This is it, Chanyeol thinks to himself. I’m going to die.

I am a dead man.

The situation is always the same. There’ll be a crowd of onlookers, and Chanyeol will stand sweating before them on a raised platform, their reaction dictating whether he’ll walk away a free man or be brought to his knees. It’s unavoidable, really, for all of his comrades have fallen at some point. Some get off relatively lightly, while others are crucified. Chanyeol is one of the blessed few that are brave (or stupid) enough to repeatedly get up afterwards. As long as he’s still got even one leg to stand on, there’s no question that he’ll be back for more.

Chanyeol closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He has a feeling it’s about to happen again right now. He can hear his own digestive processes, it’s so quiet.

Please, he begs no one in particular. Just one little chuckle. That’s all I need.

Some heavy breathing, perhaps..?

Anything but this terrifying, all-consuming silence..

“Next!” someone from the audience calls out, hands cupped around his mouth to amplify his voice. Others boo at Chanyeol, raising their hands with their thumbs turned downwards.

There it is. I’m a goner.

I’m done.

“Wakey-wakey, hands off snakey – Jinki bailed tonight, so you’re up next,” a gravelly voice hisses in Chanyeol’s ear. He leaps up from his seat like an unsuspecting schoolteacher sitting on a thumbtack. Those ominous daydreams before a performance are always so real and frightening that they threaten to become self-fulfilling prophecies if he dwells on them too much.

“But… I don’t want to go after Chaerin…” he says, anxious at the thought. He’s seen Chaerin perform before, and she’s a hard act to follow; sort of like a younger Sarah Silverman, but more terrifying.

“Well, tough ,” the club host replies tersely, squinting at the set list on his clipboard. He scribbles something out and begins to forcefully steer Chanyeol towards the stage. “First in, best dressed, Park. You’re the one who got here late, remember?”

Chanyeol sighs and nods his agreement. He knows better than to argue with the powers that be. When it’s your time, it’s your time.


Chaerin shoots through the curtains like a cannonball as soon as she’s done, bursting with aggressive energy as usual, and Chanyeol is introduced and shoved onto the stage before the resounding applause has a chance to die down. He shuffles over to the centre, momentarily blinded by the stage lights, and his eyes fall to the wooden floor, scuffed by the multitudes that stood and fell here before him. He adjusts the mic stand for his height, and the all-too-familiar screech of feedback fills the room, making him cringe. When it fades away, the silence it leaves behind is so clear and sharp it could slice him in two.

Chanyeol reluctantly lifts his gaze to the audience; at the sea of expectant, hungry people, each one ready to chew him up and spit him out if his words don’t hit the spot. He swallows, still tasting the sourness of acid from when he’d not-so-discreetly thrown up in the club toilets a little earlier (performance anxiety – standard procedure).

He closes his eyes one more time, and opens his mouth to speak.

“Hi,” he says, his voice cracking a little. “I’m Chanyeol.”

“We know,” someone immediately calls out.

Chanyeol takes a deep breath and pretends he didn’t hear that.

It’s okay, he tells himself. Just focus. Breathe in, breathe out, and go out with a bang.

And Chanyeol does go out with a bang. It comes in the form of a light fixture detaching itself from the ceiling, crashing down on him while he’s in the middle of a sentence and prompting a collective gasp from the audience.


Unable to walk offstage on his own two feet, Chanyeol is immediately carried away by two hefty doormen, blood pouring freely from a gash in his head. He is denied his usual after-show ritual: puttering home in his little banana-yellow box of a Volvo, turning up the local oldies radio station to full blast and singing along at the top of his lungs – his tried-and-true method for releasing any pent-up post-performance tension. The car doesn’t even have a functioning tape deck let alone a CD player, so he usually jams his cigarettes into the slot to hold them while he drives.

But Chanyeol won’t be jamming anything into any slots tonight. Instead he scores a sweet ride to emergency in the back of an ambulance, where a nice young paramedic dresses his head wound to keep it from bleeding all over the place. She whispers reassuring words to him as he fades in and out, many of which Chanyeol knows he will probably forget by the morning, but the tone of her voice is rich and soothing – comforting in a way he can’t explain. It revisits him while he’s lying alone in a strange bed later that night, with nothing but the occasional nurse checking up on him and some old guy’s emphysema cough to keep him company.

Chanyeol finally drifts off with the thought that he really ought to give up smoking.


When he’s deemed fit to go home, Chanyeol’s sister Yura comes to pick him up from the hospital, having rescued his car from where he left it – in the dodgy parking lot behind the club, where some of its seedier patrons congregate to partake in shady dealings after hours. Chanyeol is listlessly staring out the window when she swishes into the room, greeting him with an affectionate kiss on the cheek; she raises her eyebrows slightly at the sight of his injury, but thankfully doesn’t comment on how awful it looks.

Chanyeol decides not to sulk any longer over his misfortunes. He might have upwards of twenty stitches in his head, but he’s still standing – sort of – so he counts his blessings.

“Time to go,” Yura says gently, resting one hand on his shoulder. Her sunny disposition is unshakable, and Chanyeol has always loved her for it. She has yet to inherit that steely, hardened stare from their battle-axe of a mother, but to Chanyeol it’s only a matter of time before Yura directs disapproving eyes towards him too. For now, though, she’s behind him 100%, always ready to make allowances for her little brother, and it’s part of the reason he can’t seem to settle – why he keeps jumping from job to job, place to place, trying to keep the tiny windblown flame of his teenage dream alive.

Chanyeol is aware that his constant reassurances don’t really help the situation. It's just a temporary thing, he repeatedly tells Yura (and himself, for that matter) – he’s only crashing her apartment until he knows where he’s at. It's been a 'temporary thing' for the better part of a year now, but still Yura never bats an eyelid, and any attempts to force a bit of rent money upon her are repeatedly spurned. Stay as long as you need to, she always says with a genuine smile. That spare room is just gathering dust anyway. Chanyeol knows that she means it, but it doesn’t stop him bribing his conscience by sneaking a few folded notes into her purse every now and then.

“Don’t feel too down about last night,” Yura says cheerily during the drive home. “These things happen. I’m just relieved that you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol says quietly, and he flashes her a reassuring smile, turning up the brightness a little for her benefit. “Don’t worry; I’m fine. Now I can join the long list of distinguished people with ugly scars.”

I’ll look back on this in a few years and laugh, he tells himself, pulling the sun visor down to inspect his injury in the mirror. He gingerly traces over the sutures in his forehead with his fingers and sighs; like most of the things he tells himself these days, he doesn’t believe it one bit.


 

As soon as he’s able, Chanyeol heads down to his favourite watering hole for a drink to celebrate the fact that he’s still alive. It’s mainly his favourite because his good friend Kris owns it and he always gives Chanyeol cheap drinks, but it's quite a nice place in its own right – a quaint little pub called Rubbing Elbows. The name is somehow apt; on weekends it gets so crowded that you generally end up rubbing more than just people’s elbows, but to Chanyeol that’s part of its charm.

Kris looks up at Chanyeol as he approaches the bar, grimacing at the sight of the stitches in his forehead. “That looks painful..”

Chanyeol flops down onto one of the leather-covered stools in front of the counter. “It is. I was lucky it was only a small spotlight. Anything bigger and I probably wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“You should have told me you were in the hospital. I’d have visited..”

Chanyeol shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, I wasn’t there for very long. Anyway, they said I’d be fine. I just have to take it easy for a little while.”

“Well, how about a pint to make up for it?” Kris says, winking at him. He’s always had that ability to make people feel at ease without ever really smiling; instead his benevolence seems to shine through his eyes like sunlight through frosted glass – a little more subdued, perhaps, but ever present. He takes a pint glass from the rack behind him and fills it with beer, placing it on the bar in front of Chanyeol, who accepts it gratefully.

“On the house. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that more than a tacky ‘Get Well Soon’ card anyway.”

“You know me too well.” Chanyeol raises the glass in acknowledgment and tilts it to his lips. “Ah, that’s the stuff. How about some peanuts flavoured with the DNA of seventy different people?”

Kris dumps an open bag of peanuts onto the counter and sets a bowl down next to it for the shells. “Here you go. You can be the first.”

“Thanks Kris. The special treatment almost makes up for the injury.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t throw the shells on the floor. I’m not your mother.”

Chanyeol laughs. “Thank God for that..”

Kris nods and leans a little closer to Chanyeol. “By the way, I need to ask a favour… how would you feel about performing here two Fridays from now? Jongin’s band was supposed to play that night, but their vocalist walked out after a row, and they haven’t found another one yet. I need to find a replacement act soon or I won’t have any Friday night entertainment that week.”

Chanyeol busies himself with shelling a peanut and pops the kernel into his mouth, chewing it pensively. “That’s unfortunate. Poor Jongin… but sure, I can do that night.”

“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver,” Kris replies. Chanyeol watches him line up a row of shot glasses in front of a group of giggling older women on a girls’ night out. He fills the glasses with tequila and sets down a small plate of lemon wedges and a saltshaker next to them. “There you go, ladies..”

“Hey guys – major pukeage on the floor of the men’s room,” Minseok interrupts them, poking his head out from the back.

Kris groans. “ing hell, not again… okay, you know the drill. Whoever cleans it up gets an extra 20% cut of the tip jar.”

“I’ll do it!” Sehun declares, hurrying past the other staff members. He grabs a mop and bucket from the storage closet, falling all over himself on his way to the facilities. Kris watches the bathroom door swing shut behind him and chuckles to himself.

“Works every time..”

Chanyeol wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Gross. I think that’s my cue to leave..” he announces, downing the last of his beer and pushing the empty glass towards Kris. “Thanks again.”

Kris pouts at him jokingly. “So you come here to drink my beer and then bail on me after ten minutes? You’re always too busy for me these days..”

“I really have to work,” Chanyeol replies, standing up from his seat. “I’ve missed enough shifts lately. I’ll come see you again soon, though. That’s a promise.”

“Alright, alright…” Kris says, waving him off. “Off with you, then.”


Stepping out into the cool autumn air, Chanyeol pulls his jacket tighter around himself and hurries down the street towards the Stellar Theatre, where he works occasionally as a cleaner. The Stellar is as old as time itself, a ‘historical treasure’, or so the plaque on the front reads anyway. With its obnoxiously ornate exterior, it sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the other more modest buildings of the main strip, and has been a target for repeated acts of vandalism in recent years. There's not a whole lot to do after nightfall in this part of town, so the local youth have a considerable talent for breaking things.

Scoring a casual cleaning job at the Stellar was an unexpected of luck for Chanyeol. Not that cleaning up after evening performances is a particularly inspiring task – it mostly involves rescuing plastic cups from beneath the seats and vacuuming crushed M&Ms out of the old crimson carpet – but this seems a small price to pay to be granted valuable access to a completely empty theatre. While sweeping the stage floor, Chanyeol will sometimes pause for a moment to practice his routines before the rows of vacant seats. In his fantasies, each seat will be full; the crowd will be buzzing with excitement, their eyes riveted to him the very second he enters the stage. He’ll begin his performance, and their laughter will grow and swell until it raises the roof right off the building.

It’s not until he’s finished vacuuming one of the aisles that Chanyeol realises his ears are ringing. He doesn’t think anything of it at first; he’s been no stranger to the occasional bout of tinnitus ever since that light fixture fell on his head. Trying his best to ignore it, he leaves the Hoover forgotten in the aisle and slowly ascends the creaking stairs to the stage, taking his place at the centre. Inhaling deeply, he begins to run through one of his current routines – under his breath, of course, for there’s something about talking loudly to himself that makes Chanyeol feel self-conscious, even when there’s not a soul around to hear him.

Chanyeol is cut off mid-sentence by a curious racket coming from overhead: the combined sounds of rattling chains and the tinkling of glass. He looks up at the large chandelier suspended above the auditorium.

The last thing he expects to see is something hanging off it.

Something, or someone..?

Hanging on to the chains is a small man dressed entirely in purple – from his plum tailcoat right down to his lavender socks. He's looking down at Chanyeol and grinning.

Chanyeol blinks up at the purple-clad man in wonderment, his eyes following the flashing mass of crystals and electric candles as it swings to and fro. By now the imaginary crowd are booing and hissing and yelling at him to start cracking jokes already, but he's too preoccupied to notice.

"Good show," the purple man calls out. He smirks mischievously. "Full house tonight, I see.”

"Who are you..?" Chanyeol yells up at him. "What are you doing up there..?"

By now there are small cracks spreading through the ceiling, growing like branches and blizzarding the theatre with tiny snowflakes of paint. The man pulls off a perfect triple somersault and lands among the seats – without so much as a thud, Chanyeol can’t help noticing. He slowly stands up, dusting himself off, and strides down the aisle towards the stage.

"I am Byun Baekhyun," he replies, nimbly hopping up the stage steps two at a time. "And I am a faerie of sorts. Well, I mean, you won't find me at the bottom of your garden or anything.."

“How did you get in here?” Chanyeol asks, bewildered. “The show’s over – you’re not supposed to be here.”

Baekhyun folds his arms over his chest in defiance. “Well… why are you here..?”

Chanyeol gestures towards the Hoover, still sitting in the aisle where he left it. “I work here. I’m cleaning up.”

Baekhyun shrugs. “Well, I hang out here.”

“What do you mean, you hang out here? It’s a theatre. It isn’t public property..”

“Aren’t you the one who sneaks onstage to practice your comedy routines when you should be working? It’s a bit rich of you to lecture me, isn’t it..?”

“How do you know about that..?” Chanyeol asks, the colour draining from his face.

“I’ve watched you,” Baekhyun says, smiling at him.

Chanyeol starts to feel faintly sick. “How many times..?”

“A few,” Baekhyun replies, his smile growing even wider.

Chanyeol nods and swallows nervously. There’s something about the way Baekhyun stares at him that makes him feel a little odd. His ears are ringing much more loudly now. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Baekhyun is standing above him, looking a little concerned.

“Are you alright down there..?”

Chanyeol blinks up at him, confused. His ears are still ringing, although not as loudly as before.

“Why am I on the floor..?” he asks, rubbing his head.

“We were talking all nice and normal, and then you just fainted,” Baekhyun informs him. “Are you ill?”

Chanyeol doesn’t reply. He screws his eyes shut.

Maybe I’m hallucinating.

He counts to five before opening his eyes again, expecting the apparition to have dissolved in the meantime, but no such luck. Baekhyun is grinning down at him, just as before.

“Still here.”

Chanyeol shuts his eyes again. When he opens them, Baekhyun is kneeling next to him, wearing an expression of obvious amusement.

“Still here…” he says again, and he cheekily bites his lip. His voice is fuzzy around the edges, and it echoes slightly. It vaguely reminds Chanyeol of the way film characters speak in flashbacks.

Chanyeol closes his eyes once more and counts to thirty this time before daring to open them.

“Still—”

“What-do-you-want-from-me?” Chanyeol hisses in a breathless string of words, cutting Baekhyun off mid-sentence.

Baekhyun leans back a little to sit on his haunches and holds his hands up defensively, palms facing outwards. “Woah. Settle, petal.”

Chanyeol scowls and tries to sit up, but his head spins violently and he collapses back down onto the hard wooden floor, groaning and rubbing the back of his head.

“You must want something from me,” he says through clenched teeth, “or you wouldn’t be hanging around me like a bad smell right now. So just tell me what it is and we’ll get this over and done with.”

Baekhyun looks at him for a moment and then lifts up one arm to sniff beneath it. He makes a face and lowers it again.

“I don’t want something from you,” he says, as though speaking to an idiot. “I’m just trying to figure out how you can see me.”

“What do you mean..?” Chanyeol asks, slowly sitting up and dusting himself off.

“You know, it’s quite curious… I was once a comedian just like you,” Baekhyun tells him. “I even performed right on this stage. I was touted as the next big thing… the one to watch. Right up until my tragically premature death, that is.”

At this last detail, Baekhyun raises a hand to his forehead in mock distress, but the twinkle in his eye gives him away.

Chanyeol stares at him in bewilderment. “You’re dead..?”

“Yep.”

“So… you’re a ghost, then.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“You said earlier that you were a ‘faerie, of sorts’..”

Baekhyun shrugs. “I know I’m small and dressed entirely in purple, but I didn’t really expect you to take me seriously.”

Without pausing for thought, Chanyeol pulls his shoe off and lobs it at Baekhyun’s head so hard that he falls backwards.

“Ow!” Baekhyun exclaims, holding a hand up to his forehead. “What the hell was that for?!”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Chanyeol stammers, “I thought that if you really were a ghost, it would pass right through you.."

Baekhyun laughs and shakes his head. “Objects won’t pass through me while I’m like this..” he says, closing his eyes, and he begins to fade away slowly until he’s almost completely transparent.

“Try it again,” he whispers, opening his eyes at last, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I dare you.”

Chanyeol stands there with his feet nailed to the floor, pointing a shaking hand at Baekhyun, his mouth open in a silent scream. After what feels like a lifetime his feet finally uproot themselves and he bolts out of the theatre, leaping over the Hoover like a hurdle on his way out.





As soon as he gets home that night, Chanyeol goes straight to bed, hoping that he’ll forget all about the ordeal after a good night’s sleep. Or, better still, that it will turn out to be merely some sort of one-off hallucination; a side effect of his recent injury.

He sleeps fitfully that night, harassed by nightmares of an auditorium filled with strange little men in purple heckling him during a performance, and wakes up the next morning to a loud knocking on his bedroom door.

“Come in,” he mumbles into his pillow. Yura bursts into the room, dodging the piles of clothing on the floor like landmines to get to the window. Humming to herself, she pulls the curtains aside and sunlight immediately streams into the room.

Chanyeol lifts his head up from the pillow, his wavy brown hair sticking out in all directions. “What are you, my mother..?”

“What are you, a vampire?” Yura retorts, throwing the window open. “I’m just letting some air and light in here. By the way, have you been cooking in your sleep? You left your bacon and eggs unsupervised; I had to take them off the stove because they were all burnt. Please be careful next time...”

“Huh..?” Chanyeol replies, confused by her comment, but she hurries out of the room before he can ask her what she means.

Chanyeol eventually pads barefoot into the kitchen, oversized paisley pyjamas still hanging off his lanky frame, and sure enough, he finds a pan next to the stove complete with two rashers of blackened bacon and some charcoaled eggs. Without thinking, he opens one of the cupboards under the sink, and someone hands him a clean frying pan.

“Thanks,” Chanyeol mutters, shutting the cupboard door. He’s always been slow in the mornings, so it takes a good thirty seconds of standing there holding a frying pan for no apparent reason before the realisa