obliged, and he settled the black case of his Buescher on the table, and Seungkwan wasn’t aware that he had it on him until he saw it. He walked to the open bar and returned with a glass of water and a flute of champagne, placing the former in front of Jeonghan when he reached their table.

“I would like some champagne, actually,” Jeonghan complained, the black case fondly with his fingers.

“Slow down, old man, slow down,” Seungkwan said, and he finished half of the champagne in one chug.

Jeonghan filled him in with everything: how the streets were packed with people, how the smoldering temperature seemed to boost their spirits, how loud everyone was cheering and screaming and clapping. Seungkwan listened intently, because for once, Jeonghan wasn’t silent. He was animated in both eyes and lips, and he almost knocked his saxophone case off the table when he described how giant the banners were.

“But this is your special day too, eh?” Jeonghan smiled. “How does it feel to be an author of another bestselling novel?”

“Well, I would just like to relay my gratitude to you for selling that house,” Seungkwan laughed.

They spent another half an hour talking, with Jihoon stopping by for another sequence of drunken cursing before Seungkwan told the security guards to help him out. The band was about to start their twenty-seventh song, and Seungkwan whined and Jeonghan cheered when it turned out to be My Favorite Things.

“My Favorite Things is not one of my favorite things,” Seungkwan grumbled.

“Come on! Revel in the jazz spirit, my friend,” advised Jeonghan, keeping his gaze glued on the stage. “That saxophonist is not bad. I was much better, though.”

Seungkwan eyed the case on the table, and he felt a lump in his throat. Moments later, Jeonghan detached his gaze from the stage and landed it on the case as well, heaving an exasperated sigh. Frustration was evidently etched on his face, on the curl of his eyebrows, on the purse of his lips.

Seungkwan twirled the empty flute in his fingers. He dreaded the question, but he fired it anyway.

“Do you want to play?” Are you ready to die?

Jeonghan stayed silent for a while before answering.

“Yes, I do.” Yes, I’m ready.

“Then get out there and show them what you’ve still got. Good luck.” I hope you’ll meet him soon.

The elder curved up a grateful smile. “Thank you.” I hope so too.

Seungkwan helped him pull out the saxophone from its velvet case. It was already polished and retuned—something that Jeonghan did repeatedly every month for the lack of being able to play it. But here he was, strapping the string along his shoulders and strutting confidently towards the stage, Seungkwan tailing behind him.

“You should say a few words,” Jeonghan muttered as the last notes of My Favorite Things were heard. “I doubt they would be pleased to have another saxophonist so abruptly.”

Seungkwan nodded, and he walked up the stage in light steps, the crowd immediately roaring before him. He flashed a smile and cleared his throat while the vocalist handed him a microphone.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’d just like to say a few words: thank you for coming here to celebrate this joyous day, for both me and America. It means a lot to me, and I’m forever grateful for your endless support.”

Polite clapping erupted, and it ceased seconds later when Seungkwan resumed to speak.

“A friend of mine has arrived to give his support also. He’s an incredibly talented saxophonist, and I’d love for all of you to enjoy his music through the timeless song, I Wanna Be Loved by You. Please welcome, Yoon Jeonghan!”

Another series of clapping, and it grew louder and louder once Jeonghan stepped onto the stage, for the guests recognized him in his rainbow-colored suit. Seungkwan skittered to the side of the stage and stood there to watch, folding his arms across his chest, holding his breath when Jeonghan positioned his fingers along the brass keys…

And began playing.

Seungkwan had heard a great deal of saxophone music through all the jazz records Jeonghan had him for an entire year, but his own playing was much, much more than any other famous saxophonist’s Seungkwan had known. His playing was simply otherworldly—every music-producing key being tapped and pressed by expert, languid fingers; his snapped-shut eyes, drowning himself in jazz; the most beautiful scene Seungkwan had ever laid his eyes on.

The crowd sang along as the band played, though Jeonghan clearly stole the spotlight. He was back home, up onstage, inhaling jazz, exhaling jazz. Seungkwan wished he could freeze this moment for eternity: no longer the frail, feeble, community-dweller Yoon Jeonghan, but energetic, gleeful, proud gay saxophonist, Seungcheol-loving Yoon Jeonghan.

For Seungkwan, the song ended too soon, and by then, Jeonghan was more than just out of breath. However, he managed to salute the wild crowd and the rest of the band before advancing very slowly to the side of the stage, as if every step took a whole lot of energy to project, which probably did.

“Jeonghan?” Seungkwan called out doubtfully.

The elder instantly collapsed in the writer’s arms, his face pale as snow, his throat bright red, gasping for breath. Seungkwan shrieked and panicked and he carefully laid him down on the floor, his Top Hat still grasped tightly in his long, whitening fingers.

“That… was… for… Cheol…,” he croaked breathlessly, his fingers finding their way around Seungkwan’s wrist, gripping it weakly.

His heart was hammering too hard, too fast against his ribcage, and Seungkwan wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. So, he gripped back tightly, gritting his teeth to prevent them from chattering.

“Yes, for Seungcheol. You played wonderfully, Jeonghan. So wonderful. He would have been so proud of you.”

Even at times like these, Jeonghan could still manage a smile—small but bright, the brightest a human being could ever manage.

“You can… have this…”

Jeonghan tapped a finger against the surface of his saxophone.

“I don’t… need it… bring it… home…”

“I will, Jeonghan. I will. I want you to go home too.”

Knowing fully well which home, Jeonghan’s smile curved unbelievably wider.

“Thank you,” he whispered, choked, sobbed, “for everything.”

Yoon Jeonghan died with his all-time friend. Seungkwan thought he would have loved that.

The beach house was still and silent when he got back. He placed the saxophone on the couch, drawing a long breath. The funeral was over hours ago, but Seungkwan lost himself in time and loss.

He popped a bottle of wine and drunk it straight from the bottle, enjoying the burnt taste on his tongue and the fire in his throat. He strode back towards the sitting room, taking a seat next to Buescher.

The boxed tapes were set out neatly on the coffee table. Seungkwan placed the half-empty bottle down and rifled through them, withdrawing the very first, a May 15^th, 1972, sticking it into the deck, and pressing play.

June 27^th, 2015: he embarked on one more touching, tear-inducing, golden ride.

damn was this long. this is a little different, but i like experimenting. tell me what you think in the comments! < 3 and also i can’t believe i killed seungcheol again omg what is wrong with me I don’t hate him okay he’s actually my second bias in svt odg trUST ME

thank you to gwanshim, elrhys, ivory16, Izzymon, rumourhasit12, KiwiMadison98, COFFEECRUMBLE, cattalicious, sujung87, and mannykins for upvoting!