*

The day was still vaguely light and the street lamps only just beginning to glow. The sign outside the Midnight Blues was still flipped on the “closed” side but Hyukjae ignored it and pushed his way into the bar. He greeted the darkness on entry and let the door swing back and forth, shutting the cold breeze out behind him.

“Hyukjae?” the reply came from the far side where the counter was. He saw a flash of a white cloth in the darkness and went towards its direction, feeling his way around the tables in the far-too-dimly-lit establishment.

The bartender smiled wide when the incomer was finally close enough for his features to be distinguishable. There was a bit of screechy noise as the said incomer felt underneath the bar counter for a chair and pulled one out.

“Would it be too much to ask Shindong if we could turn on some lights…”

“No can do. We’re on a budget. He says it gives the place a fine ambience. That and you can’t tell how disgusting the place actually is.” Sungmin replied, muttering the last few words. He flicked the blonde tips out of his eyes as he polished wine glasses.

The drinks counter was the cleanest and brightest place to be, the glasses hanging on the ceiling above so finely polished that they caught the little light that trickled into the bar and gleamed. The vast array of wine bottles and other bottled refreshments were speckles and shining like prized trophies in the dark.

Hyukjae slumped down on a tall stool and sighed.

“You’re early today.” Sungmin noted. He found Hyukjae’s eyes in the darkness with a concerned look, then promptly looked away, unprying. “Something to drink?”

“Just water, thanks. I’ll get a drink later when I’m done.”

“Sure.” The bartender replied. With practiced movements, he filled the glass and jug with such grace that not a single drop splashed on the inner walls. A single slice of lemon was wedged onto the side of the glass, then he slid the glass across the bar table, stopping just short of where Hyukjae’s right hand lay.

“Thanks. Is Yesung here yet?”

“Yesung? Oh, he’s-”

“Right here.” A husky voice came from the darkness.

Both Sungmin and Hyukjae jumped in their skin as Yesung emerged from behind, wine-red apron tied around his waist and a broom in hand.

“Geez, have you been hiding there the whole time?” Sungmin grumbled.

“No?” Yesung cocked his head to one side, a brow raised. “I was sweeping.”

“Then why did I not hear you sweeping?”

“You weren’t paying attention?” the dark-haired waiter shot back, leaning the broom against the bar counter and planting his on the stool next to Hyukjae’s. “I’m just floor staff. All I do is pick up empty glasses and broken glasses and left behind. Not that anyone notices or cares, this job practically makes you a ghost.” He picked up his glass of water, freshly prepared on his arrival and raised it towards the dark-haired bartender in thanks before extending an accusatory index finger.

“And by the way, I like the lighting. Makes my job a whole lot easier.”

Sungmin looked at the time on his watch, put down the glass and picked another one up as he spoke. “I swear to god, the day this establishment makes an actual profit, our owner might actually consider coming into this hole, might finally consider investing in actually turning some lights on, and then-”

“That’ll be the day Shindong has my neck.” Yesung grieved, then lightened up promptly with a grin. “But that’s not any day soon. Or ever.”

Hyukjae murmured something under his breath that sounded like “I suppose the less you know...”

Yesung chuckled, eyes twinkling, dark and mischievous.

“The tables near the front and centre are fine, but if you want to use the booths at the back, don’t bring a black light with you.” He inserted a deliberate pause here. “For peace of mind.”

“… That’s disgusting.” Sungmin said.

“You’re a stickler for hygiene, you clean it if you want.”

The blonde bartender scoffed. “… No thanks.”

Hyukjae laughed softly, then turned to Yesung. “Can you set up?”

“Now?” The dark-haired waiter asked. “It’s still early though.”

“I feel like warming up a bit.” He responded in the most casual manner.

“Oh. Well, sure.”

They both pushed their glasses back to Sungmin, swung their chairs around and left the counter.

Yesung placed his arms on Hyukjae’s shoulders and accompanied him to the stage, pointing out things that had been changed since his last shift. The waiter gave him an encouraging pat on his lower back as he ascended the stage, before heading to the back of the bar to turn on the stage lights and the sound system.

On the stage, Hyukjae picked up a microphone next to the speakers at the front of the stage and kicked the tangled cords free. He was in the process of winding them into coils around his sleeved wrist when the lights began to turn up. The glare in his eyes was strong and he brought up a hand to shield himself. He waited for the lights to dim down to a moderate intensity.

“Is that alright?” a voice called from the back.

Hyukjae switched on the mic and waited for the small red light to flicker on.

“Perfect.” His voice resonated through the empty establishment.

*

They could only tell when night had arrived when people began to filter in of their own accord, ignoring the closed sign outside; customers of familiar faces who greeted the bartender and asked for the usual as they settled down, generally alone or in pairs, along the counter and among the round tables.

The CD for Hyukjae’s background music played in the background and his voice floated above the chattering customers. People’s eyes watched him absently as they flicked back and forth between the stage and those they were engaged with.

His voice was filled the air with jazz, slow and soothing, not demanding attention but not boring and monotonous. He sang effortlessly, his voice smooth and steady, the words flowed from his lips that didn’t sound so practiced as much as it sounded natural and carefree. He was the comforting background music more than anything.

He sang at intervals and came down for drinks, and sang again, announcing each new song modestly with a polite nod for a bow. The customers clapped sparsely in return. By the time he’d finished his last set, he looked a lot more relaxed. The cloud in his eyes had cleared and the stage lights had restored some vitality in this pupils.

He presently swirled the little bit of alcohol left in his glass and engaged in conversation with the bartender.

“If he’s an artist, he must be scraping to get by.” Sungmin commented, taking the tray of used glasses delivered by Yesung and lowering them with quick hands into the sink. “But he can afford to travel a lot?”

Hyukjae hummed and shrugged his shoulders, his eyes fixed on the melting ice cubes in his glass. He’d omitted telling the bartender that he was helping a criminal, deciding that that part was not necessary.

“So this guy says he needs one week to get some stuff sorted, then he’ll clear your name?”

“… Yes.”

Sungmin frowned, thinking. A customer nearby asked for a second glass and he turned to pluck a bottle from the shelf, reaching over to fill the glass in one fluid motion before turning back to Hyukjae.

“He doesn’t sound like a good character, if you ask me.”

“His brother died. I think they were quite close.” Hyukjae said, still fiddling with his drink. “He doesn’t have any reason to accuse anyone but the one who actually did it. I can’t think of any other reason for him to ask for such a favour unless he really has someone to protect like he says he does.”

“You’re sure he’s not… not some stalker of some kind?”

“… No. I don’t know.”

Sungmin placed his palms on the edges of the sink, leaning forward with his hips against the sink counter.

“With the way his brother died…” the bartender trailed off and lightly sighed down at the sink.

“They let me go because I didn’t have a motive.” The ice in his glass had diluted what little was left of the liquor. His eyes flicked up to meet Sungmin’s momentarily as he pushed his glass towards him. “But if they dig deep enough, they might just not need one to arrest me.”

Sungmin nodded once, his eyes remaining downcast, evading what he knew Hyukjae preferred to remain an unspoken subject. He filled the glass to just half this time, stopping to give the singer a knowing look just as it reached the midway mark.

“You seem to like him.” he said, as he passed the glass into Hyukjae’s hands.

“… Who? Donghae?”

“Mm. Donghae. The artist. You seem friendly with him.”

He looked to the blonde questioningly. “… Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know, I guess.” Sungmin kept talking as he silently gestured to calling customer and turned to prepare another glass. “Just the way you talk about him. You don’t sound careful or anything. You sound like you want to be his friend.”

“… I suppose I do want to help him.”

They didn’t speak again the bartender’s full undivided attention was once again on Hyukjae.

“Well, are you seeing him again?” Sungmin asked, wiping his hands with a tea towel.

“I don’t have any reason to see him.”

Sungmin’s mouth skewed to one side purposefully. “Well I wouldn’t say it’s a good idea to just leave him alone.”

Hyukjae tilted his head marginally. “You’re telling me to go see him?”

“Sure. Why not.” Sungmin shrugged. “If he’s as harmless as you say. He practically invited you to go over when he gave you his address.”

Hyukjae took big long gulps of his last drink for the night before he spoke and handed the glass back to Sungmin.

“I guess he wants me to trust him.”

“Of course.” Sungmin replied. He tossed the tea towel nonchalantly over his shoulder and the tap, filling the sink with water.

*

Hyukjae woke up the next morning with a dry aching throat and mild discomfort in his head, as if someone had stuffed cotton into under temples overnight.

After rinsing his mouth, he opened the cabinet to reach for his shaving cream, eyeing the bottle of untouched sleeping pills from the night before. He closed the cabinet door with a weary exhale.

He prepared and ate breakfast and then proceeded to fill up the rest of his morning with chores. The vacuum cleaner was pulled out from the closet and the carpet hoovered, the kitchen floor wiped, and his toilet and bathroom cleaned thoroughly. He then made a list of groceries to buy. He checked his bank balance and the weather on his laptop and made a mental note to bring an umbrella when he left the house later in the day.

It was just past noon when he left his house, donning a grey duffel coat and black jeans, his hands warm in his pockets. The sun hid behind the clouds and the world cast in grey shadow. He sat at the bus station by himself until the bus arrived and he boarded, paying the usual fee.

He took the usual seat, next to the window by the rear door. There, he spent the most of the bus ride staring out the window, appearing very much deep in thought to other strangers, but thinking nothing at all.

Half an hour trickled by. He bid the driver a good day as he stepped off the bus and onto a street lined with trees on one side. Beyond that was the town cemetery; a large field of grass and tombstones, among which were placed gifts of flowers and colourful windmills that spun in the breeze.

Hyukjae crossed the road to the other side, towards where the funeral home was established.

*

As he made his way to the basement, he was accompanied by his superior, the funeral director, who informed him that there had been two new arrivals over the past few days, both of which were in no need of immediate preparation as funeral arrangements had not been made. He added also that one in particular had rather severe blood loss as a result of a wound to the neck and had suffered multiple injuries to one side of the face, and urged him to exert more care in his cleaning and patchwork.

“Just do what you can. Make them look as good as possible for viewing. For their families.”

Hyukjae removed his duffel jacket and slipped on a pair of latex gloves and a clinical suit. A pale blue surgical mask hung just below his chin. He changed his boots for a pair of closed-toed work shoes before leaving the changing rooms and heading for the preparation room.

The lights flickered on, artificially white and illuminating and the air smelled cold and of formaldehyde. Two new stretchers lay in front of the respective refrigerator shelves in which the new bodies had been placed. Autopsy charts hung from the end of each stretcher.

The first one chart Hyukjae picked up was for an elderly lady who’d died quietly at home of old age. She had simply closed her eyes, resting in her armchair, and never woken up. Hyukjae hung the chart up and moved onto the second body.

He picked up the chart for the second body and skimmed the details, gathering that the body belonged to that of a young male, aged thirty-two, who had died of a knife wound to the neck and suffered severe trauma to the head.

His eyes eventually drifted up to the top of the chart, and he spoke the name aloud quietly under his breath.

“Lee Donghwa…”

He put the chart down and began to work on him first.

He transferred the body from its shelf onto the metal table and proceeded to wash it down, using a sponge to wipe down the body and remove any dirt and oil from the skin. When he was done, a white cloth was draped over the lower half for the purpose of preserving modesty.

He checked the height and weight details, carefully lifted and prodded the sagged, bone dry limbs and calculated the appropriate strength of the embalming fluid. He opened up the embalming machine and prepared the liquid, pouring in measured amounts of chemicals before adjusting the pressure and flow in the settings.

Returning to the body, he gently prodded around the laceration just below the neck, the skin and texture cushion soft under his hands. Where the skin had been torn, the artery had been cleanly cut through, he connected the tube that connected to the machine. He found the vein and to this, connected the draining tube for the blood to leave the body.

Hyukjae pushed a button for the machine to turn on and a low hum filled the room. A pink liquid flowed through the clear arterial tube and into the body and the old blood began to drain out.

During the long process, Hyukjae stood by quietly, his shoulders were relaxed, and hands gently clasped together in front. He occasionally checked Donghwa’s body to ensure that the limbs were firming appropriately and that the yellowed skin was indeed restoring to a livelier and healthier looking colour.

When this was done, he detached the tubes and worked on the face; gluing the eyes and lips closed with careful hands. He inspected the damage from different angles, ruminating he would go about fixing the discolouration and the subsequent disfiguration of half of the face, as well as the large gash in the lower neck. He checked the autopsy chart and found that there was no photo attached as reference for the deceased.

He stood there deliberating for a few moments, as if making up his mind about something, is eyes carefully perusing the sleeping face.

Eventually, he pulled the white cloth over the body and transferred it back into the cool shelf. He moved onto restoring the body of the elderly woman for the rest of his working day and evening, with the knowledge that she was likely to have an open casket funeral and family to grieve her passing sooner than the dead man in the next shelf.

*

It was already well past dinner time when Hyukjae was on the bus route heading towards the direction of home. The sky had darkened and it was pouring with rain outside. He rang the bell two stops earlier than usual and stepped off onto the dank, dark street, opening his umbrella.

He walked around the block, past the CD store that he frequented once a month, past another bar and a late night pizza joint, and a few closed shutters, before he came to the end of the block, where there was a large carpark and a big motel.

The rain picked up, bouncing off the edges of the brightly lit sign that said “Choi’s Motel” and “Vacancy” underneath. It came down harder on his umbrella and Hyukjae walked faster, through the carpark until he was finally underneath the shelter.

His eyes followed the numbers on the doors. “101… 102… 103… 104.” He stood there for a few moments, his jeans soaked, his feet feeling like lead and his arms reluctant to move.

Then he knocked on the door, and waited.

*

Donghae was presently not in his motel room. He’d knocked once, waited a while, and then knocked again for good measure. There was no reply for a long time.

“Can I help you?”

Hyukjae almost didn’t hear the voice that had addressed him, with the rain drilling down on the metal shelter above them. He turned to see a tall man wearing a light blue dress shirt, ruggedly handsome with a chivalric air about him.

“I’m looking for the person who stays here.” Hyukjae answered and made a small gesture towards the door with his umbrella.

The stranger wore a curious smile, as if he were privy to secrets Hyukjae was not. “Ah. I believe he’s out at the moment, but he will be back soon.” His words were purposefully slow. “You can wait at the main reception, if you’d like?”

“… Thank you, but,” Hyukjae politely nodded and turned as if to leave right away. “I think I’ll come back another time.”

“Are you sure?”

He said yes, thanked the man with a bow and then made to leave.

He was crossing the parking lot when he saw figure in a dark hoodie, hunched and moving fast to dodge the pelting rain, heading towards the opposite direction of himself. The person carried a black plastic bag Hyukjae knew to be that of the local convenience stores.

Hyukjae immediately stopped and turned to follow the figure, all the way back to his motel room.

“Donghae?” he reached out to the man who was calmly working the key into the lock for room 104.

The hooded man turned, lowering his hoodie.

“Oh.” Donghae said. “Hi.”

Hyukjae looked relieved. “Hello.”

“A friend of yours, Donghae?” a voice chimed nearby.

They both turned to see that the curious gentleman was still there, hands in his pockets, standing a small distance away.

“Good evening, Siwon.” Donghae greeted. The other man responded with a nod of reply and a friendly smile. “Yes, a friend of mine.”

“I see. A small town like this, it’s good to see you’ve managed to make some friends.” Siwon’s throaty chuckle was a pleasant sound against the drumming rain. “I just wanted to make sure that everything is well. Have a nice evening.” He then excused himself with a bow and walked back towards the room at the end of all rooms, brightly lit, and what Hyukjae presumed was the main reception.

Donghae unlocked the door, telling his guest on the way in that he would not need to remove his shoes. The first thing the artist did on entering was drop his plastic bag on the kitchen counter and shut the windows that had been slightly ajar. Already the humidity had crawled into the room and amalgated with the pungent smell of paint. The air that filled their lungs was excruciatingly thick and acrid.

“Sorry, I know the smell is terrible. You’ll get used to it.” Donghae said as he side stepped the cluttered mess in the room. On one side, the floor was strewn with clothes, and a large number of empty cardboard boxes and bags. A number of large portfolio cases are stacked up against each other on the wall. On the other side, a protective spread of newspaper had been lain down on the carpet. A multitude of glass pots containing unclean brushes and dirty water littered the small tea table and the floor near a large, easle-propped canvas in the corner of the big room. A heavy grey cloth draped over its front.

“How… how do you move everything? From town to town?” Hyukjae asked.

“Ahh. Uhm… A van.” Donghae replied, looking for a chair to accommodate his guest. “We move from town to town… in a van.” He spotted a chair hidden underneath his unwashed clothes, transferring the big armful to the bed before placing it near the chair in front of his canvas and gesturing for Hyukjae to sit.

He then excused himself to the bathroom to change out of his wet attire, and came out wearing a long sleeved cotton V neck, the sleeves pushed up his sturdy arms. Picking up his plastic bag of purchases, he opened the fridge and lined up carton after carton of the common brand of yoghurt. This was followed by a loaf of bread, a several bottles of water and a packet of small snacks which Hyukjae presumed were nuts that didn’t go in the fridge.

Donghae held a yoghurt drink in his hand for himself, then turned to Hyukjae as he was pulled out another carton.

“Would you like one? It’s yoghurt.”

“No thanks.”

“Water?”

Hyukjae shook his head. “It’s fine. I won’t stay long.”

Donghae shut the fridge door and made his way towards his chair in front of the covered artwork the corner.

“Does he know? Of your business.” Hyukjae waited for Donghae to settle down in his own seat before he permitted himself to sit.

“No, he doesn’t.” Donghae replied honestly. “But he was the first one to let us use the motel room as an art studio.”

“I see.”

They sat in silence for a few moments as Hyukjae watched Donghae’s fingers work childishly at the top of the cardboard drink. He mumbled an apology as he finally managed to rip the top open, taking a small taste sip, then a long one.

“Is Lee Donghae your real name?” Hyukjae asked.

“Oh, I mentioned last time that I went by a different name, didn’t I.” Donghae smiled a gentle smile, one with teeth showing. One that seemed meant for himself as he looked down to the ground. “It’s Fishy.”

“Fishy?” Hyukjae repeated curiously.

“Yes. Fishy. Because my name is Donghae, like the sea.” He explained. “So “Fishy”. We thought it would be memorable.”

Hyukjae hummed and crossed his feet under his chair, laced his fingers together in his lap. Donghae’s left leg bounced up and down with the smallest tremor, and Hyukjae noticed then that he hadn’t changed out of his wet jeans, the lower half of the calf of the denim material still soaked to the edges.

“That’s a peculiar name.”

“It’s the name my parents and my brother used to call me when I was younger. When they were still alive. Fishy-ah, fishy.” His imitation had meant to be happy-sounding, but his expression was weak and he looked forlorn. Hyukjae cleared his throat and moved on.

“How is the painting coming along?” He asked, trying his best to sound enthusiastic. 

“Hmm. I’ll show you.” Donghae put down the yoghurt by the leg of his chair and picked himself up onto his feet. Reaching over the tall easel, he grabbed the cloth that hung over it, unveiling the canvas.

Hyukjae was not familiar with famous artworks and so he could not comment on what this was exactly, but there were no blank spaces. He only knew that the texture on one side of the painting seemed much busier than the other, and that was the detail that the artist still had left to add to the artwork.

Instinctively, he looked around to find the original copy, head turning left and right. Donghae looked watched him warily.

“Where is the original?” Hyukjae asked.

“The original.” Donghae repeated, but did not budge from where he stood.

Hyukjae looked at him uncertainly. “You do have the original here with you?”

“Oh. Well.” Donghae looked to him with eyes pleading for understanding. “I… I do but… but you won’t find it here.”

“Then how do you copy it? If you don’t have the copy?” Hyukjae asked dubiously.

“I um… don’t know if you’ll believe what I’m saying but…” He draped half the cloth over the painting again in self-consciousness. “I… I have a copy in here.” He pointed to his head as his eyes flickered up to meet Hyukjae’s. “Photographic memory.”

Hyukjae’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Really?” Donghae nodded promptly in response. “Is that possible?”

“Well… for me, it is.” Donghae adjusted the cloth so that it now fully covered the canvas. He then hovered by the artwork awkwardly as if he no longer felt comfortable taking a seat in his own room. One hand still gripped the cloth. If he could, he looked like he would make himself disappear right into the corner of the room.

“I can… prove it if you’d like, but… it’s true. I can recall things with an immense amount of detail.” Donghae chuckled here, sounding forced. “If I have the time to study something, I can remember it as clear as if I had the thing right in front of me. And I can remember minor things with better detail than the average person can.”

Hyukjae looked fascinated, but sceptical still. His eyes bore into the cloth where the masterpiece lay. “You can remember enough detail to replicate something like that?”

“… I can remember exact shades and each and every brushstroke of any painting I want to copy. I only have to see it once. It gets imprinted here.” He touched his head again with an index finger.

They found themselves scrutinising one another, carefully searching each other’s faces in wonder. Hyukjae, particularly, suddenly felt a lot more self-conscious about himself, hyper-aware that his every move, every word, his every blink of the eye was being committed to Donghae’s permanent, film-like memory. He sat up straighter and uncrossed his feet.

“Why are you…” Hyukjae began. Donghae’s expression immediately fell back on something more vulnerable and guarded at the same time. “Why don’t you take a seat first?” Hyukjae said finally, gesturing to his chair.

“Ah.” Donghae wiped his hands on his lap nervous as he sat down again in his seat. Hyukjae had the odd feeling once again that he was dealing with a tame creature, that Donghae would take off any second if he didn’t choose the right words.

“So,” Hyukjae said, prompting gently. “…photographic memory?”

Donghae nodded as he spoke. “Usually paintings of worth can’t just be taken and… it’s not easy for the average artist to replicate what they can’t see.” He expounded. Hyukjae couldn’t understand why the artist was watching him back with such wariness as he spoke.

“Right.” Hyukjae agreed. He had more questions. “But then… with a memory like yours, you couldn’t have done anything else? Your studies would have been very easy for you then.”

“Yes, to an extent. But my passion was always with art. I wanted to… to take my memories - beautiful ones, sad ones, even the most mundane memories, memories of a voice I heard or a thought or anything-” His voice was still the same softness, but growing passionate. His expression bordering on pained. “I wanted to challenge myself to see how close I could come to bringing memory to life, how I could translate the memories, that I could hear, touch, see, so vividly inside my head… into some physical form that I could share with others, that they could appreciate.” Hyukjae nodded to show that he was following. “I could have all the knowledge in the world in my head but all I wanted was to experiment with what creativity I had.”

Hyukjae felt the need to interject. “You know… You don’t need to feel obligated to tell me this much.”

“Oh. It’s fine.” Donghae relaxed, smiling. He looked a little apologetic in his stead. “No harm done. Am I boring you?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, well… good.” Donghae smiled, a question dancing in his eyes. “What do you think of me? Honestly.”

Hyukjae took a moment to formulate his answer, but not so long as to be of a concern to the other man.

“I think you’re a kind person, responsible.” He paused here. “And that you carry your own scars and memories that you choose to share and hide. Not unlike everyone else.”

Donghae’s face was not smiling, but not unsmiling either. He couldn’t gauge if the answer had pleased the artist or not.

“Thank you.” Donghae said simply.

“That’s…” Hyukjae didn’t know how to respond to that. “You’re welcome, I suppose.”

*

a/n: i am painfully aware that this is not the best place to cut off, but this scene will be continued in part iii which i will update soon as i can (but no promises.. i have tests... D:)

thanks for reading so far and hope you liked it! also a note that i love comments and criticisms? seriously, come at me /thumps chest/ this stuff is made of steel