A/N: This one-shot was inspired by Sam Smith's "Stay With Me."

          His eyes slowly slid open, a groan passing from his lips. His mind was still caught in the haze from last night’s events. He couldn’t recount much at first as he looked around the unfamiliar room. His eyes scanned over the wood paneled walls that you would see in an old, 1970s basement; the kind with scratchy forest green carpet that collected lint balls like it was going out of style. There were posters of current and past pop sensations lopsidedly thumbtacked to the walls.  As he continued to look around, taking in the clawfoot armchair in the corner of the room with outdated, torn pearl upholstery and vintage floor lamps—complete with dangly thread balls at the base of the shade—he noticed that there was a thin layer of dust that coated everything.

            He let out another groan, arching up slightly from the bed in order to stretch out his back muscles, earning several creaks of protest from the bed under him. Where the hell was he? He brought his hand up to rub his tired face, only to realize that it was bound by three handcuffs linked together in a chain attached to the bed post. His eyes widened and he looked over at his other hand and his feet, only to find that they were attached in the same manner.

            “What the hell?” He asked the empty room in a confused, raspy voice. He jerked his arms and legs, silently hoping it would help, only to end up with sore wrists. His breathing grew more rapid as the brevity of the situation began to sink in and the anxiety began to build. His chest tightened up and he struggled against the bed, jerking his limbs this way and that.

            Then the door opened and in walked a girl holding a silver tray. Her dark brown hair hung down past her shoulders and rested atop her pert s. She was wearing a rich blue cardigan over a white blouse tucked into tan, fitted slacks. She smiled when she saw him. “Oh, you’re awake.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

            She walked down the dingy, concrete stairs that led into the club after flashing the bouncer her I.D. and slipping him a ten-spot for the cover. As she walked into the club, she was immediately met with the grinding house music that filled the entire room and the smoke that emanated from the machines up at the DJ booth.

            Her phone vibrated in her pocket as she squeezed her way in between the buzzed, raving club-goers. Her shoulders collapsed inwards as she attempted to make her body as small as possible, as if to go unnoticed. Pulling out the device as she heaved herself up onto a wooden stool at the bar, she hoped it was a notification from the dating site she had joined a couple nights ago. Instead it was a voicemail. Her lips formed into a small pout as she brought the phone up to her ear and used her other hand to block her other ear to hear the message better.

            “Yah, Duk Hwa. You’re late again. Rent was due the first part of the week and I have yet to hear or see a dime from you. I don’t know what’s going on with you lately and I don’t really care at this point. This is the third time this year that you have been late on a payment. I need to live too, you know. Either you get your together and have my money by the end of the week or I submit the papers to start the process to evict you.”

            A sigh left Duk Hwa’s lips as she deleted the voicemail and slid the phone back into her pocket. Her landlord would get his money. He always did, eventually. Some months, it just took a little longer to scrape the money together than others. She shook her head and ordered a White Russian—a drink composed of creamy vodka and Kahlua coffee liquor—to take her mind off of the situation. 

The music from the DJ slowly died down, causing the crowd to look up at him to find out what was going on. The man as Duk Hwa had come to know him, after many nights spent at the club up until closing, was Go Seungmin, but his stage persona was DJ Dance. He grabbed the microphone and tapped it a couple times. “Alright, alright,” he said, getting the crowd hyped up again. “It’s that time again. Tonight, we got a real treat. Straight out the studio from workin’ on his new mixtape, we got Zico in the house!”

Duk Hwa perked up at the mention of the upcoming act. She slid to the edge of the stool, a schoolgirl smile showcased on her face. These were the nights she lived for. Zico was her favorite performer. His real name was Woo Jiho. He towered over most people at 182 centimeters tall; he was blood type O and he born in the year of the monkey. Duk Hwa knew anything and everything about him: that he studied abroad in three separate countries, that he went to Seoul Music High School, and he was secretly good at drawing. He was her dream guy and she would come here on Thursday nights, specifically for the chance to see him.

When Jiho took the stage, it was as if he was a different person. He was no longer, Woo Jiho, the failure; Woo Jiho, the misfit. He was Zico, the confident rap god. Women fell at his feet the moment he dropped a bar. He was top tier when he was on stage; he was his true self. That’s why he loved music. It transformed people; it revealed their true nature.

He was powerful in front of the crowd. He commanded attention. And when he was through, they begged for more. He continued through his set and thanked everyone when he was done. He gave the mic back to DJ Dance before hopping down the stage. He made his way to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic in a hi-ball glass and went over to a booth to sit down. A couple girls came and went, making small talk, but ultimately just wanting him to sign something. Jiho didn’t know which was more tiring: the actual act of performing on stage or pretending to actually be interested in the vapid girls totally into “the hip hop.”

He sighed and took a swig from his drink, letting out an exaggerated “ahhh” noise under his breath after he swallowed. That’s when she walked up to him. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes, thinking she was just another fan girl. Jiho continued to examine her as she got closer to him. She was kind of cute. Not anything special to look at; she didn’t wear designer clothes or a body-con slinky club dress. No, she had straight brown hair and a patchy complexion—probably due to rubbing at her makeup throughout the day. Her clothes were common, probably her every day, casual attire: a wrinkled black button up layered over a worn white band tee and faded slacks.

“Ah, hi,” she said softly. Jiho couldn’t hear her, but he had become fairly decent at reading lips. He watched her face as she swallowed, practically seeing the words “Nervous” and “Wreck” spelled out across her forehead. His eyes travelled down her body, only then noticing that she had a drink in her hands.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said loudly so she could hear him. “You’re gonna have to speak louder if you want me to hear you.” He gestured around them at the club. “Here.” He slid over in the booth to create some room.

The stranger sat next to him, her fingers tapping the edges of the glass slightly. “I got this for you,” she said, sliding him the glass. “I asked the bartender what your poison was and he said this was it. I hope he wasn’t lying.”

Jiho took the glass and smelled it. Rum. It was a Rum and Coke. “Well, he wasn’t lying. This is usually my drink of choice.” He brought it to his lips and downed it with one long sip. “So,” he said, after letting out another exaggerated sigh. “What can I do for you? Are you a fan?”

The girl nodded. Of course she was. “I’ve come here for a while. Specifically just to see you. You’re really quite amazing. How do you…” she paused. “How do you come up with what you do? Where does all of that come from?”

Jiho watched her for a moment, his mind trying to calculate a PC-answer. It wasn’t often that someone asked him where his inspiration came from and the question come from genuine interest. Usually it was just something to throw out there to make small talk while they waited for more alcohol to be delivered to the table.

“Well,” he started. “I guess it all just boils down to experience. Ya know, I’ve been in this game for a while. I know a lot of artists these days talk about how they ‘started from the bottom’ and now they’re where they are. But they don’t really know what it’s like to be truly at the bottom. I had to make my way up through the grassroots. At first, people only knew ‘bout me from word of mouth; you know, a friend of a friend of a friend type thing.”

Duk Hwa spent the next two hours talking with Jiho. Her heart was pounding hard in her ears the entire time. Each passing second she was with him, hearing him talk about his music, his past, her resolve strengthened. She knew this was the man she was destined to be with. He had to be. If not him, who else could it be? He was perfect for her.

And then he got up. “Ah, well, I guess I should get going. I’ll be spending most of tomorrow in the studio to finish this mixtape.” She had no choice but to get up to let him out. She noticed as he struggled to get up and then stay erect on his feet. He brought his hand to his head but shook it off slightly. “It was nice talking to you…” he paused. “What was your name again?”

“Duk Hwa,” she replied, capturing the corner of her lower lip between her teeth. Had he really spent the last couple hours talking to her and forgot her name already? “My name… it’s Duk Hwa.”

“Ah…” He nodded slowly. She knew what he must be thinking. What kind of name was that for a girl? It’s not feminine. Even if girls could be named Duk Hwa, that didn’t mean they should. It wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t pretty. “Well, anyway, it was nice talking to you. I’ll see you around.” He clasped his hand on her shoulder before heaving himself away and heading for the door.

She couldn’t let him get away. Not like this. Not after she just took that step and confronted him. They bonded. They were meant to be. They were soul mates. She followed after him, watching as his pace became sluggish. She stayed in the shadows as he fidgeted with his keys. It took him a good minute or so to get the metal key to slide into the slot and unlock the door. She watched as he slid inside his car, struggle to get the seatbelt on, before passing out, his head falling onto the steering wheel column.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

            “What is this? Who the hell are you?” Jiho screamed at her as she stood in front of him. He jerked against the restraints, not paying mind to the way the metal of the handcuffs was beginning to dig into his wrists, creating a bright red ring around each of them.

            His captor’s face changed in an instant then. “I really wish you would stop asking me that,” she snapped. Her face closed in tight as if it were a fist: eyes narrowed, lips drawn into a taunt pucker.

            “Asking what? Who you are?” Jiho let out an exasperated laugh that lacked any real humor. “Maybe if I actually knew who you are, I could stop asking. Now, who the are you?” He thrashed around the bed, frustrated.

            “Duk Hwa!” the girl screeched. She grabbed ahold of the clawfoot armchair by the sides and slammed the legs into the floor repeatedly. She slammed them so hard, in fact, that even against the carpet, Jiho was sure he heard one of the legs crack. “MY NAME,” she yelled, “IS DUK HWA!” She took the chair and tossed it against the wall. “It’s not that hard!” She leaned against the wall, her chest rising and falling quickly as she panted.

            Jiho spoke slowly, holding his hands up, palms facing her in surrender. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.” His memory of last night was slowly coming back to him from previous night. “I,” he swallowed. “I remember you, okay? You’re… Duk Hwa, from the club. We met last night. We talked.”

            “Last night?” She looked up at him, her face twisted up in confusion. And then she laughed. It sounded like bells. It would almost be cute if the situation had not been what it was. “Ah, well it makes sense that you think it was last night. You’ve been fading in and out for the past couple days.”

            “Fading…out? What are you talking about?” Jiho looked at her confused. He could remember everything clear as day now. It had to have been last night.

            “Well, you see, you’re quite heavy, despite your appearance. I wasn’t prepared for that. And, well, when I was carrying you in, you might have hit your head a few times. Well, not might of. You did. I did, rather. I hit your head a couple times.” She crossed the room and rested her hand against his cheek, her thumb gently the soft skin. “But don’t worry, yeobo. I took good care of you. I iced your head so the swelling would go down. I even rubbed some on your lips so they wouldn’t dry out.” She took her pointer finger on her other hand and tapped his lower lip.

            Jiho closed his eyes, laying there silently for the moment. His mind was racing with so many thoughts. What was going to happen to him? Was he going to be ? Or worse yet, was he going to be murdered and disposed of in such a way that no one would ever notice he was missing?

            “Why are you doing this?” he asked softly after several painful moments of silence. “Why are you doing this to me? What do you want, money? You can have that. You want ? You can have that too. Just… just let me go,” he whispered. “Just let me go.”

            “Awh, yeobo…” Duk Hwa’s voice was soft. She laid down next to him, the bed bowing a bit in the middle from the extra weight. She wrapped her thin arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t need your money. And ? I don’t need that either.” She shifted and gently nuzzled her face into his chest. “I just need you to stay with me.”