The phone plays a snippet of Beezino's Boogie On & On, its loud melody contradictory to the words about to be heard. Chanyeol jerks up from his bowl of popcorn, buttery bits still stuck to his cheeks as he scrambles for the phone, movie credits playing in the background. When he finally digs it up from under his lump of blanket on the couch, the lit screen flashes 3:02AM right in his face. Another lost soul in the gloomy night.

Still, Chanyeol clears his throat before receiving the call. "Hello! This is the Samaritan hotlines you're calling!"

It's silent at the other end for a moment. Chanyeol's used to it. People who call in often have difficulty opening their hearts out to spill to a mere stranger. He idles around, switching off his television, sitting up straight. He has about three hours and maybe more to spare.

There's barely any breathing on the other side. Chanyeol wonders if the person's still there.

"Um... do I have to give you my name?" It's a male. Chanyeol twines his fingers around smooth strands and replies brightly, "Nope. But I'm your lending ear, so I have to -- Hello, I'm Park Chanyeol. What sorrows do you have to spill at 3am tonight?"

The guy at the other end laughs nervously, so it comes out as a broken and short-spirited. "So. I get to say anything I want here?"

"Yup! And I'll just listen. Don't worry, what's said over here is only contained in the plastic of the phones we're holding. My lips are sealed."

"Well, I-" Chanyeol hears shaky breathing and hesitation. He wonders what the caller is doing still up so late at night, so early in the morning. Whether he's huddled up in a comfy blanket like him, or whether he's still out on the streets, dimly lit in shady orange, hiding in alleys so dark eyes don't see a thing. But all these questions aren't important; Chanyeol hums patiently as an encouragement instead.

"I'm having a hard time right now. It's so tiring, but I barely have time to sleep. Everyone is pushing me to be the best, and I know that, but it's so hard to try that out when I get glares with every corner I turn. They say I managed to get lucky, but my streak has ended and I'm going to fall badly."

His words fall short. Chanyeol takes it as his cue to cut in. "Well, show them you're still going strong. If you just give up like that, you're only going to prove to them that you're weak and you really only managed to get lucky."

"...Thanks. Listen, I've got to go, but really, thanks for listening to me. It's tough keeping this all to myself?"

Chanyeol grins despite himself. "I know. That's why I'm here! Call again if you need someone to talk to. I'm always on from twelve to six."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Good luck!"

The line clicks shut. Chanyeol mentally ticks it off his list -- another good deed done.

---

Chanyeol becomes the resident Samaritan hotline operator because he's twenty (nineteen turning twenty, actually) with nothing better to do in the summer. It starts with a senior in his faculty asking him to do the job. Minseok is a nice guy and he also promises to get Chanyeol a signature of his favourite guitarist, so Chanyeol readily agrees.

It's voluntary work from 12 midnight to 6 in the morning. Chanyeol is on standby the whole six hours, waiting for the phone to ring. It's pretty simple to do, actually -- pick up the phone when it rings, listen to the whatever the person on the other end has to say, give a few words of encouragement, and the cycle repeats itself. Chanyeol likes listening to the stories they spill. They tell him about broken marriages, lost childhoods, rough days -- all special in their own ways. He listens to them whole, and encourages them to never give up; life is tough, but nothing's too tough to handle.

In turn, they tell him they're thankful for him being there for them. He says there's nothing to thank for; that's his job, after all.

He's the happy virus when their lives become angsty, the light lit on a matchstick when night becomes a blanket that suffocates and blinds them into total darkness, the voice that settles calmly and deeply in their hearts when instability hits like a freight train. He's Park Chanyeol, a messenger who receives but never gives, and comforting others is his specialty.

---

The guy doesn't call again until a few weeks later ("Sorry I don't own a phone, I use the telephone booth near my area, so it isn't very convenient"), but after that, it's periodic. He complains about his job, how it's so tough, how there's even more pressure placed on him now that he's put in the spotlight. Chanyeol learns much about this guy through the many late night conversations, but yet he doesn't. He never specifies his job nor troubles, only going about it vaguely enough for Chanyeol to be able to give appropriate advice.

"Sorry-- Have I babbled too much? I'm terribly sorry for disturbing you so often with my complains. My problems must sound miniscule as compared to many others, huh. I must sound like such a spoiled brat for complaining about what I have in life."

Chanyeol frowns. "Why would you say that? Everyone has their own set of problems, and if you deem it serious, then it is serious. There's no measurement for the scale of it. It's like, what you see as beautiful may not seem so to others. So just continue complaining to me if you have no outlet for it."

What Chanyeol doesn't say is that he likes listening to his voice, because it's like warm melted chocolate running down his throat after a long day of events, however slightly nasal it is. There's a pool of heat in his body that arises after a conversation that extends beyond their aspirations and future, and when he puts down the phone Chanyeol can't tell if the room's gotten hotter or his cheeks have just heated up.

It's not a good thing to look forward to his calls of misery ("I want to quit, but at this point, I can't"), but Chanyeol can't stop the fluttering and increased palpitation of his heart when the person at the other end of the line is, well, him.

---

They've been talking for three months, and each conversation gets longer and less focused on problems.

"Say, what's your name?" It's only after he blurts out the question that Chanyeol slaps himself on the thighs.

"I thought you said you didn't need to know my name?" His tone is light and teasing, echoing a blanket of warmth. Chanyeol wonders how he manages the nimbleness when it's in the middle of winter and he's all alone in the flimsy phone booth. "I just. Wanted to know?"

There's soft tapping on the other end, as if in deep contemplation. But he eventually replies. "Call me B."

"B? As in bi? Rain?"

"Well, I don't mind you calling me that. I'd like to be as famous as him." Frivolous, careless laughter. His voice is a melody that Chanyeol wants to carry in a memory box. He remembers the first time B (was it okay to call him that?) had sounded so cautious and restrained. Now he asks him random questions like "Was your day well? What music do you like? What's your favourite food?"

"My day was good. I like listening to underground music. Bulgogi taste wonderful."

B laughs like he's not afraid, like sticks and stones and horrifying winter winds won't break him. Chanyeol imagines crescent eyes and smile wrinkles on a petite face, just to pair it up with his voice. He envisions a man free of burden, arms out in freedom. Against the glow of the soft orange sun setting into the hills, B seems like a man who takes everything in his stride, bright smile for all.

But then he hangs up, and Chanyeol is reminded that he called the hotline. Chanyeol is reminded that he laughs because he's afraid of the world's perspective of him. He smiles brightly for all but himself.

Sticks and stones won't break his bones, but words and malice can.

---

For some reason, Chanyeol knows it's B when the phone rings at four past midnight. He expects him to spill incoherent words out like he always does when he calls, but this time, Chanyeol is met with a melodious tune, voice harmonizing with the acoustics of the dead, silent night. At some point, Chanyeol closes his eyes and listens with his ears, completely immersed in whatever B is singing because it's so, so charming and wonderful. Like the first time he stands on the bustling street to listen to a talented busker croon oldies. Like the old times when his mother tucked him into bed every night and hummed nursery rhymes until he drifted off to sleep.

Chanyeol doesn't realise he's done singing until he asks, "How was it?" There's uneven tapping on the other end and then Chanyeol realises that he's cold and his teeth are chattering.

"Very nice, I like it a lot!" B doesn't reply and Chanyeol wonders if he's said the wrong thing. So he adds on, "If you were a singer I would totally buy your albums and support you all the way! It'd be such a waste otherwise."

"A waste, huh," he replies quietly. "I wish others thought the same way."

"What you do mean...?"

"Nothing." The answer is short and curt. A little rushed and flustered, if Chanyeol had heard a little harder. "I have to go now, thanks for listening."

The line clicks before Chanyeol even says a word.

Two hours before the sun rises, Chanyeol is left alone in his living room, staring aimlessly into wall behind his television, while the song sung moments ago is stuck replaying in his head, over and over again like a broken recorder.

((Except recorders can store it forever, but Chanyeol forgets the tune the moment he wakes up.))