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Magasin de musique Oddinary

13:30

The heart of man could not go unfettered in the age of 1963. The options of who to love and when to fall were too limited for those who yearned for the prerogative. But there were those who rebelled. The group that fought. The community that detected its members from the farthest distances and shadowed them with the colored pattern of its wings. Even those who knew nothing about their multiples.

Even those who were groomed to think that they were nurturing a lie that was merely an earthly desire to revolt. Those who fought with themselves under the belief that they were the only ones to love another of their gender. Even those, the community sought to shield from the judgmental frowns and gazes from them who just could not understand. Them who fit into society's acclaimed majority.

Love was nothing but a slippery slope. A slide with only death at the bottom, and lasting scars if one was to, somehow, climb their way back to the rugged top. Love had the capability to send the sanest into a life-long asylum, the proudest buried alive by humility, the richest to beg on the streets, rags from the crown of their head to the sole of their feet. Love could lift and smash down, remake and destroy, set ablaze and quench.

Love, the pleasure that bore the most guilt: never truly worth it and could only be blamed for its true colors after allotting detriment.

Love, the overwhelming internal sensations responsible for the smile that kept Jisung's face too bright and stained pink for a stable man. He blushed as he brushed his finger over the ash exterior of a guitar. The sharpness of the black strings was practically tuning his name, luring him to purchase with persuasions that fit his exact reason for visiting that music store in the first place.

"He will love it," Jisung mumbled. Amongst the variety of guitars, saxophones, trumpets, drums, and other musical instruments that Jisung could not yet pin a name to, that guitar had to be the one. Jisung blushed at the mere imagination of Felix struggling to fit his slim, shorter arms to hold onto the entire thing and giggled at the tickle in his ears at the sounds of laughter that he perceived they would share together when he would share the surprise.

Oh, how love could make a lucid boy appear so utterly detached.

"Is it me who has you so cheerful?" A voice called Jisung from his fantasies, and his wide smile dropped into a frightened pout, eyebrows raised in perplexity, the hand that was gently caressing the guitar pulled back to his chest. "Need any assistance?" The stranger asked. He was tall, remarkably so, with black and straightened hair, a ringlet curled before his forehead. That man had a smile of silver, alluring, and a nose complimentary to the ethnic curve of his lips.

"I'm getting along nicely," Jisung swallowed. "Thinking about purchasing this guitar for a... for a friend." He couldn't be too sure; couldn't err and expose his alleged conundrum. "Thank you for offering, though."

"It's my pleasure," the man said, his voice smooth, calling goosebumps to worship from the surface of Jisung's skin. He wore a pair of brown overalls with his lighter-shaded long-sleeve beneath, and a pair of sandals that Jisung mentally assumed had been bought only recently. "Anything for a pretty one like you. Want me to show you how to play it too? First three lessons free of charge." He winked, and Jisung laughed, nervous, visibly dumbfounded.

How could one be so bold? So unafraid? Jisung resisted the impulse to frown at the memory that he too, was fearless, once upon a time. Once upon a season. It was prodigious, how the right amount of ridicule could banish a lion to the depths of his den, never to face the light of his kingdom again. Jisung missed when he could have compared himself to that forward acquaintance without juxtaposition.

"No thank you," Jisung said, biting his tongue in hopes of keeping back the question at the tip. But what did he have to lose, to inquire of the worker's confidence? With such audacity, it was very unlikely for the other to bite back in opposition. So Jisung swallowed, looking up and into the eye of the man that he was seeing for the first time, fingers dancing along the hem of his coat. "May I ask you a question?"

"Anything, dear," the man bounced on his heels, smiling.

"Why court me when I'm a man?" Jisung held his breath after the question, squinting as if prepared for the man to bite back. Traumatized from the wild dogs that tore away the pride in his past. "I don't mean to appear rude, or anything as such. I'm just... confused, to say the very least."

"Because you haven't told me to stop," the gent said and crooked the smile that was yet to depart from his face. "You haven't corrected me or shamed me, which would often be first instinct. I choose my interests wisely," he blushed, shrugged, and outstretched a hand for Jisung to hold and shake, grinning when Jisung followed through. "My name is Minho, darling. And you are?"

"Call me Peter," Jisung said, "or Jisung. Whichever is fine, truly. I-- erm, you have a lovely name. And you're-- my apologies. I tend to speak too much when I grow nervous." Jisung blushed awfully, keen to retract his hand back to his side when Minho let go. He prayed that Minho hadn't felt the cold sweat that hurried out of his pores, as if they'd never held a man's hand before. "Thank you for being so kind."

"Lovely name yourself. And don't worry, I find you amusing," Minho chuckled breathily, and Jisung smiled at the thin crow's feet highlighting the sincerity of his laughter. "So, I assume you have no problem with my forward speech? It really is a risk that I take to flirt with unfamiliar men in the open."

"Why do you do it? So bravely? In our society?" Jisung breathed in. "How do you do it?"

"I take a leap of faith," Minho bounced on his heels like a boy, and Jisung, for the first time, wondered how old he was, but found the moment inappropriate to ask. "We only get one life, one chance, so I try to do as much as I can. The manager here frequently warns me to be careful with it, and I have had some negative encounters, but what was, was. This store is a haven for everyone, of all kinds."

Jisung wasn't aware of how large he was smiling, just from Minho's words. Never knew that he could feel so welcome, so at ease, somewhere that was not in his home. "Wow," he exclaimed, eyes shining with interest; tears of joy prickling to escape. "I feel so welcome, then." He blushed with the confession, mollifying his burning desire to skip along the wooden floor inside that shop and exclaim his gratitude, his peace, his love for another man. "Well, it was very, very nice to meet you, Minho. I'll be purchasing the guitar."

"I'll—well-- I'll get it for you." Minho nodded, lifting the guitar from the post that it had grown used to for the several weeks on display. And so Jisung walked behind him, round and rosy cheeks practically demanding admiration when Minho set the instrument on the counter before looking back at him. "Come again sometime," he said. "You don't have to buy anything. Just to visit-- you're welcome. Anytime."

"Is he bothering you, sweetheart?" Another, just as relaxing voice startled Jisung from his eye contact with Minho, calling Jisung's attention to behind the counter; the cashier must have just stepped out from the back. His hair, black and styled into a mullet, held a vermilion beret on top, lips full and almost ravishing. "How many times have I got to warn you to leave the customers alone?" He laughed airily to mask the seriousness behind his scolding, looking pointedly yet warmly at Minho.

"He's no trouble," Jisung said. "In fact, he encouraged me to return," he smiled. "I'm Jisung. And I—well-- I'm one of you," he gulped. His eyebrows wrinkled, fearful of a negative reaction, so used to the backlash that he had not yet settled in the fact that the people in that store did not resemble those who trotted outside, neither in values nor in beauty. "I feel quite comfortable here, actually."

"Well, I'm happy to hear that," the cashier winked at Minho and nodded, writing Jisung's purchase onto a piece of paper, a makeshift receipt. "I'm Sam. But you can call me Hyunjin; I prefer it. Would you like a guitar case too? It's on the house."

"Oh," Jisung mused, nodding meekly. He couldn't wait to take Felix to meet Minho and Hyunjin, and see the smile on his face, the contagiousness of his sunshine personality. He could not wait to build a community with those two men, and possibly others.

He hoped that there were lots and lots of others. Others like him. Others who loved above the megrims imposed onto them by society.

+ + + + +

Motel 3racha

16:00

The packaged lasagna in Felix's hand tempted his morality to simply turn on his heels and devour it on his own, even though he had indulged in a portion barely two hours earlier. Caroline's cooking was just too succulent. He was certain that Chan would be more than grateful for the gesture of sharing their Sunday lunch, even when he lived on his own like a born Parisian already, settled into his motel room.

Felix knocked, bouncing on his heels, taking in his surroundings with squinted eyes. It wasn't the most eye-pleasing architecture, but livable. Most probably cheap enough for the length of time that Chan wished to spend in the foreign land. Felix knocked again, almost convinced that Chan was either seeking out the pleasures that the city had to offer, or fast asleep.

Ready to give up and carry the message that Chan was unreachable whilst he guiltlessly gobbled the slices of lasagna, a large, mischievous smile began its way across Felix's face as he turned on his heels. But before he could move any further, the irksome stench of tobacco prickled the corners of his eyes, and he squinted, scrunching his nose, turning his face away.

Flashbacks of his father's cigarette addiction barely three years prior appeared behind his eyelids before he could center his vision again. He sniffed; eyebrows furrowed. "Chan?" He looked at the man before him; shirtless, chiseled chest hypnotizing, coils of hair sprung along the otherwise smooth expanse. Chan only wore a pair of unbuttoned, juniper-green trousers. "I—erm-- sorry to just-- to disturb you like—like this. Mum prepared some erm—some lasagna and said that I should bring you some."

"Oh," Chan greeted, placing the cigarette back in between his lips to suck before pressing the end against the door frame. "Sorry about that," he chuckled, so adorably, too much so for his appearance. He moved to the side, motioning for Felix to step inside, and exaggerating a groan as the savory smell of Felix's mother's delicacy saluted his nostrils. "I really appreciate the gesture. Make sure you tell them thank you for me."

There was more than expected in that motel room, if Felix had to be honest. A double bed, clothed in maroon sheets and pillowcases centered the space. Wood-textured wallpaper capped the retro interior, a box television that's powered off state convinced Felix that it was not functioning sat on a small table merely five feet from the bed, and thick, brownish carpet coated the floor. There were two chairs too, and a narrow wardrobe, but that was about it.

"You weren't disturbing," Chan said, pulling a shirt from the wardrobe and buttoning it up to just where his chest began whilst Felix was distracted by silently judging the room with his eyes. "I was just spending some time reading before going out later this evening. I didn't have any lunch. So, I'm grateful for you all considering me."

Felix never thought that he would once favor the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. And he wondered if the polluted air particles mingling with whatever perfume that radiated from Chan's skin or clothes or luggage could account for the newfound taste, or if it was simply being in the presence of Chan. Because as much as he would have liked to deny the hypothesis that he became somebody different around Chan, he couldn't.

It had been three weeks in total since Chan landed on Florian's doorstep. Three whole weeks since Felix was finally able to come in contact with the man that his father frequently told stories about. Twenty-one entire days since Felix had stood before the boldest, bravest, most handsome man that he ever had the privilege to lay eyes on. But of course, he could, on no account, utter such a thing.

"Of course," Felix choked out; throaty, somewhat disappointed upon noticing that Chan had covered himself up so quickly. Too polite. "Are you reading 'Class Ring'?" Felix found something to divert his trend of thought, a closed novel situated on Chan's unmade bed, an obvious bookmark peeking out between a division of pages. "No way," he laughed, and so did Chan. Felix walked over to carry the book in his hands, amazed at the familiarity. "You read romance novels? I would've never guessed."

"Why not?" Chan folded his arms, childishly assertive, his smile unerasable. "Can't a man enjoy some good romance around here?"

"Yeah but, you just don't seem like the type," Felix retorted, setting the book back down on the mattress after scanning a few of the inked pages. "But it's commendable, though. It's good to see a man indulging in the classics around here."

"I suppose so."

And then silence, awkward and thick. Ever so inviting and tantalizing, as if knocking on the doors of their minds to satiate sections that they never knew were starving. The fraction of Chan's mildly hairy chest that was on display, his full, moist lips, his brown curls dancing around his head, him. Felix had to shake his head, look away, and breathe in and out before heading for the closed door of the motel room.

"Have a good rest of the afternoon, Chan," he said, sterner suddenly.

"I thought you were going to keep me company whilst I eat," Chan taunted but frowned when Felix failed to grant laughter as a response. "Thank you," he corrected the statement that he found no fault in. "Have a good afternoon as well. Greet the family for me. I hope to stop by sometime this weekend."

"I will."

+ + + + +

Barre de chronosaurus

21:00

Jazz, beer, reveling. One life there was to live, with no certainty of the amount of time. So, Chan would make the most of it. He was determined; had it all planned out. The bear that he was drinking buzzed his throat, the head leaving foam particles to dissolve on the top of his mouth. Chan swayed his upper body with the soft music and patted his foot against the edge of the stool.

But one ding at the entrance of that bar caught Chan's attention. Not that it was unique in the pitch or duration. But because of who walked in. Because his eyes widened at the beaut who strolled inside, with a fancy purse hanging thinly from her shoulder, rich, black hair ironed into healthy waves, boasting the natural length.

Her skin glowed sepia despite the dim lighting, slim figure fitted into a white tie-front crop top, and matching bootleg disco pants with heels greeting at the very bottom. Absolutely stunning; a sight that Chan felt nothing short of privileged to witness. A woman that Chan could find no excuse to allow exit that space without some form of promise for a later meeting.

"Give this fine lady anything she wants. On me," Chan whispered to the bartender as soon as she stood close enough, blushing at her smirk, and smiling to himself when the colored woman glanced in his direction after briefly conversing with the employee. He smiled, shy, too much so for his masculine appearance.

Chan moved from his stool to an empty one beside his lady of interest, ignoring the scoffs and mumbled jibes of envy sung in his direction from the customers who dreaded the idea of him getting hands on the fair maiden before they stood a chance to even see her face; dark brown eyes, plump lips painted in thick red lipstick, cheeks aligning into an oval face. Round pearls adorned her neck, as well as shiny little crystals around them, that Chan could better recognize as he sat closer. She appeared so overdressed for such a lousy bar.

"Bonjour," Chan flexed one of the only words he knew in French, eyes locked with the stranger, proud from the small smile that could be noticed cracking up one corner of her lips. "Do you speak English by any chance, sweetheart?"

"In fact, I do," she answered, voice holding a depth so relaxing, second to Felix's in Chan's most admired. A British accent was evident, and Chan felt nothing short of certain that their meeting was destined for that evening. A tourist, he assumed her to be, presumably for a more shareable reason than he. "Are you the one willing to pay for anything that I'd like to order?"

"Guilty as charged," the richness of Chan's Australian accent caused her to smile wider, and him in turn. Their hands brushed on top of the counter. "Mind sharing your name, beautiful? I'm Christopher Bang. Call me Chan."

"Call me Liz," she said, outstretching a hand for Chan to shake. "Elizabeth Musa. It's a pleasure to meet you, Chan." She scoffed playfully at Chan's expression from the feel of her palm on his, and the way that he squeezed it as if complimenting whatever cream she used for the softness, without the use of words. "What brings you to Paris?"

"Vacation," Chan said. "How about you, Lizzie?"

The bartender carried over the cocktail that Elizabeth had requested before Chan had relocated to her side, winking at the pair before returning to her duties. Chan chuckled, blushing, and Elizabeth went on to answer.

"I actually traveled with my fiancé," her tone lowered, and her face dropped, stirring guilt in Chan's conscience for having asked that question, even though innocent. "But you know how men are assholes, no offense." She lightened up some. "I found out some unpleasant details, and now I'm here, to steam off. To make a long story short, I will be returning to London as a single woman. Maybe I could give the neighbor who's been begging to catch my attention for some time now a chance."

Chan snickered, exhaling in relief at the way Elizabeth seemed to ride the rough wave in her love life so smoothly. Chan didn't seek to push further. It was obvious that she didn't wish to expound. So, he drank from his bear before speaking again, raspy. "Maybe I should move next door to you, then. Earn me a chance like that neighbor?"

"You've got the talks to you, innit?"

"Well, if you say so," Chan smacked his tongue. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-six. You?"

"Thirty-two. How 'bout we get out of here soon? You know... stroll the streets of Paris for a bit? We're not going to be here forever, are we?"