The ticket stub in his pocket would be added to the collecting pile on his dresser when Kibum got back home. The small, thick squares had built up in the past year, but he never felt the need to throw them away. If anything, he felt like it would be a reminder. Every month, he had to make sure he bought a ticket before the front seats sold out, so the crumpled and folded tickets kept his mind aware of the date.

Kibum took his place in the center of the second row, folding down the velvety red seat before crossing one thigh over the other. His bag was settled next to his feet, his sketchbook and pencils kept inside until the lights lowered. The wooden stage before him shined, the refinished brown boards glowing red thanks to the closed curtains. All he could see was a single tall stool, and a microphone stand sitting before it. An unopened water bottle sat next to the legs of the rickety stool, and Kibum smile at the thought of the lips that would soon be on the plastic rim.

The murmurs of the theater died down immediately when footsteps echoed on the stage, a khaki colored acoustic guitar making a statement before anyone registered who was holding the instrument. Striking blond hair was the next noticeable feature, and Kibum let a smile fall on his lips upon seeing the color. It was always a surprise, what hair color he would find every month.

The man with the guitar situated himself on the stool, letting the instrument balance on his jean clad thighs as he adjusting the mic to the right height. He was the shortest performer every month, but he was always the first. Kibum never understood why they didn’t take the time to change it for him, to make his life that little bit easier.

He cleared his throat and tapped the head of the microphone twice with his pointer finger, the sound echoing through the quiet room. A smile was on his peculiarly shaped lips, and Kibum found his automatically responding. He glanced down at the blank page on his lap, the pencil in his right hand and the other tapping a nameless song against the flat sheet of white.

“Welcome to the show, everybody,” the man on stage said, holding the end of the microphone as he spoke. “I hope everyone enjoys their night. The song I’ll be playing tonight was written for someone special. A person who is my muse just as much as I am theirs. This is Orbit, for the one that took the key to my heart.”

Kibum let his pencil drag across the paper as the music flowed through the guitar strings. Every of the graphite matched the tone of the lyrics, every curve went with the smooth words falling from the singer’s lips. It was surely strange to the others in the crowd, that Kibum wasn’t even watching the performance, but he knew the face as the singer as if it was his own.

The applause that fell over the audience didn’t shock Kibum, nor did it keep him from his sketch. The graphite scratched against the paper as he drew the final waves of hair, the gray of the pencil not serving the singer’s bright hair any justice. When the lights dimmed again, and the footsteps on the stage drifted out of Kibum’s ears, he picked up his bag and sidestepped out of the seating area.

He was never allowed to step backstage, so each month Kibum stood by that back door, waiting for the blond from the stage to come out with his guitar case slung behind his back. Each time the heavy metal door swung up, Kibum lifted his head as if he was a puppy waiting for his owner to come home and play. And each time it wasn’t the man he wanted it to be, he dropped his head back down to look through his sketchbook.

When Kibum finally found the one person he wanted, his left hand curled around his book as the other intertwined its thin fingers with Jonghyun’s. “I saw you in the crowd this time,” the elder said, his fingers rubbing between Kibum’s knuckles. “You didn’t sit in the back this time.”

“I worked on the details of your face instead of the environment,” Kibum replied with a smile, making an attempt to open his sketchbook with just one hand.

Jonghyun put up his hand that was holding onto the strap of his guitar case, which made the instrument slip down his shoulder. “You can wait until we get home and show me.”

“But I need your opinion on it. I never draw people.”

“I’m sure it’s gonna be great,” Jonghyun smiled wide, his eyes creasing and his teeth shining brightly under the dim lights of the entrance hall.

“You’re just saying that to make me happy,” Kibum whined, hitting Jonghyun with his bicep lightly. They only parted their clasped hands when the shorter man had to push open the doors of the concert hall.

“It didn’t even make you happy, so why would I say that?”

“To make me shut up,” Kibum suggested.

“I’d never want you to shut up.”

That was enough to make Kibum forget about the drawing in his sketchbook.