Totally on a whim, Jongin took a different route home from class. Rather than going straight off campus three blocks and right two and then left two, he went straight one and took a right after a cab barreled passed and threw brown gutter water onto the sidewalk. There were a smattering of shops, mostly small food stores, the perfect places to find authentic cuisine and obscure foods no American would want to try but reminds some immigrant families of home.

At the end of the alley-like block, an antiques and oddities shop sat. Its sign was faded with age, facing the opposite building rather than the street, but a smaller neon sign flickered OPEN to the public.

Curiosity got the better of him. Tiny shops were the best place to find unusual treasures, after all. Who knew what he'd find.

The interior was all wood and very dusty. Even with the windows propped open, there wasn't much breeze. Yet, somehow, a familiar mop of dark hair snored on the glass countertop. “Yixing.” Jongin tapped a nail on the counter until the young man stirred and stood upright. He wasn't even sitting; he'd fallen asleep bent over. They both grimaced at the loud pops and cracks of protest from Yixing's joints.

“Jongin? Hi.”

“Hey. I didn't know you worked here.”

“It's a family shop. My grandparents are at the doctor's, so they asked me to look after this today. Few people come in.”

“So you nap on the job.”

Yixing just smiled. He rarely looked entirely awake, but he had a very good heart.

“You mind if I look around, then?”

Yixing looked surprised. He blinked a few times and shook his head. “Help yourself. Holler if you need anything.”

Jongin nodded and meandered the cluttered aisles. Old rocking horses, furniture, and shelves of books littered the floor. Any available surface was full of haphazard displays of tarnished utensils, more books, jewelry, box cameras, radios, games, and clothing Jongin assumed was older than his grandmother.

Behind a particularly creepy clown doll with dulling red paint around its mouth, Jongin found a single dual-toned shoe. It was once white, now alight brownish gray, and red-brown. The sole was worn smooth, but the heel was still good. A bit of elbow grease and shoe polish, and they'd probably look rather fancy. “Hey, Yixing? Where's this other shoe?”

“What shoe?” Jongin held up the single item, and Yixing's face brightened. “It's right here, actually. My grandpa had just fixed it. Hadn't put it back, yet.” He held it out over the counter, and Jongin balanced one one foot and then the other, comparing either shoe with the appropriate foot.

“These are for sale, right?”

Yixing smiled. “Of course. Everything here is.”

They were probably the cheapest shoes Jongin ever bought, but since embracing university life, he appreciated cheap things. He spent a while chatting with Yixing; the shop, while kind of musky, was comfortable in its clutter.

He waved to Yixing through the window as he left and managed to not get hit by any rogue taxis or buses on his way home. Sehun greeted him at the corner in front of their building with a bag of groceries. “Where've you been?”

“With Yixing. Did you know his family has a shop a couple blocks from here?”

“His family has shops everywhere, Jongin.” He waited for Jongin to unlock the door. “I heard they've got, like, three stands in Chinatown, even.”

“This was like a curio shop. Everything was really old. I picked up a pair of shoes.” He fished them out of his backpack and held them up for Sehun to frown over.

“Dude. Why did you buy those ratty- shoes?” Sehun began stuffing boxed cereal and bags of chips in whatever cabinet had room.

“I like them. They're worn, but they have character, right?”

“Their character is so old they should be buried … .” Sehun nudged a door shut, pushing it two more times until the weak closure mechanism stopped popping open. “Besides, didn't you tell me it's bad to not break in your own dance shoes?”

“Yeah, but I'm not planning on dancing in these. I bought them to wear around.” He dropped them onto the pile of shoes beside the door.

Sehun frowned and shook his head. “Whatever. If you want to wear a bazillion-year-old shoes and give your feet whatever disease, go ahead. I'm not rubbing lotion on them when they shrivel and rot.”

“Who else can I trust, if not you?” Jongin leaned heavily against his best friend and room mate.

Sehun shrugged him off and flopped on the couch. Jongin tossed him a game controller, grabbed one for himself, and collapsed gracelessly across the worn cushions with his legs on Sehun's lap. They played video games until it was dark out.

Dinner was leftover takeout, and they each retired to their bedrooms to tackle their homework and get to bed at a semi-respectable hour.

With the number of people coming and going from their apartment and the sheer number of shoes Jongin and Sehun owned, Jongin's new old shoes were buried and ultimately forgotten for a couple of weeks until a text had Jongin smacking Sehun's head with a frantic “My mom's coming over! Help me clean!”

The old shoes were unearthed and tossed into Jongin's closet.

No matter how clean and acceptable Jongin and Sehun thought their apartment turned out, Mrs Kim always fussed and puttered around and insisted on making dinner, which neither boy protested.

As they said their goodbyes at the bus stop after hours of conversation and reassuring the woman they weren't starving, Mrs Kim sighed, “I worry about you, living so far.”

“It's not that far, Mom, and it's really close to school. It's totally safe; we're fine.”

“I'm a mother. It's in my nature to worry.” She kissed Jongin's cheek and hugged Sehun just as the bus pulled up and let a trickle of people—mostly college-aged—off. They watched the bus drive up with a shared, weary sigh.

“I'm all mothered out,” Sehun yawned. His spine seemed to melt, leaving him slouched and hunkered over like an old man. “Oy vey. I'm going to bed.”

Jongin tapped the toe of his battered new dress shoes on the sidewalk. He felt jittery. No way he was going to sleep anytime soon, although meeting with his mother left him emotionally drained. “I'm going for a walk. Don't lock me out.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Sehun shuffled to the elevator, nearly asleep.

New York at night was still filled with noise. People never stopped moving. It truly was the city that never slept. Lights never went out; sound never dulled; and cars always flooded the streets. Looking up, he squinted through the ambient haze at the pink clouds crawling across the darkening sky.

He started walking the block, hands in his pockets. His usual haunt was a couple blocks away, in an older part of the neighborhood.

Once a dance school, formerly a shelter of some sort, and reportedly storage for some business many moons ago, the building stood dark and heavy between a tattoo parlor that recently went out of business for using bad ink and a burnt-out shell of what was once was a popular ladies' boutique.

There was no sign, and the door was never locked. Sometimes, homeless kids stayed inside when it was raining or cold out. Summertime heat kept them out of the stuffy space, otherwise.

Jongin slipped inside and gazed around. Someone had been around since he last was there; a sleeping bag was collecting dust and grime against one wall, surrounded by empty cardboard boxes. The windows were boarded up tight.

He stood in the very center, removing his hands from his pockets and running them through his hair. He willed his body to relax and for his breathing to grow deep and even.

With only dust motes for company, he dropped his chin to his chest and began to shuffle in the dust, sweeping his leg out and just catching his toe along the ground. His friend Kyungsoo, a film major, had made Jongin sit through black and white films. More than one featured a sand dance; the dancer poured sand on the floor to add a scratchy sound quality to their tap.

Tap wasn't his forte, but the grimy shoes from the antiques shop sounded kind of cool on the old hardwood floor.

Shff. Shff. Tappity. Tappity. Scccrrrrf. Tappity. Shff.

The moves weren't his own. He had a vague idea of his movements, but he was a passenger in his own body, as usual when he danced. Rather than letting the music move him—because there wasn't any—he took on the feel of the building and his shoes. He felt in his toes and heels. A kick and a shhfffffing spin, and he jerked to a stop.

He didn't know where he was.

The walls were peeling and cracked but entirely intact. The boxes and sleeping bag and rubbley dirt were gone. The windows were partly boarded up, as if wanting to deter attention rather than keeping anyone out, allowing slits of natural light but little light otherwise.

Music he didn't hear before filtered through the broken walls and, strangely, the floor. Jongin knelt and leaned down, and he could clearly hear music. Maybe there was a basement.

Klik.

Behind him, a part of the wall covered by a unit of dusty shelving swings outwards. Music and laughter swam up from the dim stairs, and Jongin was caught on his knees trying to think of an excuse.

The man who opened the wall appeared surprised but not concerned. He pushed the door shut—it blended in with the wall—and slid his hands into his pants pockets. They're slacks, not jeans, Jongin notices. “Can I help you with something?” He spoke English, but there was a definite accent, like Jongin's oldest sister and parents still have.

“Uh, I was actually wondering where I am.” He swallowed. “And how I got here.”

The man frowned. “What do you mean? Are you lost?”

“Yeah, uh … .” To hell with it. The truth was better than anything else he could come up with. “I-I wasn't here a minute ago, but then I was.” He stood and shuffled nervously, staring at the floor. He must look like a total moron.

“Hm.” The man's suddenly nearly toe-to-toe with Jongin. “You been drinking?”

“No! I swear. I was dancing at this old place near home and suddenly was here. I did not drink anything. I did not hit my head, far as I know. I just,” he shrugged, “appeared.” He looked at the floor again. “Look! I have no footprints.”

Sure enough, the dusty floor, although well-walked by the secret door, showed nothing to where Jongin found himself standing.

“Now that is just bizarre … .” The man chuckled and shrugged. “No helping it, then. What's your name?”

“Jongin. Jongin Kim.”

“Minseok. Minseok Kim.” They shook hands, and Jongin marveled at how strong the man's grip was for being so small. “I suppose you don't have a place to stay?”

Jongin shook his head. Stay? He couldn't stay. He needed to go home.

Minseok looked him up and down, left brow arched in a very attractive manner that kind of weakened Jongin's knees. Wow, hold up. He just met the guy, and he was falling for his eyebrows. Stranger things have happened, Jongin supposed. Like time-traveling via dance.

“Your clothes kind of stick out, and I doubt anything of mine will fit you. Lucky for you, I know a guy. C'mon.”

“Y-You sure?”

“Yeah! I'm heading that way, anyway.”

Following a stranger from an empty storehouse couldn't be any worse than sitting in the dust and crying, so Jongin followed the man out of the warehouse-like building and into the morning sunlight. “My shift just ended; I was going to pick up my clothes and head home. It's not far.”

“Okay.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York, but … not here.”

“Upstate?”

“No, New York City, but it's not like this. It's a lot bigger.”

“This is about as big as it gets. You sure you're not ossified?”

It didn't sound familiar. “I'm not.”

“You're not sure, or—?”

“I'm not ossified.”

Minseok shrugged as he stopped at a street corner. Jongin nearly ran into him, bending awkwardly forward and windmilling back. The man was shorter than he, but he seemed older and more mature. “Can never be too careful these days … .” It was muttered, and Jongin almost missed it. “Here we are!” Rizzoli's Tailoring was painted in pretty script on a sign hanging over an open store door. Minseok ushered Jongin inside, following with “Anyone home?”

A door shut somewhere upstairs, and thundering footsteps shook a bit of dust from the ceiling, running down the building and descending some unseen stairs. Minseok waited with a grin, and moments later, a slight young man with dark hair and skin like he never saw the sun careened around the corner, hastily typing an apron around his waist. “Good morning! I'm sorry; I thought I still had some time before—Minseok!”

“Hey, Joonmyun.” They shared a hearty embrace while Jongin shuffled awkwardly.

“I haven't seen you in weeks! Where've you been?”

“Work, of course. Is Rizzo in?”

“He's gone back home; his grandma's sick again. Me and Rocky are looking after things.”

“He's obviously working hard.”

“Went on a toot last night; I doubt I'll see him until tomorrow.”

“Surprised the cops haven't booked him, yet. Is my suit ready?”

Joonmyun brightened, looking more awake. “It's hanging in back. Just a second.”

Minseok nodded and leaned back against the counter, tapping the shiny silver bell with a fingernail. “Joonmyun's like a little brother to me. I helped him out this way when his family hit a rough patch in California. He got into one too many fights outside the ring, because he's such a little gentleman, and Rizzoli was looking to replace one of his shopgirls who got knocked up and ran off.”

Jongin nodded. He noticed a small calendar tacked to the wall. Days were crossed out with black Xs, showing the day to be right after his mom visited, but the year read 192- and was blocked by a fat orange cat glowering at him.

“Why did it have to be red?” Joonmyun asked upon returning. The cat huffed a sigh and tucked its forepaws beneath its chest, looking even larger. “It's a good color for you, but it's rather gaudy, isn't it?”

“So the blood stains won't show. Bun Bun wanted something bolder for his nights.” Minseok took the garment box and peeked inside. “Gorgeous. Thank you. Now, I have another job for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Not that kind of job. This kid,” Minseok hitched a thumb over his shoulder towards Jongin, “is new in town. Got cheated out everything he had the moment he got in. Think you could get him some decent clothes?”

Joonmyun pushed his glasses back up his nose and took a rolled up measuring tape from his apron pocket. It unraveled and fell to the floor with a tic. “What're you looking for, exactly? Stand still, please.”

Jongin looked to Minseok, wide-eyed with panic.

“Navy blue pinstripe. Some shirts. Keep it simple.”

Joonmyun ordered Jongin to raise his arms and stand straight and efficiently wrote down the measurements. “I'll see if we have everything; I can start it soon, if you need it … ?”

“The sooner the better. Like I said, he's got nothing.”

After a suffering sigh, Joonmyun rolled the tape back up. “Alright.”

Jongin slowly lowered his arms and looked to Minseok. When he said he knew a guy, Jongin thought he meant someone he could just borrow clothes from. Sure, what he had on was a bit dusty and not in style, but a fully tailored suit seemed a but much. “How much is this going to cost?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“No! No, I can pay … ” Jongin rummaged in his pocket for his wallet, pulling out all the bills he had. He doubted the tailor accepted plastic.

“What kind of cash that?” Minseok peered over Jongin's arm, scrutinizing the wallet with a frown.

“The regular kind?”

“It's so small … .” He was right. Compared to the bill he presented from his own pocket, Jongin's were nearly an inch narrower and shorter. “Serialized in 2008? Trying to use that is a good way to get the Feds on you.”

“So maybe I won't pay … .”

“This one's on me; don't worry about it!” Jongin stumbled a little under the hearty clap to his shoulder. “We'll just have to find you someplace that you can get real dough.”

Jongin should have been trying to find his way home. He didn't know how he managed to land in supposed pre-Depression America, but he knew he didn't want to stay.

No matter how attractive the company was.

Tailoring the suit took most of the morning, even with some pieces already made and simply needing adjustments. Standing on a short stool in front of a trio of mirrors, Jongin thought he looked pretty good.

Minseok and Joonmyun chatted about boxing for a while as the suit and shirts were paid for. Jongin fervently rejected the offer of a new hat, and thanked Joonmyun for his hard work.

Outside in the sun again, Jongin ran a hand down his new suit for the umpteenth time. “You're going to wear it out, you keep doing that.”

“I'm not used to suits is all.”

“It looks good on you.” Thankfully, Minseok was looking away and missed the embarrassed blush Jongin tried to hide behind his hand.

More people were out, and it was very obvious that it was not the New York Jongin was familiar with. Men wore suits and caps. Women all wore skirts, although a few had suits similar to the men and were smoking. There weren't as many cars on the street, most appeared to be early Fords, but what there were would've had Lu Han, a car enthusiast, geeking out. Many of the car paint colors and color schemes were based on English horse-drawn coach livery; even chauffeur driven car designs resembled horse-drawn coaches. Cars in Jongin's time weren't nearly so colorful and attractive, with flowing curves and rakish lines. Bright paint colors and dual tone color schemes were the fad after the predominantly black Fords.

Jongin liked cars well enough; they got him places but also tried to kill him, and Lu Han had dragged him to one too many shows and auctions for him to get very excited about seeing what, to him, was vintage.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” Jongin tucked the box of shirts under his arm and offered to take Minseok's. “Since you paid for me.” Minseok handed his suit over without comment, stuffing his unoccupied hands in his pockets.

A man did a double-take as they walked passed a small smoke shop and hastily pushed off the building. “Kim!”

Both Kims stop. Minseok raised a cool hand in greeting. “Virgil.”

“Kim, you think you could ask your boss something for me?” His hands twitched at his sides.

“Virgil … .” Minseok's lilting reply carried heavy hints of exasperation and stretched patience. “Last time I stuck my neck out for you, I nearly lost my job. Turns out someone had claimed those barrels already. Imagine my surprise when me and the boys show up a wee bit early to find another group already loading up. Roark's still laid up.”

Virgil looked sheepish and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, funny thing, right?”

“So what would you like to ask the boss? For forgiveness?”

The man's eyes flickered to Jongin and back to Minseok and away again.“Ah, no. No, nevermind. It's okay.”

“You sure?” Virgil skedaddled, looking nervous, and hurried across the street.

Jongin watched with a frown until they turned a corner. “Who was that?”

“Old business associate. He's nobody, like the rest of us, but he had a nose for good business until he got greedy.” A horn blared behind them, followed by a long screech and thump. A few heartbeats later, there was a second thump, more screeching, and a black car zoomed down the road and veered into an alley.

Minseok glared up at the hanging traffic light above them. “Blasted things are meant to make driving safer, but pedestrians never follow the light. You know,” he continued, tone mirthful, “you actually came in handy. Poor bastard was terrified of you.”

Jongin looked between Minseok and the growing scene behind them, distracted. “Shouldn't we go see what happened?”

“Why bother? I'm no doctor or cop.” Minseok smiled at him, and Jongin forgot how to breathe for a second. “You hungry?”

Blink. Blink. “What?”

“Are you hungry? I'll buy you lunch.” He took Jongin's elbow and towed him across the street. “Pick whatever you want.”

“You're sure?”

“Gotta feed you sometime, anyway.”

“You're awfully nice to a guy you just met.”

Minseok shrugged again, letting the comment roll off his back. It kind of worried Jongin; he wasn't used to repeated acts of random kindness, but he felt he could get used to Minseok Kim.



 

Lunch was sandwiches at a delicatessen. The employees all seemed to be friendly with him, as a regular. The cashier, all feline smiles and chortling laughter, kept getting underfoot of the towering busboy on purpose. He'd make a nuisance of himself but dance away with his hands up when the man swiped at him with a gruff “Behave!”

When things had settled down and everyone was eating, the cashier sat beside Minseok. “You working today?”

“Tomorrow. It's my day off. Jongin, this is my cousin, Jongdae.”

“Nice to meet you!” Jongdae extended a hand, and Jongin shook it shyly.

“You still going out tonight, then?”

“If I can get a ride, I am.”

Jongin focused on his sandwich, pretending to not listen.

“Talk to Bob Billing. You used his last time, right?”

“He's not been too thrilled at the condition I bring them back in, though.”

Jongdae snorted. “He should be happy you bring them back at all.” The tinny bell on the counter drew him to his feet. “Good luck tonight; see you around. It was nice meeting you, Jongin.”

“Likewise.”

“Jongin.”

“Yes?” He choked on a piece of lettuce, turning red.

Minseok poured him a glass of water from the pitcher and leaned his elbow on the table, hand on his chin. “Think you could come with me tonight? I'm planning on taking a drive. It'll be a bit late, though.”

“Okay.” A suit, food, not being handed over to the police added up to more than a simple favor, and it wasn't like Jongin had anywhere he had to be, since going home was probably not all so easily possible. He stared at the tabletop when Minseok smiled at him again.

“It'll be a couple hours, yet. I can show you around.”

They ended up going to Central Park, which appeared largely unchanged. Jongin had watched a documentary with Kyungsoo about populations of new species showing up in New York, and Central Park was a theorized spot for ideal breeding. It was mostly wild, with lots of trees and paved pathways and benches but no traffic and not much disturbance.

They sat and fed pigeons for most of the afternoon, enjoying the sun. Jongin kept an eye out for any large snakes or alligators.

He only got really worried when they were walking back and Minseok said, “Obviously, I have no idea how things are done in your time, but try to not stick out, okay? I'd like to keep my job and you alive.” He held the door to a shop open for Jongin. “I just need to grab something.”

Jongin squeaked a little. “Alive?” He began to feel queasy about accepting Minseok's request.

But the man lead him into a perfectly respectable-looking soda shop store with a long countertop and numerous tall tables with chairs neatly underneath. Jongin followed him quietly. Until the surly-looking guy behind the counter stood with a grunt. Minseok held up a hand. “Easy, John. He's with me.”

Jongin slid passed the man as quickly and subtly as he could. Down a hidden flight of carpeted steps with mounted lights on the walls and through a set of large double-doors, and Jongin really felt like he'd been transported out of his time.

The ballroom stood pretty tall, for being underground, and was spacious. A bandstand stood at the far end; a bar sat along the wall to the immediate right. Everything was red and gold with dark wood.

Minseok told Jongin to stay put and slipped into the crowd. He sneezed in the haze of cigarette smoke.

“Hi!” Jongin jumped as his arm was grabbed by a short young man, maybe Jongin's age, with kind of droopy eyes but a big smile. “You here by yourself?”

“Um, no … .”

The stranger puffed a sigh. “Check, then?”

“Hey hey hey, you little vamp. Bank's closed.” Jongin slipped his arm from their grip and sidled to Minseok's side as subtly as possible.

Rather than offended, the boy smiled wider and looked too cute to be in an illegal bar in a basement. “Minseok! I didn't think you were working tonight.”

“I'm not; I came to pick something up. This is Jongin; he's visiting from his family farm. First time in the city.”

“You don't say … .”

Minseok nudged Jongin with an elbow to his back, making him stumble right back into the pretty boy's arms. “Why don't you show him around?”

“Love to!” He latched onto Jongin's arm and hauled him away, chattering a mile a minute. “C'mon, sheikh! My name's Baekhyun, by the way. Baekhyun Byun, but no one can say it, so everyone calls me Bun Bun. Minseok said you've never been here before. Are you another cousin?”

“No. He helped me; I kind of got lost is all …. .”

“Ah, yeah. It can get a bit much, but it's truly the bee's knees. You will hate the farm when you go back.”

“I'm not sure if I am going back.”

“Really?!” Further interrogation was cut off by a soft-looking man in a tuxedo.

“Bun Bun, you should be getting ready! What're you lollygagging for?”

“I was just showing the new guy around.”

“Do that after your show, please. My blood pressure can't handle the boss's temper any more than usual, today.” Baekhyun rolled his eyes but waved to Jongin and dipped in and out of the growing crowd to a side door beside the bar. Bobby left with a short bow and “Enjoy your evening,” and Jongin was left alone in the middle of the spacious hall.

He felt rather under-dressed, even in his suit. Gentlemen wore mid-height beaver top hats and walks with fancy canes. Some even had spats over their shined shoes. The ladies were draped in furs and jewels with long gowns while younger woman, flappers, wore mid-calf and shorter skirts with bare arms and bangled wrists. It was quite the timewarp. In his time, this would look like a costume party, and he would still be under-dressed.

“Jongin.” Minseok appeared at his side, instrument case in hand. “I got my stuff; let's get a wiggle on.” He lead Jongin off the floor with a hand against his lower back, nodding politely to some people he knew and calling out a few greetings.

As they left, Baekhyun slipped around them with a cheery wave and wove his way to the stage to applause and whistles, decked out in a red silk gown, brunette wig, and makeup.

He looked really good. Jongin didn't know how to feel about that.

He followed Minseok straight through the small hall and through a door at the end, which opened to stairs that opened to where he and Jongin had first met. “This used to be storage. It was eventually found to be structurally unsound and rat-infested.” Minseok threw him a grin over his shoulder. “It pays to have friends.”

The night was rather muggy, but at least there weren't many biting bugs in the city. They rounded the corner of the building, and Minseok knocked on a door to a garage.

“We're closed,” a tired voice called from inside.

“Bob! You got a car for me?”

“Kim?” The door opened, and a bear of a man squeezed out. “Last car you borrowed came back full of holes.”

“I didn't put them there.”

Bob shook his head and jerked it to his left. “Flivver inside. If you can get 'er running, you can take 'er.”

“I promise to bring it back in one piece.”

Bob grunted and went back inside.

“What's a flivver?”

“Just a car.” Minseok heaved the garage door up. What light there was illuminated a sad looking carriage on sagging wheels. “A bucket of rust and disappointment, but it's still faster than walking upriver.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Sure. Find me a wrench.”

With Jongin's help, Minseok managed to get the car up and running, although it sputtered and coughed and sounded ready to die any second.

Wiping his hands on a rag, Minseok said, “Hop in!” and tossed the rag aside.

“It's stick shift,” Jongin commented nervously.

“Of course. What else would it be?” Versions of the automatic transmission were used even before the 1900s, but the concern of stalling the vehicle remained until the 1930s, when fluid coupling was adapted to automotive use. Until then, a clutch was used in the semiautomatic and manual gearshifts, and cars still stalled when drivers weren't sure when to shift gears.

Minseok seemed to know what he was doing, and Jongin sat back and tried to enjoy the bumpy, wholly uncomfortable ride out of the city north up the Hudson.

It was a long drive, but it was relatively quiet. Like the streets he saw earlier, the highway was much less car-logged. There were few trucks and semi-trailers; if everything wasn't so green and healthy, it would look like the beginnings of an epidemic or apocalypse.

“Tell me about where you're from.”

Jongin flinched at the sudden request and grimaced as he found a loose spring. It was friendly, just a conversation starter, but he still fumbled his words. “It's New York but a lot bigger. Skyscrapers, like, dozens of stories high and cars always on the road; a lot more people and noise. Like your New York built up and multiplied by a lot.”

Minseok sighed, face scrunched in a thoughtful frown that was too cute for a man's face. “I can't even imagine it. New York's the biggest city I've been to. How much bigger can it get?”

“Much.” He looked out at the countryside. “I miss it already.”

“You'll get back,” Minseok assured. “You can stay with me until then, if you'd like.”

“You're really nice to someone you don't know.”

“I got a lot of help from strangers on my way here. I figure I can continue the Good Samaritan act. For a while, at least. Anyway, you're a handsome fella; if I didn't help, someone else would, even with the strange story.”

Jongin slouched in his seat and kept his face turned away, caught on the “handsome fella” remark.

“Are you married?” It was an irrelevant yet very important question.

Minseok slapped the wheel as peals of laughter shook his shoulders.

“Eyes on the road!”

The car swerved back into the proper lane, and Minseok got a hold of himself, coughing giggles here and there. “I am not.”

“It's not that funny a question.”

“I'm sorry. I really am not married. You making an offer?”

Jongin nearly slouched to the floor of the car, and Minseok's laughter filled the cabin again. Jongin liked the sound of it.

Conversation came easier after Jongin's thorough embarrassment. Turned out Minseok was a big baseball fan and nearly talked Jongin's ears of with statistics and stories of games he'd seen. He even claimed to have nearly caught a ball from Babe Ruth, but he pulled back so a little boy on his dad's shoulders could catch it, instead.

“He got to go and meet Babe after the game. I was so jealous. Kind of regret letting him have the ball. That man is a living legend!” He turned off onto an unpaved stretch of road that couldn't really be considered a road. Jongin found the loose spring more than once as he tried to simultaneously stay on the seat and avoid that very spring.

“Are we there, yet?”

“Soon. What, you're not having fun?” Minseok wrestled the car out of a large rut.

“There's something poking my .” Sehun would be quick to make a joke. They might not have been a thing, yet, although Shakespeare begged otherwise. Minseok looked about ready to make some comment when he stopped the car with a Grrfkssssss.

Minseok reached into the backseat for his saxophone case. “Stay here, okay? I'll just be a minute.”

Jongin watched him go, stepping high to wade through the tall grass and pushing small branches aside.

Standing on his knees in the car, Jongin could barely see around the cluster of small trees to the river, where a boat was tied to a small, shabby dock that appeared ready to let go of the back and sink. A man waited on the deck of the boat and greeted Minseok with a handshake. They appeared to chat a while, then Minseok was handed some kind of wrapped bundle, which was place in his empty case.

That was it. Minseok tossed the rope up to the man, and the boat pulled away as Minseok returned.

“What was it?” Jongin couldn't help but be nosy. A clandestine meeting by the riverbank in the middle of nowhere was by far the sketchiest thing he ever witnessed.

“Just something for my boss.” The case was set carefully in the back, and the car grumbled to life.

“Is this thing going to make it back?” It barely survived the drive down the little road-that's-not.

Minseok shook his head. “I dunno. He can thumb it back if need be.”

Jongin wasn't all too keen on either comment, but they did make it back in one piece, sometime in the very early morning. One they were parked and closing the garage door, however, something fell from beneath the car with a metallic clunk.

“Huh. We've got good timing. I'll drop this off, and we can head back to my apartment. You look tired.”

Jongin didn't even bother opening his eyes. It was too much work. He swayed on his feet while Minseok hurried the case and whatever contents it held into the illicit basement.

Climbing the stairs proved to be a difficult task, but Jongin made it with a little help.

Minseok's apartment had both electricity and gas, but he turned a knob and ignored the switch. The pipes hissed a little, but the flames stayed lit.

“Pretty nice place.” Jongin rubbed his eyes. Everything seemed golden in the light, but it was all clean and tidy, if a little on the drab and sparse side.

“I do alright.” Minseok walked ahead. “Some furniture was a gift from a past employer. She redid her whole house and let me adopt some pieces she was going to toss.”

Jongin flipped through a pile of back issues of The Saturday Evening Post. “What do you do, exactly?”

“I play at the club and do some … odd jobs here and there.”

Meeting boats at secluded docks at night. “Like fix cars?”

“Like fix cars.” Minseok tossed his suit jacket onto the loveseat, covered by a paisley slipcover like someone's grandmother would make. “I'm going to run a bath.” He grinned at Jongin over his shoulder. “Care to join me?”

Jongin did. He didn't say so. He toed off his shoes and laid his own jacket neatly over the arm of the same loveseat.

Ghhhhwwaaaaah. Clink. Clinkclinkclunk. Water eventually broke free of the salt circle holding its demonic entity and bay struggled up the pipes and out the spout, and Jongin's heart slowly climbed down from the ceiling.

Minseok ed his shirt and rolled his shoulders back to let it drop to the floor, followed by his undershirt. Jongin did not watch the man drop his pants and boxers, but he did see the reflection and struggled to breathe at the revelation of pale skin and toned muscles. Minseok bent over to check the water, and Jongin nearly swallowed his tongue. The tap was turned with a low squeak, and Minseok sank into the water with a contented sigh.

Catching himself staring in the mirror that the other man thankfully was not facing, Jongin stripped. He'd only just sat down before Minseok's feet when the older man shifted onto his knees, holding onto the sides of the tub and spilling water onto the tile, and leaned forward to kiss Jongin.

“Hmnyghuh!”

Minseok stared at him, eyes comically wide. His head dropped forward with a shout of laughter. “What was that?”

“You—You don't just kiss someone without warning!” Jongin knew he was glaringly pink. His ears and cheeks and neck were all burning hotter than the water he sat in.

When Minseok finally got his laughter under control, he bit his bottom lip and pushed Jongin's hair from his face in a rather tender gesture, looking at his face as if trying to memorize it. He leaned in again, a soft “Warning,” murmured milliseconds before their lips touched again. Jongin was ready that time, and although his face was still aflame with embarrassment, he relaxed back against the sloped end of the tub with Minseok comfortably atop him and kissing him lazily.

Bbbrrrrrrriiiiiiiing. Bbbrrrrrrriiiiiiiing.

“Minseok … .” Jongin pulled away, chased by an eagerly affectionate Minseok. “The phone.”

Bbbrrrrrrriiiiiiiing.

“Mmm … . They won't give up.” He sighed and pecked Jongin's upped lip. “And neither shall I.”

Bbbrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing. It sounded more insistent, if that was possible, as if fully aware it was being ignored.

Eventually, Minseok dutifully got to his feet and stepped over the side of the tub, uncaring of being on full display and dripping the entire jog to lean out the bathroom door to reach the phone. “Hello?”

He shouldn't listen in; he knew he shouldn't, but Jongin sank a little lower in the tub until the water reached his ear lobes.

“Yes, sir. Thank you … You're welcome; I'll see who can go.” Minseok hung up without saying goodbye and shivered. He hustled back to the tub and nearly jumped in in his haste and sat on Jongin's feet.

“My boss liked what we picked up.” He ducked forward to dip his shoulders under the warm water and laid against Jongin's chest. “Thank you for coming along.”

“Sure.”

They didn't talk about that unexpected kiss, or any of the ones afterwards, and Minseok turned his bedclothes down for Jongin. “I'll take the sofa.”

“I can't kick you out of your own room.”

“You won't fit on my sofa, Jongin.”

“Well … sleep with me, then.” Jongin sat on the bed with a little bounce. The springs weren't as invasive as the ones in the car. “We can share.”

“You don't kick, do you?”

“I don't think so.”

Some shifting and shuffling, and they both found comfortable spots to lay. Minseok fell asleep fast; he was more tired than he let on.

Pajamas were just their underwear, and Jongin willed himself to stay calm when a bare leg crossed over his own. Glancing at the man's sleeping face, a semi-stranger, he relaxed. His arm tucked over Minseok's side, and he succumbed to sleep.

Jongin woke up in the evening and didn't even bother to get out of bed until Minseok walked in and nudged the mattress. “C'mon. Dinner's ready.”

“You cook?”

“My neighbor will make me food a lot or give me leftovers. She's kind of the mother to everyone who lives here.”

“Sounds nice,” Jongin yawned. It turned into a happy coo at the spread of chicken and potato salad on the small table.

They ate in silence until Minseok asked if Jongin wanted to hear him play. “You saw a bit of the place yesterday, but it'll be a lot busier tonight. Hobnob with some real knobs.”

He still hadn't figured out a way to get home, but there was nothing better to do, and passing up any opportunity to hang out with Minseok would be a huge waste. “Okay.”

Jongin helped clear the table when they finished eating and went to the bathroom to get dressed.

“We can drop your old clothes with Mrs. McNeil down—Ow!” Draping the clothing over an arm, Minseok bent and picked up a dark rectangular object with a reflective but also dark surface. “What's this?”

“What?” Jongin bounced on one foot as he struggled with his sock. “Oh, crap; my cell phone!” He collapsed on the bed and held his hand out to nervously examine his one piece of precious technology.

“Cell phone?” Minseok looked dubious. He tilted it this way and that before passing it to Jongin. “There's no wires. How's it work?”

“That's the whole point. It's a portable telephone.”

Minseok's brows rose. Whether he was surprised at the very idea of a wireless phone or concerned for Jongin's mental health wasn't apparent.

Jongin struggled to remember his American history classes to help him explain the little device. After World War I, the “Great War,” Prohibition took off. Judging from the number of hip flasks and giggling couples weaving through the night, it was not as strict as class lead him to believe. Cars were invented and became mass-produced thanks to Ford and his assembly line. Women's fashion changed considerably enough to be noted in text books, and he couldn't remember much else except the two months spent on Al Capone and Chicago gang activity.

“Oh!” He pointed to the radio, a Stewart Warner 300, on the table beneath a pinned poster from a movie that was probably stolen right off the signboard. “It's kind of like radio. Waves are produced from some source and picked up by a receiver.”

“If I didn't believe that you come from when you say you do, I'd ask if you got into moonshine.”

Jongin shrugged sheepishly. He clipped his socks to the garters provided by Minseok, another bizarre necessity Jongin doubted he'd ever embrace. Before sitting upright, the light reflected off something beneath the bed.

“Is this,” he held up a box with a lens on the front, “a camera? It's made of … cardboard.” It was a very basic cardboard box camera with a simple meniscus lens, bent to make up for the lack of manual focus, that took 2¼-inch square pictures on rollfilm. A super early Polaroid before Polaroid was even a thing.

“Yeah! That's my newly-used Brownie. Got it from a guy for less than a dollar. It's one of the first ones made.” He took it from Jongin's hands and backed up, looking at the top of the box. “'You push the button, we do the rest.' Smile.”

Jongin blinked. “Did you just take a picture of me?!”

“Yep, and I really can't wait until it's developed.”

“That's not fair!”

“Life isn't fair. You have wireless telephones.”

“Not anymore, I don't. Here; gimme.” Jongin stooped behind Minseok, chin on his shoulder, and pushed his arms up. “Get both of us.”

“I can't see what it looks like.”

“So guess. Who really cares?” The box clicked, and Jongin frowned. “I think I blinked again.”

“Third time's a charm. One, two—” Minseok turned to kiss his cheek just as he flipped the switch to capture the moment.

Jongin swallowed, cheeks pink. “Pretty sure my eyes were open that time.”

“Good. Can't wait to get these developed.”

“You know, where,” when, “I'm from, we have instant photographs.”

“You're kidding.”

Jongin shook his head and waved his phone. “This'll be easier.”

“It has a photomajig?” Minseok set his camera aside, curiosity piqued.

“Yep. This is the single most handy piece of the future … .” Jongin held the phone up after switching the camera settings to show the two of them on the screen. Minseok looked dumbfounded; Jongin tapped the screen, and it blinked white a moment before a tiny square jiggled in the lower left corner.

“That's amazing! Take another one where I don't look like a deer in the headlamps.”

Jongin leaned over Minseok's back again and held the phone out. “Ready?” The screen flashed catching their soft smiles.

“Photo proof you were here,” Minseok commented softly.

“Huh?”

“C'mon. Get a wiggle on.” Minseok set his hat on his head and waited at the door for Jongin.

The silence between them on the way to the club was heavier than before, and Jongin wanted to ask when the musician meant, but he didn't know how.

John the soda jerk didn't say anything when they entered the shop and walked to the back. Patrons gave them curious looks, but they quickly returned to their ice cream and malts when John glared.

They parted ways when Minseok pointed to the bandstand. Talking was nearly impossible with the noise from the numerous conversations going on. Jongin was again struck with a distinct feeling of displacement. Even if he looked the part in his suit, he didn't feel like he belonged. Without Minseok, he felt completely lost in the unfamiliar time.

He wove through the crowd until he found a relatively secluded area of armchairs where he could still see the small stage. Minseok greeted the other musicians but lost his smile when one of the men waved his arms, trying to explain something.

It wasn't important, Jongin assumed, but rather than a shiny saxophone, Minseok jogged back up the short steps with a long, black clarinet. He looked a bit lost, but after a few notes, he seemed to relax.

The whole group did small warm-ups until the leader, Jongin assumed, looked at them all, gave a minute nod, and began to play, beginning with Minseok.

Jongin knew the song. Rhapsody in Blue, by George Gershwin. It was a staple song to any music historian, jazz or piano student. It's been used extensively since it was written, but no one now would know that for a long time. Jongin felt like he was witnessing a secret part of history, the everyday that was usually overlooked in classes in favor of the more attention-keeping wars and conflicts.

At the first glissando, a trombone-like sound for a clarinet, Jongin's knees went weak, and he sat heavily on the nearest—and thankfully unoccupied—arm chair. Baekhyun bounced over to him and leaned over the back.

“You've never seen Minseok perform, have you?”

Jongin could only shake his head dumbly.

“Close your mouth, honey. You're catching flies.” He arranged Jongin's elbow on his lap and coaxed his fingers around a glass of whiskey. “Maybe this will help. It only gets better from here.”

He didn't touch the liquor at all—he might have forgotten to breathe, to—even as the band took a short break, and Minseok was waved over by Baekhyun. “Sounding swell, Minseok.”

“You think so?”

&lldquo;Absolutely. Jongin here agrees, if his silent, catatonic state, means anything. I was ready to start searching his pockets for change.”

Minseok plucked the glass from Jongin's hand and downed the drink in one gulp. He shuddered at the burn. “Still better than that panther sweat at the Cotton Gin.”

His brain finally caught up and recovered. “You—You play really well!” The butterflies in Jongin's stomach started puking when Minseok smiled at him.

“Thank you! It's been a while since I played clarinet, but it's like getting back on a bicycle, I suppose.”

A man in a tuxedo with a gut that had all six buttons of his vest straining called, “Bun Bun! Go get ready; you're on in twenty.”

Baekhyun rolled his eyes. “Can't ask nicely? I'm doing him a favor, working here.” He stuck his tongue out at the portly man's back as he stood. “See you later.”

“He wouldn't have to ask at all if you'd be ready beforehand,” Minseok replied sweetly. Baekhyun stuck his tongue out.

“Good luck.”

Minseok sat beside Jongin, on another armchair. “So what do you think?”

“It's … interesting.”

“It's one of the few establishments that hire people who aren't white and even … outside of the respectable norm. Like Baekhyun. There's a lady in Harlem who's larger than life, I've heard—larger than you and me, anyway—who always performs in a white tuxedo and has a girlfriend. She doesn't hide it at all, and no one cares. It's a lot easier to make a living around here.”

“Does that mean, I mean, are you … ?” School didn't teach Jazz Age etiquette about asking someone's uality.

Minseok grinned his gummy grin, looking almost coy as he casually looked everywhere but Jongin. “Maybe. Depends on the guy.”

Oh. Oh my.

Jongin covered his mouth with a hand and tried to remember to breathe. The comment could mean anything. He knew what he wanted it to mean, and he had a couple kisses to back it up, but it was ridiculous to be so bold with a friendly stranger. He thought he'd have learned after the couple of one-night stands his freshman year in college. “Where did you live before this?” Diversion is more acceptable than denial.

“Uh … Here and there. My family moved here from Korea when my mom was a baby. They lived in California, in an area with a lot of other immigrants, where she met my father. They moved east after having me. My sister was born in Oklahoma but raised in Detroit, where my dad got work. Chicago a short while, back to Detroit, down to St. Louis … .”

“You've moved a lot.”

“Yeah, but I enjoyed it. I got to see a lot and learn a lot. I came to New York on my own. I heard it was the place to be, and my parents were just glad I wasn't in Chicago, like some cousins of mine. There's a big gang there that's causing a lot of rumpus.”

“Aren't there gangs here, too?”

Minseok gave an easy shrug. “Sure, but they're not too bad. Some guys are worse than others, but they're also family for those who don't have anyone.” If that wasn't a thinly veiled confession, Jongin didn't know what was.

“Are you—?”

“Excuse me,” a deep voice rumbled between them. Jongin flinched, eliciting a warm laugh. “Hey, sorry about that. Kim, you're on again. Oh, I'll take that.”

“Thanks, Chanyeol.” Minseok handed the empty glass over and stood. “Chanyeol Park is the bartender. If you need anything—ever—he's the guy to ask. Feel free to look around; don't be such a wallflower.”

Left to himself, Jongin ducked his head and sat quietly. Socializing wasn't his strong point, and there seemed to be a class difference, adding to the feeling of displacement. He felt like that friend of a friend who was invited to a party but abandoned when the friend went to hang out with others. Without Minseok, or even the bubbly Baekhyun, to distract him, his shyness got the better of him.

He noticed the hem of a green skirt and shiny white T strap heels. “Hi.”

“Hello … .”

“My girlfriends and I saw you're alone. Wanna dance?” She smiled shyly, a pretty blush on her cheeks. Her hair was bobbed and curled in towards her jaw.

He tried to reject the offer gracefully. “I'm not really much of a dancer … .”

“Don't you know how?”

Of course he did. Modern dance. More modern than the Lindy Hop and Charleston.

She took his hesitation for embarrassment and took his hand, giggling, “We'll teach you! Come on!” She lead him away from the secluded safety of the chairs through the crowd to the dance floor, where two other girls immediately joined them.

“Hey, he's pretty cute!”

“How come we've never seen you around here, before?”

“Isn't he the absolute berries? He says he doesn't know how to dance, though!” This shocked the girls, whom Jongin assumed had had more than one drink each already, and they pulled him further onto the floor with laughs of “We'll teach you!”

Three partners was unusual, but the dances all allowed flexibility and improvisation, so after learning the basic hops, spins, shuffles, and shimmies, Jongin easily spun among the three girls and managed three consecutive songs before needing to sit down. “You're a regular Oliver Twist, mister!” He promised them more dances, and they returned to the floor in search of other partners.

“You looked good.” The bartender, Chanyeol, set a glass of clear liquid, “Water,” he assured, on the counter for Jongin.

“Thanks. We don't—We don't really dance like this back home.”

Chanyeol twisted a white towel inside a glass, scrutinizing it in the light. “You're new here?”

“Just visiting, but yeah.”

Maybe it was a bartender thing, but Chanyeol Park was really easy to talk to, even if his wide smile showed a terrifying amount of teeth. He and his sister, a journalist, lived in the city while their parents had a small business in New Jersey. He loved animals but was allergic to cats, which made working with one of the busboys difficult, because he either lived with cats or was a cat himself.

“Speaking of Zitao, actually … ” Chanyeol set the drinking glasses down and pushed his own up his nose. “Do you see him? Tall, dark eyes. He's Chinese. He's supposed to be serving customers.”

Jongin looked but saw no one that looked right. Lots of expensive suits, silks, feathers, and jewelry and some other busboys and waitresses … “No, sorry.”

“Not again.” The giant of a man threw Jongin a sheepish smile as he filled more glasses with amber liquid. “I hate to ask, but I can't leave the bar. Would you take a peek through that door and see if he's sleeping? If he is, kick his out here. Bun Bun should be getting out here, too; tell him if you see him.”

“S-Sure.” Jongin slipped passed a cluster of older gentlemen smoking cigars and pushed open the inconspicuous door behind the bar. The hall behind it was dimly lit and rough with a few doors on either side. Immediately to Jongin's left was a storeroom of clothes and glassware. Across from that was filled with bottles and casks and seemed to extend the entire length of the ballroom outside.

An office and a couple small dressing rooms later, Jongin found both the singer and the busboy. The dressing room door barely stood open, but it was enough to peer into.

While Baekhyun evidently had very nice legs for a man, seeing them in their nearly-bare entirety and wrapped around the busboy's waist was entirely unexpected and something he wasn't about to forget anytime soon, no matter how much brain bleach he used.

Jongin leaned against the wall outside and knocked on the door frame.

All sounds of shuffling and little grunts stopped, probably in panic. “Y-Yeah?”

“You're on soon, Bun Bun.”

“Jongin? I'll be out soon. I just … I just need to finish dressing.”

“Okay, good. See you soon.” He wanted to leave. “The bartender's looking for Zitao, too.” He booked it back down the hall without waiting for a reply and immediately sat behind the bar.

Chanyeol gave him a funny look. Jongin accepted it. “You find them?”

“They should be out in a minute or two … maybe more … .” Understandably, when Baekhyun hustled out the door, looking impeccable but with a slight twinge as he walked, Jongin hid behind Chanyeol's legs. The busboy followed soon after, bright-eyed and not a hair out of place until Chanyeol smacked him over the head with a towel and growled something in Korean.

Zitao waved his hand and swept away into the crowd with a tray of drinks.

“He's a good worker, when he's actually working.”

“I'm sure.” Jongin hid his face in his knees.

“Here.” Chanyeol tapped Jongin's head with a glass. “You look like you could use it; sorry.”

Whatever it was burned when Jongin drank it, making him shiver, but it chased away the embarrassment enough for him to stand and leave the bar.

He danced some more, drank a lot, and passed out on an armchair only to be woken minutes later by soft nudging. “Jongin.” Minseok tried to hide his smile when Jongin finally opened his eyes. “They're closing now,” he explained softly. “Ill take you home.”

Jongin was just drunk to still understand but not able to walk unassisted.

“I can't let you out of my sight, can I?”

“Ssssurry.”

The cool evening air woke him up some, and he drunkenly marveled at the night sky. In his time, it was nearly impossible to see the stars. Skyscrapers and ambient light blocked the natural beauty, but here, now, it was relatively open and visible.

Head tilted back, Jongin managed to trip over his own feet and fall heavily against Minseok, who grunt under the sudden weight. “Y'smell nice … .”

“I smell like cigar smoke and sweat. C'mon; get your feet under you.”

“Problem, gentlemen?” Cops. Jongin wanted to throw up.

“My cousin's running a fever.” Not entirely a lie; Jongin felt really hot. He couldn't wait to get out of his clothes. “I told him not to go to work.”

The officers looked dubious, but after a few seconds of critical staring and not breaking Minseok, they tipped their hats and continued on their rounds, chatting lowly.

City living is great; everything is close by, and Minseok's jobs are mere blocks from his apartment. It's plain incredible how far it seemed while dragging someone alongside him.

There was no doorman. The neighborhood wasn't ritzy enough, and no one cared to try breaking in to a crumbling, peeling building of immigrants and minorities. Minseok paused inside the door to catch his breath and eyed the stairs warily. Someday, the building may be fitted with an elevator. Until that day, he has to haul himself—and Jongin's near dead-weight—up four stories of stairs.

“Can't you walk at all?” he grunted.

Minseok propped Jongin against the wall to dig for his key, simply rolling his eyes when the boy slid to the floor. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open with his foot and dragged Jongin up by his lapels to awkwardly waddle him through the living area, pausing to toe the door shut, and manover him to the bedroom.

Jongin fell back with a squeaky bounce and nearly fell to the floor. With the abuse Minseok's putting his suit through, grabbing his lapels—and suspenders—again, Joonmyun was going to have a cow trying to press the wrinkles out.

“There,” Minseok sighed. “You're on your own. Sleep it off.” He turned to leave but was tugged back and barely managed to catch himself over Jongin with a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Stay. I don't like kicking you out of your own room.”

“It's fine. I have work in a few hours, anyway.” Nighttime musician; daytime soda and coffee shop help.

Jongin wriggled a bit and shimmied up the bed so he could sit up, invading Minseok's personal bubble and popping it with a kiss.

Minseok didn't say anything; he didn't even move until Jongin's kisses left his face and tiptoed behind his ear.

“This is bad,” Jongin said against Minseok's jaw. “I really like you.”

“What's so bad about that?” The musician took Jongin's chin gently with his hand and teased Jongin's mouth with barely-there drags of his lips and tongue.

“I have to go home.” Minseok stilled, and Jongin laid back on the mattress, eyelids heavy but eyes alert. “At some point, I have to go back.”

He could stay. It was an unspoken option. He'd already made friends here, and there was Minseok …

But he had friends at home, too, and family. School, dance, maybe even a job, still, if someone covers for this explainable absence.

Minseok looked at him, really stared at everything, as if seeking a solution or trying to memorize his face. The rising sun highlighted his hair and collarbones. He smiled, and it wasn't sad. “You're here, now.” He leaned down to kiss him, and Jongin surged up to meet him halfway, hooking an arm behind his neck to pull him down on top of him.

Jongin woke up alone.

His head pounded, and his body ached, but the afternoon sunlight poured over the messy bed, warming his bare skin and making it difficult to want to move.

He rolled over to dig his phone from the pile of his clothes and turned it on. His battery was almost dead. There were no bars of service, and trying to send a text went no where. The opened a file folder and stared at the photo he had taken of himself and Minseok.

If he couldn't go home, would he be able to completely adjust?

Thinking about it, he adjust pretty well pretty quick. Dancing his way nearly 90 years and meeting a man who didn't haul him to the nearest hospital for being a total nutbar and accepted his story, sticking with that same guy and being treated to new clothes, food, and a place to stay … .

His stomach swooped.

Even if he stuck around, there was no guarantee Minseok would let him stay any longer than necessary. He could find a job and his own place and hopefully not die when the Depression hit. Good plan.

He tried to make mental lists in his head. Pros of staying: Minseok. Cons of staying: everything and everyone he knows isn't around. Not much for lists, but neither option looked all to appealing.

“Whatever happened to the best of both worlds?”

As far as he knew, there was no way home, anyway, unless he could go the way he came. It was worth a shot.

He fell asleep again trying to think up a plan, and by the time Minseok was sneaking back into the apartment, he had an idea to try out.

If it worked, he wanted to say his goodbyes beforehand.

Minseok set the freshly laundered clothing on the low table and greeted Jongin with a kiss, not at all expecting to be wrapped in a tight hug and flipped onto the bed. His heartbeat escalated and stuttered a little when Jongin squirmed down the bed to curl himself against Minseok's front and press his face to Minseok's neck. “Jongin?”

“I'm sorry. I really want to go home.”

The man pet his hair. “I understand.”

They discussed Jongin's plan, and Minseok agreed it was worth a try. “I'd do whatever I could to get home. I can't live without my family.” He touched Jongin's cheek. “Even if I could make my own.”

Their shower together was more kissing—and possibly tears, who really knew—than bathing, and it took a while to get dressed and when they kept picking at one another's clothes.

Eventually, they made it down the sweltering stairs. Jongin's feet tingled in his shoes with each step.

Minseok had his saxophone case; Jongin wondered if he was playing tonight or meeting up with someone again.

The walk was shorter than he remembered, and music from the speakeasy was dull and flat to Jongin's ears. He wanted to join those girls he met—better yet, Minseok; Jongin didn't know if he ever danced—to keep his promise and dance and dance until he passed out from exhaustion.

“Well,” Minseok sighed unevenly, “do your thing, Oliver.”

Jongin wanted to kiss him again, but he knew that if he did he'd never want to stop and would never even try to get home. He closed his eyes and swept his leg out.

Shff.

If this didn't work, no big deal. Jongin knew he would be okay.

Shff. Shff. Tappity.

He'd made friends, thanks to Minseok, who wanted nothing but the best for Jongin.

Tappity. Shff. Shff.

Nothing but Jongin.

Tappity. Shff. Scccrrrrf.

He stopped and opened his eyes. A sleeping bag was collecting dust and grime against one wall, surrounded by empty cardboard boxes. The windows were entirely boarded up.

Baekhyun bounded up the back stairs, following the weird shuffling and tapping and hoping to catch someone or somebodies in a compromising position but only found Minseok on the top step with the door entirely open, apparently talking to the dust.

“Minseok? Hey, what're you doing in the dark? Where's Jongin?”

“He went home.”

“Already?” Baekhyun flopped against Minseok's side. “I really liked him.”

“I did, too.”