Pictures speak volume.

Nothing but the photos captured on Jaemin’s camera can describe how it is possible for an angel-like figure to appear among the hospital volunteers. With the soft piano melody accompanying the man on the centre of the small stage, he paints a galaxy full of bright shining stars with his graceful limbs. Hands forming a circle in front of his chest, he twirls a few times in a rhythmic pace before he lowers his upper body and extends his right leg high in the air, into a full back split. Jaemin swears he can see white blinding wings spread from the back of the figure, but his camera doesn’t agree with him.

The cheers the dancer receives from the audience don’t match the ethereal beauty of the world he takes them to in his dance routine. At second thought, Jaemin thinks the man doesn’t get enough acknowledgement for his talent- which explains why the Korean drops the camera in his hands and gives the dancer a deafening round of applause a few seconds after the cheers fall silent. All heads turn to his direction and before he knows it, he looks like a ripe tomato in summer.

Renjun pauses his step down the stage to find the source of the late applause, and their eyes meet. He flashes a big grin to the embarrassed man before he shifts his eyes somewhere else, containing his laughter at how red Jaemin looks.

Jaemin lets out a big sigh of relief as the emcee comes to his with a few remarks from the fantastic performance Renjun and Chenle hold. He shakes him head in disbelief, giggling at the incidence few seconds ago. He makes a mental note that a Jaemin in complete awe should never be allowed to appear in public. What a shame to his professional image…

Jaemin takes a quick preview on the photographs he managed to take during the performance, and one conclusion is made – The dancer is, indeed, an angel.

“Thank you,” an unfamiliar soft voice rings in Jaemin’s ears. “That’s quite of a… loud round of applause.” A hint of amusement is laced in the man’s honey-like voice. Renjun gives the taller man a shy smile as he turns around with a big Canon camera in his long fingers. The Chinese notices the picture displayed on the device – it’s him, black hair, with the brown plaid shirt and black slack pants, forming a split.

“Mind if I take a look?”

Jaemin somehow forgets to breathe. As if all the oxygen in the world is suddenly depleted, his lungs stop asking for more air. To be more exact, his brain is on the ‘pause’ mode. Perhaps it’s the way the smooth voice matches the angelic face of the man in front of him. Or perhaps it’s the absence of gap between them when the other person steps closer to see the photo in the camera. Either way, Jaemin is not used to the erratic heartbeats he is experiencing.

“Can I?” Renjun looks up to meet Jaemin’s eyes.

The photographer swears he sees the galaxy in those round eyes. It’s the same galaxy Jaemin sees through the man’s performance when he decorates the stage with stars and orbits through his short limbs.

“I guess I’ll take your silence as a yes,” the dancer says again.

The warm fingers wrapped on top of Jaemin’s send a jolt of electricity down his spine and hit him with a sudden wave of realization. His hands tremble as Renjun hold both his fingers and camera steady in those tiny hands of his, and Jaemin confirms that the man is indeed from heaven. It makes no sense how a complete stranger has the power to make his heart race with such unfamiliar comfortable kind of warmth.

“I look quite good here,” the shorter man chuckles, releasing his hands from the camera.

“You are,” Jaemin replies under his breath. It is more of a mumble, something that isn’t supposed to be heard by the man before him, but Renjun is quick to reply with a sly “I know.”

“And you take beautiful pictures,” the man compliments.

Jaemin’s daily happiness meter reaches the maximum level at the praise. Even if he is a world-famous photographer with various achievements, it feels different to be acknowledged by an angel with invisible wings.

Jaemin doesn’t know how to respond verbally, so he plasters a small smile on his face. God seems to be saving him from making a fool out of himself even more when the green hair man who played the piano during Renjun’s performance calls the dancer. They speak in a foreign language Jaemin doesn’t understand as he stands frozen in between them. The pianist is all grinning the whole time, eyes forming cute crescents as he tells a story or something. A tall, broad figure of a younger man then appears out of nowhere, eyes on the excited man.

“Do you want to get some ice cream after this?” The man with the tag ‘committee’ pinned on his shirt asks, voice deeper than the ocean.

The green-haired man steals a quick glance on Renjun before the dancer nods and pushes him towards the committee. They speak Mandarin, Jaemin realizes, when Renjun shouts the word ‘jiayou’ at his friend.

“You speak Chinese?”

Renjun raises an eyebrow. “You speak Chinese too?”

The taller man shakes his head.

“I’m Chinese, that’s why,” Renjun offers a brief explanation.

“But you speak good Korean? Like… I don’t hear any accents or anything.”

Renjun turns to Jaemin with an amused face. “It’s because I came here when I was 14.”

“Oh…” Jaemin mouths before the conversation meets a dead end. At times like this, he resents himself for being an introvert because today is his only chance to talk to an angel, but here he is, by the window in a hall full of cancer patients, hands holding the camera, eyes straight into the dancer’s, but mouth sealed, not knowing how to continue the conversation.

“My late mother was treated here. She used to sit on the front row, right opposite of the centre of the stage…” Renjun points at the empty chair. “She used to cheer for me so loud after every dance,” he giggles, “it was quite embarrassing.” The giggle stops and after a few seconds, Renjun gives Jaemin a soft gaze. “You kinda remind me of her.” His voice lowers before he laughs it off. “But it’s a good thing, no worries. It’s just that… If you were to ask me, I would suggest you clap at the same time of the audience, not after everyone has finished clapping.”

Jaemin breaks into laughter. “I’ll definitely remember your suggestion, sir.” At the mention of ‘sir’, he realizes he still doesn’t know the name of the beautiful person he’s been talking to.

“I prefer ‘Your Majesty’ instead of ‘sir’, but since you take great pictures, you get to call me by my name…”

Renjun’s soft voice is drowned by the high note from the trot singer on the stage.

Jaemin squints his eyes to read Renjun’s mouth. “Say again?”

“Huang… Renjun.” The pronunciation is so Chinese that Jaemin has a hard time to follow along. Upon reading Jaemin’s awkward face, Renjun mentions his name again, making sure Jaemin repeats after him. He finds the Korean struggling to pronounce his name cute, he won’t lie. Although his Korean name is much easier, he prefers his Chinese name. After all, it’s the name his mother gave him.

After a few trials, Jaemin finally gets the pronunciation right.

“You owe me a dance because your name drains my energy,” he dramatically cries, a hand wiping off imaginary sweat on his forehead.

Renjun flashes him a confused look before his lips curl upwards into a pretty smile. “Sure,” he shrugs. “That means you’ll have to see me perform in Seoul Plaza next month for my graduation.” His eyes light up at the thought. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the details.”

Jaemin fishes for his business card in his pocket, and when he hands the rectangular piece to the Chinese man, the man straight away reads what’s written on it.

Na Jaemin, an award-winning photographer based in Seoul.

“Photographs are impressive storytellers…” Renjun coughs. “Interesting.” His eyes then fall on the quote on the bottom of the card. “Let the pictures tell your stories…” He looks up. Upon the eye-contact with Jaemin, he carefully asks, “Do you think you can tell my story to the world?”

Jaemin blinks.

“It’s nowhere near great, but I’ve always wanted to be known as a dancer, even if it’s just for a brief moment.” When the taller man is lacking any response, Renjun scratches the back of his head. “It’s okay, forget I asked that,” he laughs it off as his face turns red.

“N- No,” Jaemin stutters, “I’d love to!”

It feels as if an angel falls from heaven for him, and he is willing to use all his luck in the world for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work with the beautiful dancer that paints galaxy.