Scenario: See request here!

Featured song is Not In That Way by Sam Smith. I hope you enjoy this, anon! ^^

***I am contemplating if I should make a part 2 for this. But. I don’t know.

Minho have always admired and respected art and all of its forms. He was after all, an artist himself contributing his fair share to the industry. Sure, he’s had a few he’d appreciated and held dearly, be it a painting, music, figurines, sketches and the list goes on.

And after coming across countless pieces of artwork, being here tonight, he was convinced that you were his favourite piece. 

It was your voice he’d heard first before anything else. He was out with friends, sitting outside a cafe. Minho didn’t take much notice since it was common to see street performers in that particular area. Your voice floated through the streets, accompanied with the sound of a guitar and he’d come to enjoy it with passing time. Two weeks later, he’d come back having forgotten about the entire matter. He was walking by a couple of shops and you, who at the time, were occupied with setting up your equipment.

But when you started singing, Minho stopped in his tracks as his brain registers the familiar sound. You played pleasantly and the words that escaped your lips seemed to melt into the night’s air. Minho turned around, trailing ever so slowly towards where you stood. Absorbed into your performance, he had forgotten where he was going just a few moments ago. You’d attracted a fair amount of passerby as they shuffled low, dropping spare change into your opened guitar case. When they did so, he sees how you manage to carry on while simultaneously bowing a thank you, with a warm smile. 

He couldn’t quite take his eyes off you; the performance was beautiful and so were you.

And so his visits were more frequent then, whenever he had the time, he’d come back most nights just to see you perform, or even sometimes just- you. Some days he’d come to find out that you were done for the day, and he was there just to see you pack up your things from a distance. Minho figured out your schedule by then, knowing the days where you wouldn’t come, and strangely enough, it left him wondering what you do on your days off.

You must have noticed him by then, the memory was etched clearly in his mind, that night your eyes met his. You gave him a slight nod as you bid your goodbye, letting out a soft thank you. Taken aback, he turns around just to see if that was meant for someone behind him, only to find out that he was the only one left. It was too late to catch you at that point, as his eyes laid on an empty spot where you stood a few moments before.

Tonight’s atmosphere was different, and Minho could tell by the way you were absorbed into the song. You paid no attention to anything else. And the way you sang felt honest and sincere; flooding the small crowd with the feelings that you’ve spilled.

I’d never ask you ‘cause deep down
I’m certain I know what you’d say
You’d say I’m sorry, believe me, I love you
But not in that way

Minho couldn’t deny that you were a true artist of your own, having the ability to consume your audience- him, just as you were yourself. He certainly knew that you were telling a story of your own, and he wonders what it was that made you hurt this much.

Faint rain drops pricked his cheeks, and even when the crowd started to leave one by one, you seemed unaffected by it. The wind grazed the misplaced strands of your hair against your face, your cheeks flushed from the cold. He smiles to himself because he was sure that he could stand here all night.

The weather seemed to disagree with him as rain started to fall, which you finally took notice of. He sees you, startled, as you hastily gathered all your things together. Minho rushes over to you, grabbing whatever he could without a second thought.

“No! No, no please I’m already behind on rent-”

He stops to see that he’d held on to the guitar case, on his knees. You hovered over him, clutching your guitar on one hand and the other desperately clinging to the case, filled with the notes you’ve managed to earn.

“Oh god no- I just want to help you get this out of the rain.” Minho couldn’t contain his laughter, seeing how he was just mistaken as a thief, which was a first.

“Oh.”

You stood there bewildered, as the downpour worsened.

~

You’re seeing him properly this time, closer, which was a change, considering how he’d usually be a few meters from where you’d perform. He was just as handsome as he would be then, if not more.

His dark hair, damp from the rain stuck to his forehead; his eyebrows, that you’ve found to be easily distinguishable even on days where he had a mask on. As he looks to the side, calling out one of the waiters in that cafe, you were amazed how sharp his side profile looks, he could’ve come straight out of a magazine for all you know.

“You haven’t had dinner right?” He asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“It’s okay, really. I can-”

“We’ll have two of these, thank you.” He ignores you as he picks out something from the menu for himself. He’d asked you the same question, but he must have made up his mind when you refused to give him an answer.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” You say quietly, still embarrassed for accusing him  for such thing.

“Don’t worry about it.” He lets out a husky laugh, as he rubs the nape of his neck. “Do people actually do that?” His tone was surprised, eyes wide.

“Yeah, it’s been a couple of times. So I’m quite wary of it.” It was the first time he’s heard you laugh. And to think that it had him on his toes during your heart-rending performances, this was something else.

“That’s really ing low.” He scoffs in disbelief.

“They’re just like me, looking to feed themselves. So I get it, in a way.” He looks at you that way, and you hate the pity in his eyes.

“You’re not like them.” He couldn’t believe that someone who actually work for days on end would compare themselves that way. He was touched at how gratuitous your sympathy was. After a few moments of silence, “The song today, you seem upset. Why?”

“You know, for a stranger you’re pretty nosy.”

“Stranger? We’ve been hanging out for weeks, if you haven’t noticed.”

Of course you’ve noticed him. How can you not, when some nights it was just you and him.

You laughed softly, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Minho.”

“Minho… Why do you come so often?”

He’d always think his name sounded so ordinary, but the way you had uttered it, he wasn’t sure if it was even the same one.

“Because, you’re- it’s stunning. You… put up one heck of a show.” He was hesitating, a sheepish smile on his face. You bit the inside of your cheeks trying not to look too flattered. “So what’s your story?”

“There’s none.”

“Everyone has a story.”

“Again with the snooping.” He sees you squint at him, clearly amused. Your persistence in brushing the topic off only made him more curious.

“I’m not!” He cracks out a laugh, “Doesn’t an artist owe their audience an explanation of some sort?”

“True… but isn’t art subjective? To each their own.”

Minho looks at you, taken aback by your response. He could tell you’ve got stories, words and feelings. He didn’t know why he felt this way, but he was nothing but intrigued by the bittersweet being that is you.

You were something else.