No Surrender

He’s standing on the stage with a spotlight blaring overhead, the stage is set with the live band, but they’re in the dark and the only person that can be seen in the dark room with little candles of light on each table is him.

The whole room watches him as a sound from the mic sounds out in an attempt to be noticed, to be spoken into in words of complex understanding.

There is a pair of vaugely familiar eyes in the front row that he can just make out, they belong to a dark fellow with a serious look on his face. He’s wearing a dark suit and his hand is nursing a glass of scotch – straight, no rocks to be seen.

He likes that. But more so, he likes that the attention is completely focused on him as a beat plays out.

He reaches out and takes the twenty’s style mic in his hand, holding it like he’s caressing the back of his lover’s neck. He sways to the beat.

The band are playing an instrumental before the strike up the beat of the song that he’ll be covering. He’s thought about doing his own songs, but he likes to feeling of the covers. He likes taking something and moulding it into his own version, just like he does with this song.

He opens his mouth, and he begins.

“Big Macs for the fat, lo-cal wraps for the call centre battery hens, Japanese snacks for the choice-spoilt citizens, caviar kickbacks for the citadel denizens.”

He looks down and those eyes in the darkness, and they’re interested now. They no longer look like they’d rather be closed and unseeing. He knows that as a performer, as a singer, he’s meant to keep his eyes neutrally gazing across the crowd, but he can’t.

He’s drawn in by the stranger that watches him so intently, sipping on that scotch in slow, drawn out movements, and when he’s not, his wrist moves in circles to make it swirl in his glass as the candle light makes it shine in sinister promise.

“Airport shoeshines servicing the suits among the little silver stereos and hand-rolled cheroots, first class passengers file on last after the scum are packed in with their tax-free loot.”

The songs he sing aren’t romantic, they aren’t there to make people coo, or make people want to go home and shack up. The songs he sings are there to make people think, are there to make people question what’s being said and make things play on their mind over and over until they long for answers.

He smiles slightly as he watches the stranger lean back in his chair and watch him unblinkingly. He vaguely notes that a waitress moves over to re-fill his glass with a cheeky smile and a flirtatious comment, but the stranger doesn’t spare her a glance, he only watches the singer closely.

The waitress is gone now, and the scotch is topped up, and right then, although he knows that the stranger is almost certainly like any other in that room – rich, pompous, and only there to show off his social standing – he can’t help but find himself drawn in by the uncaring aura of him.

He likes it. He likes that he sits there and watches, unashamed that he’s been found out, and it only makes the stranger more intriguing, more magnetic.

“Checkout calamity, you're cheated out of loyalty points, ten more years at this joint you'd be home & dry, Beggars beat round the cash machines but you just slip between them with the usual lie. Terrible tales of kidnapped kids keep you focused on the family and filling up the fridge, Neighbourhood watchers shop dole dodgers, stick their semis on the market & start racking up the bids.”

The stranger tilts his chin up in a superior fashion, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s an act. It’s always an act and this stranger is just like any other. Scared of people finding out he isn’t a perfect little rich boy.

He knows the type all too well. He’s dated that type, he’s been the dirty little secret of that type, and he loves it.

He gets off on it, and he knows that it’s wrong, it’s so very wrong to play up to it, but he gets his kicks and they get to pretend like they’re living in a fantasy world for a few dark hours in the night before returning home to their pretty, rich arranged fiancée, and all is well. It’s a win-win.

But there’s no light reflecting from the stranger’s hand, so that means no ring. He’s not married at least. Probably engaged; still. Loveless; maybe. Forced; certainly.

“Should you stand and fight, should you die for what you think is right. So your useless contribution will be remembered? If you're asking me I say no, surrender.

 “Constant growth the cancerous cure, a swarming race of profiteers ensure cheap cars for the rich, cheap lives for the poor, cheap weeks in the sun, free drinks at the door.”

But this stranger, he’s interesting. He’s unlike the others that have tried to rope him into some twisted play for fun. This one isn’t batting his lashes and sending him flirtatious gazes, no. He simply watches on with a look of curiosity on his face.

The stranger sips his scotch, the singer sings on.

It’s almost like a battle in the way their eyes stay locked, refusing to be the first to look away. They blink, but they never tear away from the gaze. And by the time his eyes narrow ever so slightly, there is a smirk playing about the stranger’s lips behind his glass of amber liquid.

The band plays on, and the song keeps going. The crowd whisper and watch, but the stranger doesn’t pay any mind to his company.

He’s at the front table with two other men, who like him are each nursing a glass of scotch, but unlike the stranger, they each hold a cigar between their fingers, doing their part to contribute to the smokiness of the lounge of rich socialites that hate each other, but smile at each other anyway.

The stranger doesn’t smile though. He never does, unless it’s that tiny smirk aimed at the singer.

He likes that. He likes that the rich men and women get coolness and he gets a smirk of winning thought.

But this stranger will know nothing of winning if the singer gets his way.

“Puerile propaganda plugs up the TV, keep folk following the money so they'll never be free. Keep them swallowing the swill, the celebrities, the es, the immigrants invading from the camp over the hill.

 “War talk, the big debate, footsoldiers in the capitol liberating new kinds of hate -shots of human dots caught in the spotlight's glare; he dies who dares.

 “Fatuous fast-trackers sneering at the shelf-stackers, little Middle-Englanders can't stand the backpackers, Fortress Freedom, come on in, take your chances-you might win.”

He knows before the intermission, hell, before the song ends, how this is going to go. He knows that he’ll walk away from the stage to sip at his water in an attempt to tame his raw throat and this interesting stranger will come over and say something about his performance and then maybe suggest something to do with when the show is over.

And he might humour the stranger, he might not.

Only time will tell.

His lips twitch slightly in a knowing smile, but he fights it down again and just watches the stranger watch him as he sings.

“Should you stand and fight, should you die for what you think is right So your useless contribution will be remembered? If you're asking me I say no, surrender.

Sunset beaches security patrolled, keep out the undesirables who don't accept the code Equal opportunity to live in total poverty, execute the ignorant incarcerate the slow

Car caressing managers choking up the avenues, brain dead patriots standing in salute, paperwork raining again and again so that billionaires can claim there's an enemy to shoot

Pill pushers, doorsteppers, personal goal shoppers, lifestyle trendsetters, meditating mindbenders, Hare-brained share sellers pumping out stocks til you're choking on a chain-letter avalanche of dross.

God squads trawling through every country tracking down fools who are bull hungry Blinded by divinity followers fall into the man-traps set along the Wailing Wall.”

He’s done so many questionable things in his life, he knows it, but he doesn’t really care. After all, you’ll only regret the things to don’t do.

He’s learnt not to regret things as time got on, it only makes you sad, and sad is something he doesn’t do well with. He’s had more than enough of it, and now he’s content with just living each day as it comes.

The stranger has finished his second scotch and the flirty waitress has returned, but he doesn’t even take his eyes away from the singer as he declines a re-fill. He simply tells her to take his glass away and folds his arms over his chest as he crosses his legs to sit more comfortably.

The singer doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He remains ever passive as he looks down upon the stranger from his spotlight, the words fall from his lips like second nature. He’s not even paying attention to the song anymore, he’s just singing, and he knows it well enough from years of singing it in so many clubs and dives until he made it to the rich lounges where the rich soulless monsters dwell.

The fingers of his right hand tighten around the head of the mic, and the fingers of his left tap on the stand as he tilts it and leans forward.

“Athletes compete in grand charades while tanks flatten streets and a nation laughs, Visa holders gape at the changing guards while creeps bribe bums to take their photographs.

Film fans flock to the latest schlock, blockbusters block out even the vaguest thought Bankrupt schools grind out fool after fool then feed them to a system where idiots rule.

Polling booths, phone votes, bogus questionnaires, you get a say as if anybody cares Joe Public doesn't want to play so liquidate his life as he looks the other way.

Don't get sick, don't get wise or they'll gut you with a *justice* where everything is lies March down Main Street, complain if you want but it's twenty years straight for the losers at the front.”

He likes that the men and women in the crowd are gripping on to every word of the song, he likes that they know it’s true but they’d never say it. And when they leave they’ll be talking about the lounge singer that needs to look at his set list because they went there for a night of love songs and twenty’s style entertainment, but even with that, they’ll always come back for more.

“If you're asking me I say no, surrender”

And surrender he will not.

He sings a few more songs before the lights go up by a fraction and there’s a dim hue over the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “Thank you for listening. We’ll be taking a short break now, whilst the band show off some of their brilliant skills. Please get yourself another drink and enjoy the music. I’ll be back shortly. Thank you” and there’s a round of applause as he exits the stage.

As predicted, he’s just pressed the bottle to his lips when someone presses against him from behind, turning him around and pressing him back against the wall.

It’s still pretty dark at the side of the stage, but they can see one another clearly.

The stranger is taller than him, his skin is tanned and his hair is a handsome mess. He looks like he has the ladies falling at his feet.

“Hi” he says lowly, his eyes grazing over the singer’s face in a way that makes the singer feel .

But he doesn’t show it, instead he smiles slightly, “Hello” he answers, placing the water back on the table beside him, it’s a little hard considering his position, but he manages.

“You’re an excellent singer” the stranger tells him, “I was impressed”

“Something that you usually aren’t, I assume?” he responds, raising an eyebrow at the stranger.

The stranger smiles slightly, and oh how that makes him feel hot under the collar, “It’s not so much that as I assumed you’d be all sappy love songs and empty promises. I like your set list so far. Justin Currie was a personal favourite of mine”

“I’m glad you liked it” he purrs easily, this isn’t routine, and he loves that more than he should. “Wait until my second half”

The stranger laughs and air laugh, “I’ll anticipate it” he says, “But I was more interested as to what you’ll be doing after the show”

There it is, “Ah” he says, “There we are… So, what’s your story? Loveless marriage? Forced engagement?”

“Engaged to my best friend’s long term girlfriend” The stranger says, “It’s a little complicated. We aren’t going through with it though. Neither of us want it, and I’m not enough to do that to him. Plus, girls… Not really my area. Not that my parents seem to care”

The singer smiles slightly, “You’re different that the people that usually come and try see me back here” he tells the stranger, “You interest me”

“I’m glad” The stranger says, “I’m Jongin, by the way”

“Kyungsoo”

“I like you, Kyungsoo. You’re not what I’m used to, and I think that’s a good thing” Jongin tells him easily, keeping him pressed against the wall, “So, after the show?”

Kyungsoo laughs, “Let me guess, you have a hotel room upstairs? You’d like me to join you?”

“Something like that, unless you don’t feel like surrendering” Jongin jokes lamely, but it’s funny in its own little way, “Really though, I’d like you to come up. We could get to know each other a little better”

Kyungsoo nods as the lights flash to signal his return to the stage, “Alright. Meet me here after the show” he says, then pushes his way out of the arm cage and head back to the stage without so much as a glance to the stranger – Jongin.

He goes through his second half of the set as easy and as captivatingly as the first, with all eyes on him, only this time he doesn’t look at Jongin even once. He knows that he’ll be seeing him again. He has what he wants now, so he doesn’t need to watch anymore.

Even so, he can feel Jongin’s eyes on him. Feel them eating away at him, as though they’re uncovering the many layers of him.

The set ends before long and the rich people clap in their sophisticated way, there’re no whistles or whoops of praise, only mundane claps of decent approval, which Kyungsoo accepts, but doesn’t necessarily like.

As promised, Jongin is waiting for him when he exits the stage. He’d seen the man steal away from his table and friends as he was giving his practiced ‘thank you’ speech to the pompous audience.

“Kyungsoo” he purrs with a soft smile on his lips, and it’s so different than the steady gaze that had been set on Kyungsoo throughout the performance.

Kyungsoo nods in return, “Jongin” he replies, “Shall we?”

“Let’s” Jongin says, offering his arm, and Kyungsoo hold onto it as they make their way out into the hotel lobby.

Jongin doesn’t try to hide Kyungsoo, or rush him to the elevator which will no doubt take them up to the penthouse. Instead he takes him time, he smiles at the receptionist and greets the workers before heading up to his room, which is a standard double, much to Kyungsoo’s pleasant surprise.

“You’re very handsome, Kyungsoo” Jongin tells him when he closes the door and presses Kyungsoo up against it, a hand either side of the shorter man’s head, “Very”

“You’re not so bad to look at yourself” Kyungsoo says back, his hands sliding up Jongin’s front and loosening his tie enough to take it off over Jongin’s head and toss it to one side. “Sorry if that was expensive”

Jongin shakes his head, leaning until Kyungsoo can taste the scotch on his breath, “Doesn’t matter. It’s just a tie. Like you better, anyway”

“You don’t even know me” Kyungsoo reminds him, but Jong laughs.

“Sure I do” he says, “You probably don’t remember me… We went to the same school way back when. We didn’t talk, but I knew you. I always noticed you. And you noticed me too, I know you did, at least back then… But you noticed me tonight, too”

Kyungsoo’s mouth opens in a little ‘o’ of realisation, “Jongin” he says, “Kim Jongin… Well, look at how grown up you are”

“I could say the same about you” Jongin laughs, “But how about we catch up later. I can think of better things we can be doing for now”

Kyungsoo hums, “Then why are you waiting? Kiss me”

Jongin does, he kisses him hard and fast and it makes Kyungsoo’s head spin.

They undress one another in a rush as they stumble around until they find the bed and fall together in a mess of passion. It’s between laughs and moans that Jongin manages to slick up his fingers with lube that he happens to have handy and press them into Kyungsoo, who moans and pleads for more.

They go at it, hot and heavy, atop of the covers and when they both reach their peak, they break for a moment, before the heat overtakes them again and they’re going for round two. And they play and kiss and touch each other for hours on end.

By the time they’re just laying together on the white covers of the bed, with Kyungsoo on his front and Jongin over him, tracing patterns on his sweaty back, the sun is rising.

“Music classes” Kyungsoo says tiredly, “You sat in the front row. You played drums - terribly, I might add. But when you danced, you could set the world on fire”

Jongin laughs softly, sleepily, “You sang like it’s what you were born to do. I was always too afraid to talk to you”

“I was in a bad place back then, you probably wouldn’t have liked me all the much, anyhow” Kyungsoo sighs softly.

He feels Jongin shake his head against his shoulder blade, “No, I knew. I told you, I noticed you. You were… dark. Full of a lot of bad things. But you still shone, you know? I wanted to know you a lot, but I never had the nerve to. I’m glad I noticed you tonight. I’m glad that it was you there tonight and not a bonehead singer that sang about sap”

“Coincidence” Kyungsoo says.

“Fate” Jongin counters.

Kyungsoo laughs, “Don’t be daft”

Jongin sits up and waits until Kyungsoo rolls onto his back to talk, “Can I see you again?”

“In what context?” Kyungsoo asks cautiously. This isn’t how these things usually go.

Jongin smiles slightly, “In the context of coffee”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Kyungsoo almost laughs in amazement.

Jongin shrugs almost shyly, “If you’d want to? I mean, I know we don’t know each other that well, and I know that even though we knew of each other back then, we’re still technically strangers, but I think I’d like to know you… If you’d want to anyway?”

“You know what?” Kyungsoo says, because after all, you only regret the things you don’t do, “I think I’d like that”

“A date then?” Jongin smiles, “Tomorrow night?”

Kyungsoo sits up too, so that he can lean over and press a soft kiss to Jongin’s lips, “It’s a date”

--

“Can I ask you something?” Jongin asks as they lay in the freshly made bed. They’ve cleaned themselves up, and a lazy Sunday in bed is just what they need after getting almost no sleep.

“Sure” Kyungsoo says as he lays in Jongin’s warm arms, his eyes closed in content comfort.

Jongin pauses before asking, “Do you do this a lot? Meet up with people and spend the night with them?”

“Is that a problem for you?” Kyungsoo asks right back, his eyes opening to look at Jongin unsurely.

Jongin laughs, “No, I was just curious. I’m just hoping that I might be able to get you to just see me for a while. See how you like it, maybe?”

“You know what,” Kyungsoo laughs with a roll of his eyes, “I’ll give you a change to try and win me over. I’ll give you some time, I won’t meet up with anyone else”

Jongin smiles slightly, “I know you don’t owe me that or anything, so thanks…”

“Yeah well, I’m all for trying new things” Kyungsoo says, “And this might be something I could get used to”

Jongin chuckles, “Lazy mornings in bed with a handsome guy?”

“No, having my own personal heater” Kyungsoo snickers.

So maybe he doesn’t sing sappy love songs, and maybe he sings no surrender.

But if there’s one thing he does like, it’s a happy ending.

And this, he thinks, might just be one.

A/N: Kaisoo~~~

I'm not going to lie, I enjoyed writing this so much! 

It was probably one of my favourites that I've written, so i hope ypu enjoyed it ^^ 

TTFN~♡