(one-shot) park bench
Title: Park Bench
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: JongKey
Genre: Friendship, hinted romance, angst, AU
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): Nothing's mine.
Summary: There's a bench they both go to.
A/N: I started this last night, and finished it tonight, so I'm sorry if the second half sucks compared to the first half because I'm feeling very drained today. :| this is the longest JongKey fic I've written by far, so I hope you all like it ♥ comments are always extremely appreciated!
The air is tangy in his mouth, the crisp feel of the city washing over him in a comforting sweep of noise and bustle. His hood is pulled low over his head, bangs brushing against his eyelashes as he pushes the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. The faint scent of cooking floats from a nearby restaurant, and he sniffs the distinct smell of kimchi, wrapping his jacket tighter as a gust of wind picks up.
Not many people pay him any notice as he strolls down the sidewalk, hands tucking into his pockets. The shock of blonde on top of his head is mostly covered by his hood, and only visible beneath the direct light of a streetlamp. Burying the lower half of his face into his collar, Jonghyun sidesteps a few kids that run past him, bright laughter echoing behind them, breaths traveling in disappearing wisps up into the air.
The park is close by, just across the street. As Jonghyun crosses, worn Converse slapping against the pavement, a car honks at him, whooshing past and splashing leftover rain puddles onto the edge of his jeans. Silently, Jonghyun wrinkles his nose at the retreating backend of the car, shaking his feet off a little before hopping over the curb.
There’s a bench beneath a tree (the most cliché placement, Jonghyun thinks, but it’s his favorite bench nonetheless). The wood is worn thin in some places, paint faded to a dull gray and leaves tickling the back. Jonghyun curls up onto it, head pillowed into the fold of his elbow as he stares up through the crisscross of branches at the sky. The sounds of the city rush past his ears, smells wafting over and vanishing beyond the horizon as he counts the stars, traces the constellations on the palm of his hand.
(On the side of the bench, near where his foot touches, a name is engraved into the wood, a name inside a heart that is only half-filled. Kibum, it reads, in neat, curvy handwriting. The second half of the heart is empty, as if in wait of somebody, something else to complete it.)
At the other end, Jonghyun crosses his arms, sighs, and follows the path of an airplane blinking lights at him from faraway.
---
The sunlight beats down upon his back, warmth that floods through him down to the core. Arms spreading out across the back of the bench, Kibum lifts his head, tilting his chin up towards the bright, blinding blue of the sky. The breeze tugs at the fabric of his shirt, the distant chatter of other teenagers smothered in between the hustle of cars and morning passerby.
Kibum likes to spend his Sunday mornings alone on the park bench, soaking in the sun. Leaning over, he smooths fingers over the loopy engraving of his name that he’d carved just last week, characters still fresh in comparison to the many decorations on the old wood of the bench. His hair falls in neat, slanted bangs over his eyes, his scarf draped halfway around his neck as it slides into a swirl of cloth off the edge of the bench.
With a sigh, Kibum lets his hand fall, fingers pressing hard into the indented wood, the sound of laughter rushing past his ears. (Laughter like the kind in his dreams, laughter that fills him from the outside in and doesn’t stop, welling up inside of him and brimming over until he is defined by it, made by it. Laughter of somebody he might or might not ever meet, the person meant to fill in the remaining crevices of his heart, the leftover space beside his name.)
Standing up, Kibum stuffs his hands into his pockets, and walks away into the onslaught of sunshine pouring from the horizon.
---
When Jonghyun arrives at the bench that night, it is already occupied. Frowning, he speeds up his footsteps, cautiously strolling past in order to take a closer look. It is an elderly woman; her cane leaned carefully against the side of the leg and newspaper covering the lower half of her face. Jonghyun bites his lower lip, reluctant of doing anything harsh.
Then, there’s a shrill, peppy bark from below, and his eyes snap down to see a small, curly-haired poodle at her feet, tail wagging and chocolate brown gaze directed on him. With a lift of lips, Jonghyun crouches, holding out his hand as the dog willingly saunters forward, chin tilting upwards to let him scratch under.
The old lady is staring at him with warm eyes when he looks up, and he casts her his most innocent, bright smile, brown-tipped hair falling gracefully over his eyes. “Look at her trying to charm you,” she remarks amusedly, nodding her head towards her dog, and Jonghyun laughs. As he continues to pet the poodle, he watches the woman out of the corner of his eyes, measuring her movements as she chances a look at her wristwatch, a band of plastic bound around her thin, wrinkly wrist.
“Oh! It’s time to go, darling,” she folds the newspaper, beckoning to her dog. Immediately, Jonghyun jumps up to grab her cane for her, offering it out. She rewards him with a beaming smile, ruffling his hair like a child as she takes it gratefully. “What a nice boy you are, sweetie. Thank you.”
Smile still plastered on his face, Jonghyun shrugs it off, and bends down to pet the poodle’s head one last time. He remains crouched as he watches the dog trail behind her owner, crossing the pathway and disappearing into the distance. Sighing in relief, he lowers his head, balancing on the balls of his feet for a moment before he moves to straighten up.
As he does, though, a carving on the side catches his eye. Curiously, he leans forward. It is a heart, crookedly drawn and engraved deep into the wood. There is a name in only one half of it, alone and prominent in the settling gray of dusk around him.
“Kim Kibum?” Mouthing the name to himself, Jonghyun brushes a finger over it, the lingering crevices of the shape tucked into the corner of the bench. The name doesn’t ring any bells, and Jonghyun presses his lips together. Kim Kibum.
When he surfaces with nothing, his frown deepens. Grabbing a stick lying on the ground nearby, he digs it into the wood, brows furrowed in concentration as he carves out a question mark in the other half of the heart Kim Kibum has drawn. He steps back to admire it, dropping the stick and blowing the wood shavings off the bench. Satisfied with his work, he stands up, stretching his arms upwards and raising his head to the sky (there are a few remnants of stars, winking lights that threaten to fade beneath the layering of clouds and city pollution, hidden in the folds of darkness).
He counts the number of lights in the sky, the number of imaginary possibilities of stars, and thinks about the elderly woman from before, her smile, her immediate liking for him.
He counts on his fingers, and tries to imagine anybody in this world who could like him for just being him, and not the charming, perfect Jonghyun whom he is not.
---
Kibum stops by the bench on the way to school every weekday. It’s a strange habit, especially because he hates having to get up a bit earlier in the morning to make sure he’s not late for school, but it’s something he has to do. He’s never missed a day at the bench, just sitting on it for ten minutes to absorb the early morning city atmosphere, the fresh breath of something new in the air.
Monday mornings are the worst, though. He’s always in a rush on Mondays, and today is no different. The seven o’clock bus has already passed the window by the time he is sprinting down the staircase, taking huge leaps and narrowly avoiding crashing into his neighbor’s mother at the bottom, her arms full of groceries. Muttering a hurried apology, he jogs through the lobby out the doors, and down the two blocks to where the park is sprawled across a small expanse of land, relatively quiet in comparison to the rest of the city.
Luckily, the bench is empty - sometimes, he encounters runners or bikers resting against it. Breathing hard, Kibum collapses onto the bench, taking a moment to close his eyes and inhale the morning air. Eyes fluttering open, he pulls his right leg to retie his shoe, fingers looping through the laces expertly as he examines the peeling wood of the bench.
His fingers freeze when his eyes locate the heart, gaze pinned on the obvious question mark that has been carved into the other half, a question mark that was definitely not there the last time he’d been on the bench. Narrowing his eyes, Kibum leans forward to peer at it, skin creasing in the middle of his forehead (like maybe, if he tries hard enough, he could see through it).
After a few moments of just staring, he pulls his bag over from the other end of the bench, rummaging through it to fish out a pen and notebook. Pulling the cap off with his mouth, he quickly rips a piece of paper out of the book, scribbling something on the first line and folding it into a small square. He digs further into his bag for a clean, plastic Ziploc, the kind his mother stuffs into the front pockets for him to put his “important stuff” into (not that he ever uses them, really). Sliding the paper into the bag, he bends his head upwards and presses the bag under the bench seat, fumbling for a piece of tape to secure it into place.
Look under, he writes awkwardly into the wood with the tip of his pencil, wobbly lines that blend in with the zigzagged, aged lines of the bench. Knocking his knuckles once on the bench for good measure, Kibum stuffs the materials back into his bag, zipping it up and swinging it over his shoulder just as there’s a high-pitched, cheerful call of his name from a near distance.
Glancing back, he notices a slender, bouncy figure skipping towards him, and groans inwardly. She is nearing extremely rapidly, schoolbag outlined by the white stripes of her school skirt and hair tied up neatly, side bangs framing her face in a perfect curve.
He exhales silently, chancing a look back at the bench before pocketing his hands and walking casually forward to meet up with her.
---
The paper is in Jonghyun’s hands by nightfall, found after a very confused, appalled search of the entire ground and surrounding areas of the bench before he looked up to see the bag reflecting a streetlight back at him. He’d pried it off with two fingers, reaching in to pull out the piece of paper and unfolding it in anticipation.
Hi, I’m Kim Kibum. Who are you?
Jonghyun blinks at it. The whole situation is almost so insane that he is tempted to throw away the paper - but then, he looks at it again, at the patient blankness of it, the scrawl of unfamiliar handwriting, this person he’s never met, and probably will never meet. (Somebody who won’t judge you by your reputation, he thinks to himself. Somebody who won’t judge you for not being as perfect as you’re supposed to be.)
He presses the tip of his pen to the paper, and begins to write.
---
Kim Jonghyun, 19. How old are you?
More than he should, Kibum finds himself frequenting the bench, sometimes even after school to check if Jonghyun has happened to drop by while he was at school. What he finds, though, is a similar pattern - Jonghyun’s notes always appear in the mornings, folded up neatly and stuffed into the same plastic bag. Kibum deduces that the other must visit the bench at nighttime.
18. I’m finishing high school this year.
Jonghyun figures it’s why the notes always appear after morning. He does check during the day periodically, but he never replies then - he likes having a specific schedule, and somehow, he thinks the intriguing, secretive aspect of it would be ruined if he wrote in daylight.
Isn’t Kibum a guy’s name? Why are you drawing hearts?
Isn’t Jonghyun a guy’s name? Why are you noticing my hearts?
It’s kind of funny, Kibum thinks, this process of knowing a person through a park bench. He’s not the kind of person to enjoy happily-ever-after endings; he rarely ever even sits down to watch a romantic movie. Fate hasn’t factored much into his life up until now, and he doesn’t tend to dwell upon it much (he’s only dreamed once in a while, thought about loving and caring in the vaguest, cloudiest manner, and only when he sits on the park bench).
As Jonghyun and his notes become increasingly longer, though, filling the whole front of his notebook page and stretching into paragraphs onto the back. Before long, there are numerous pages collected on his desk (the bag can only fit one page at a time), worn at the corners and covered in two distinct handwritings.
So today, I met this girl. She was okay, but she asked me if I had a girlfriend. I told her yes. I don’t know why.
Jonghyun learns about Kibum - but not the things normal people learn, things like what classes he takes, what teacher he hates the most, which class he throws paper-airplane notes to his friends to behind the teacher’s back. What he does learn are the smaller details - what kind of paper airplane Kibum likes to fold, what spice Kibum always includes in his meals, the old lady Kibum met at the fruit stand this afternoon and struck up a conversation about cats with.
On the nights he works at the nearby fast food place, Jonghyun finds himself searching the faces that burst in through the door, teenagers chatting and gossiping about the latest prank on the teacher or the worst grade on the last math test. He watches the girls flit about, the guys with their flashing smiles and witty remarks, and thinks about how any one of them could be Kibum (or himself, really, as he looks back upon his days in high school).
I told my professor today that my dog ate my homework, and he believed me. I don’t even have a dog.
Weeks pass in a blur, tests and worksheets scattered in piles across his desk at home, late nights staying up with his head lowered over long essays and complicated math problems. He has to set three alarms, one at each corner of the room, to make himself wake up in the mornings, dark rings circled beneath his eyes as he pulls on the nearest set of clothing and crashes out the door with an apple in his mouth.
Jonghyun’s notes are there even on the coldest of days, even when Kibum’s gloved hands slip against the plastic and finally manage to pull the paper out - Jonghyun’s handwriting is as neat as ever, lines of characters that Kibum pours over with his chin buried into his jacket.
You’re the only person I tell these things to. I don’t even know you.
They think up nicknames for each other, just in case some curious passerby happens upon their notes and decides to read them (nobody’s that much of a creeper, Kibum had said, accompanied by a frowny face, but Jonghyun insisted). Kibum is Key, and at his persistent, pleading nagging, Jonghyun is Bling Bling. At first, Jonghyun winces when he sees the letters scribbled repetitively on the paper, ridiculously nonsensical and embarrassing, but it’s Kibum. (It’s Kibum, and somehow, he has developed a soft spot for this kid he’s never even seen before.)
Girls approach him at parties less often these days, but Jonghyun doesn’t mind. He still hangs out like a normal college student, but is losing the need to feel popular, to feel like he’s wanted with the ‘in’ crowd, with the girls and their short, tiny pencil skirts, faces painted like masks with mascara. He tells himself he’s just focusing on his studies, waiting for the right opportunity (even when his friend asks him one day, jokingly, whether or not he has a girlfriend he isn’t telling them about).
We should meet sometime.
---
Jonghyun doesn’t answer for days, and it worries Kibum more than it should. He wasn’t expecting an affirmation, honestly, but every day when he passes by the bench and finds his words still the last ones written, he feels a tug in his heart, a clenching that shouldn’t be there (it’s just the stress, he tells himself, just the exhaustion from school that is making him overly sensitive to situations).
But by the time Jonghyun’s absence reaches the one-week mark, Kibum is about ready to give up. He digs his eraser out of his pencil case one Saturday morning, setting off to the park in saggy jeans and a white T-shirt (it’s almost spring, and the weather is warming while his heart cools). His hair is still slightly damp from his shower earlier, and he lets his arms swing in the cool rush of air outside, breathing in deeply to avoid the ache in his chest.
The bench is occupied when he arrives; an elderly woman perched with the week’s newspaper in her hands. There’s a poodle sitting patiently at the side, white, curly hair fluffed up in the breeze and small pink tongue out as she pants cheerfully. When Kibum nears, she barks a few times, causing the woman to glance up from her reading. She regards Kibum with a warm smile, and Kibum shrugs into his jacket, nodding out of courteousness.
“I just left something here,” he tells her when she looks over him inquisitively, crouched and fingers reaching under the other end of the bench to peel the tape off. “Sorry if it seems really weird.”
“Oh no, I lose things all the time, dear. Me and my age,” she beams at him, and Kibum finds himself smiling back involuntarily, his fingers successfully prying the bag off the bench as the poodle bounds up to him, ears perked. Lips still curved up, he reaches forward and pets her gently, scratching behind her ears as she licks his hand affectionately.
“Oh, look at the time!” Kibum looks up to see the woman folding her newspapers, and he grabs the cane propped up nearby in an instant, handing it to her carefully. She smiles. “What a nice boy. You know, I once met a boy just like you here, too.”
---
He doesn’t know why he hasn’t replied yet.
Actually, he does. Jonghyun curses to himself as he kicks an empty can into the sewer, the toes of his sneakers worn to a dull, flattened top and hands, as always, shoved into his jean pockets. There’s something about Kibum that makes him want to stay unseen, this invisible, existent person - whoever, whatever Kibum imagines him as, wants him to be. Every time he meets a new person, they are always struck first by his appearance - oh, you have such nice hair; oh, I love your eyes; dude, cool shoes; man, you’re rocking that blond. And for some reason, he wants Kibum to be different.
He wants to be different for Kibum. He wants to be just Jonghyun (or Bling Bling, even). He doesn’t want to be the Jonghyun he puts on as a show for everyone else - the Jonghyun that charms people with his smile, the beautiful Jonghyun, the flawless Jonghyun, the best Jonghyun, the Jonghyun he really is not.
There’s a familiar bark from the opposite side of the street, and Jonghyun raises his head from his thoughts to survey the area. He is surprised to realize that he’s already in front of the park; the sunlight reflecting rays off the large, swung-open gate. There are two figures standing beside the bench, and he recognizes the elderly woman from all those months ago, her square black spectacles and friendly smile.
The boy standing next to her is smiling, jet black hair slanting down across his forehead in silky strands. His cheekbones are highly defined, hands shrugged into his pockets and stance composed. His voice floats over to Jonghyun in low, smooth tones, and Jonghyun doesn’t even realize he is staring until the shrill bark once again interrupts him in his daze.
He watches as the woman walks away, pink leash in hand (but he’s not watching her, really). The boy is sitting down onto the bench, hair cascading over his eyes as he works at something in his lap. From Jonghyun’s viewpoint, it seems almost as if the boy is scrubbing something off of a surface, his elbow protruding out to the side in sweeps. Cautiously, Jonghyun nears, crossing the street as nonchalantly as possible and scuffing his toe against the cement to look preoccupied.
A paper is in the boy’s lap, and he’s erasing halfway down.
Jonghyun’s eyes widen, and he begins to run.
---
Loud, brash footsteps approach, closing in with the sound of harsh breaths that stop remarkably nearby. Curious, Kibum looks up from where he is dumping the rest of the eraser shavings onto the ground. A boy is standing in front of him, eyes lighted with excitement and desperation, dressed in stylish jeans that cling to his hips and a light jacket, the graphics of his T-shirt peeking out from underneath. His hair is a wash of blonde, darkening at the tips into light brown and fringing just above his eyebrows.
“What are you doing?” His voice is considerably high, soft (like a singer’s, almost, and Kibum is reminded of Jonghyun, his spontaneous mentioning of composing music and singing it quietly to himself to make sure he didn’t mess up the lyrics. Jonghyun, who -)
“What are you doing, Key,” comes the faint whisper, and the eraser falls from Kibum’s fingertips, rolling onto the ground to rest just beside Jonghyun’s right foot.
“You,” there’s a surge of mixed emotions inside of Kibum, an overflow that he braces himself against, wills himself not to break down on the spot. “You,” he repeats, seemingly calm, but his voice trembles at the end.
“Me,” Jonghyun laughs (a short, comforting laugh that fills Kibum from the outside in). He steps forward carefully, like he is planning the route, and they both stay silent as he settles down onto the bench, right knee knocking against Kibum’s in the process.
Chewing on his lower lip, Kibum toes the ground, drawing random patterns into the dirt. The sun warms their backs, and somewhere in the distance, there’s a splatter of childish laughter, happy voices full of possibilities, of people being just themselves, the way they are.
“So today,” Kibum begins, and pauses to let Jonghyun glance over at him. “I met this guy.”
The smile that spreads across Jonghyun’s features is slow, beautiful. “Tell me about it,” he says, leaning back to fit the contours of his body into the bench.
---
When they walk away hours later, the afternoon sunlight dotting the park in dim patches, there’s another name engraved that fills up the second half of Kibum’s heart.
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: JongKey
Genre: Friendship, hinted romance, angst, AU
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): Nothing's mine.
Summary: There's a bench they both go to.
A/N: I started this last night, and finished it tonight, so I'm sorry if the second half sucks compared to the first half because I'm feeling very drained today. :| this is the longest JongKey fic I've written by far, so I hope you all like it ♥ comments are always extremely appreciated!
The air is tangy in his mouth, the crisp feel of the city washing over him in a comforting sweep of noise and bustle. His hood is pulled low over his head, bangs brushing against his eyelashes as he pushes the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. The faint scent of cooking floats from a nearby restaurant, and he sniffs the distinct smell of kimchi, wrapping his jacket tighter as a gust of wind picks up.
Not many people pay him any notice as he strolls down the sidewalk, hands tucking into his pockets. The shock of blonde on top of his head is mostly covered by his hood, and only visible beneath the direct light of a streetlamp. Burying the lower half of his face into his collar, Jonghyun sidesteps a few kids that run past him, bright laughter echoing behind them, breaths traveling in disappearing wisps up into the air.
The park is close by, just across the street. As Jonghyun crosses, worn Converse slapping against the pavement, a car honks at him, whooshing past and splashing leftover rain puddles onto the edge of his jeans. Silently, Jonghyun wrinkles his nose at the retreating backend of the car, shaking his feet off a little before hopping over the curb.
There’s a bench beneath a tree (the most cliché placement, Jonghyun thinks, but it’s his favorite bench nonetheless). The wood is worn thin in some places, paint faded to a dull gray and leaves tickling the back. Jonghyun curls up onto it, head pillowed into the fold of his elbow as he stares up through the crisscross of branches at the sky. The sounds of the city rush past his ears, smells wafting over and vanishing beyond the horizon as he counts the stars, traces the constellations on the palm of his hand.
(On the side of the bench, near where his foot touches, a name is engraved into the wood, a name inside a heart that is only half-filled. Kibum, it reads, in neat, curvy handwriting. The second half of the heart is empty, as if in wait of somebody, something else to complete it.)
At the other end, Jonghyun crosses his arms, sighs, and follows the path of an airplane blinking lights at him from faraway.
---
The sunlight beats down upon his back, warmth that floods through him down to the core. Arms spreading out across the back of the bench, Kibum lifts his head, tilting his chin up towards the bright, blinding blue of the sky. The breeze tugs at the fabric of his shirt, the distant chatter of other teenagers smothered in between the hustle of cars and morning passerby.
Kibum likes to spend his Sunday mornings alone on the park bench, soaking in the sun. Leaning over, he smooths fingers over the loopy engraving of his name that he’d carved just last week, characters still fresh in comparison to the many decorations on the old wood of the bench. His hair falls in neat, slanted bangs over his eyes, his scarf draped halfway around his neck as it slides into a swirl of cloth off the edge of the bench.
With a sigh, Kibum lets his hand fall, fingers pressing hard into the indented wood, the sound of laughter rushing past his ears. (Laughter like the kind in his dreams, laughter that fills him from the outside in and doesn’t stop, welling up inside of him and brimming over until he is defined by it, made by it. Laughter of somebody he might or might not ever meet, the person meant to fill in the remaining crevices of his heart, the leftover space beside his name.)
Standing up, Kibum stuffs his hands into his pockets, and walks away into the onslaught of sunshine pouring from the horizon.
---
When Jonghyun arrives at the bench that night, it is already occupied. Frowning, he speeds up his footsteps, cautiously strolling past in order to take a closer look. It is an elderly woman; her cane leaned carefully against the side of the leg and newspaper covering the lower half of her face. Jonghyun bites his lower lip, reluctant of doing anything harsh.
Then, there’s a shrill, peppy bark from below, and his eyes snap down to see a small, curly-haired poodle at her feet, tail wagging and chocolate brown gaze directed on him. With a lift of lips, Jonghyun crouches, holding out his hand as the dog willingly saunters forward, chin tilting upwards to let him scratch under.
The old lady is staring at him with warm eyes when he looks up, and he casts her his most innocent, bright smile, brown-tipped hair falling gracefully over his eyes. “Look at her trying to charm you,” she remarks amusedly, nodding her head towards her dog, and Jonghyun laughs. As he continues to pet the poodle, he watches the woman out of the corner of his eyes, measuring her movements as she chances a look at her wristwatch, a band of plastic bound around her thin, wrinkly wrist.
“Oh! It’s time to go, darling,” she folds the newspaper, beckoning to her dog. Immediately, Jonghyun jumps up to grab her cane for her, offering it out. She rewards him with a beaming smile, ruffling his hair like a child as she takes it gratefully. “What a nice boy you are, sweetie. Thank you.”
Smile still plastered on his face, Jonghyun shrugs it off, and bends down to pet the poodle’s head one last time. He remains crouched as he watches the dog trail behind her owner, crossing the pathway and disappearing into the distance. Sighing in relief, he lowers his head, balancing on the balls of his feet for a moment before he moves to straighten up.
As he does, though, a carving on the side catches his eye. Curiously, he leans forward. It is a heart, crookedly drawn and engraved deep into the wood. There is a name in only one half of it, alone and prominent in the settling gray of dusk around him.
“Kim Kibum?” Mouthing the name to himself, Jonghyun brushes a finger over it, the lingering crevices of the shape tucked into the corner of the bench. The name doesn’t ring any bells, and Jonghyun presses his lips together. Kim Kibum.
When he surfaces with nothing, his frown deepens. Grabbing a stick lying on the ground nearby, he digs it into the wood, brows furrowed in concentration as he carves out a question mark in the other half of the heart Kim Kibum has drawn. He steps back to admire it, dropping the stick and blowing the wood shavings off the bench. Satisfied with his work, he stands up, stretching his arms upwards and raising his head to the sky (there are a few remnants of stars, winking lights that threaten to fade beneath the layering of clouds and city pollution, hidden in the folds of darkness).
He counts the number of lights in the sky, the number of imaginary possibilities of stars, and thinks about the elderly woman from before, her smile, her immediate liking for him.
He counts on his fingers, and tries to imagine anybody in this world who could like him for just being him, and not the charming, perfect Jonghyun whom he is not.
---
Kibum stops by the bench on the way to school every weekday. It’s a strange habit, especially because he hates having to get up a bit earlier in the morning to make sure he’s not late for school, but it’s something he has to do. He’s never missed a day at the bench, just sitting on it for ten minutes to absorb the early morning city atmosphere, the fresh breath of something new in the air.
Monday mornings are the worst, though. He’s always in a rush on Mondays, and today is no different. The seven o’clock bus has already passed the window by the time he is sprinting down the staircase, taking huge leaps and narrowly avoiding crashing into his neighbor’s mother at the bottom, her arms full of groceries. Muttering a hurried apology, he jogs through the lobby out the doors, and down the two blocks to where the park is sprawled across a small expanse of land, relatively quiet in comparison to the rest of the city.
Luckily, the bench is empty - sometimes, he encounters runners or bikers resting against it. Breathing hard, Kibum collapses onto the bench, taking a moment to close his eyes and inhale the morning air. Eyes fluttering open, he pulls his right leg to retie his shoe, fingers looping through the laces expertly as he examines the peeling wood of the bench.
His fingers freeze when his eyes locate the heart, gaze pinned on the obvious question mark that has been carved into the other half, a question mark that was definitely not there the last time he’d been on the bench. Narrowing his eyes, Kibum leans forward to peer at it, skin creasing in the middle of his forehead (like maybe, if he tries hard enough, he could see through it).
After a few moments of just staring, he pulls his bag over from the other end of the bench, rummaging through it to fish out a pen and notebook. Pulling the cap off with his mouth, he quickly rips a piece of paper out of the book, scribbling something on the first line and folding it into a small square. He digs further into his bag for a clean, plastic Ziploc, the kind his mother stuffs into the front pockets for him to put his “important stuff” into (not that he ever uses them, really). Sliding the paper into the bag, he bends his head upwards and presses the bag under the bench seat, fumbling for a piece of tape to secure it into place.
Look under, he writes awkwardly into the wood with the tip of his pencil, wobbly lines that blend in with the zigzagged, aged lines of the bench. Knocking his knuckles once on the bench for good measure, Kibum stuffs the materials back into his bag, zipping it up and swinging it over his shoulder just as there’s a high-pitched, cheerful call of his name from a near distance.
Glancing back, he notices a slender, bouncy figure skipping towards him, and groans inwardly. She is nearing extremely rapidly, schoolbag outlined by the white stripes of her school skirt and hair tied up neatly, side bangs framing her face in a perfect curve.
He exhales silently, chancing a look back at the bench before pocketing his hands and walking casually forward to meet up with her.
---
The paper is in Jonghyun’s hands by nightfall, found after a very confused, appalled search of the entire ground and surrounding areas of the bench before he looked up to see the bag reflecting a streetlight back at him. He’d pried it off with two fingers, reaching in to pull out the piece of paper and unfolding it in anticipation.
Hi, I’m Kim Kibum. Who are you?
Jonghyun blinks at it. The whole situation is almost so insane that he is tempted to throw away the paper - but then, he looks at it again, at the patient blankness of it, the scrawl of unfamiliar handwriting, this person he’s never met, and probably will never meet. (Somebody who won’t judge you by your reputation, he thinks to himself. Somebody who won’t judge you for not being as perfect as you’re supposed to be.)
He presses the tip of his pen to the paper, and begins to write.
---
Kim Jonghyun, 19. How old are you?
More than he should, Kibum finds himself frequenting the bench, sometimes even after school to check if Jonghyun has happened to drop by while he was at school. What he finds, though, is a similar pattern - Jonghyun’s notes always appear in the mornings, folded up neatly and stuffed into the same plastic bag. Kibum deduces that the other must visit the bench at nighttime.
18. I’m finishing high school this year.
Jonghyun figures it’s why the notes always appear after morning. He does check during the day periodically, but he never replies then - he likes having a specific schedule, and somehow, he thinks the intriguing, secretive aspect of it would be ruined if he wrote in daylight.
Isn’t Kibum a guy’s name? Why are you drawing hearts?
Isn’t Jonghyun a guy’s name? Why are you noticing my hearts?
It’s kind of funny, Kibum thinks, this process of knowing a person through a park bench. He’s not the kind of person to enjoy happily-ever-after endings; he rarely ever even sits down to watch a romantic movie. Fate hasn’t factored much into his life up until now, and he doesn’t tend to dwell upon it much (he’s only dreamed once in a while, thought about loving and caring in the vaguest, cloudiest manner, and only when he sits on the park bench).
As Jonghyun and his notes become increasingly longer, though, filling the whole front of his notebook page and stretching into paragraphs onto the back. Before long, there are numerous pages collected on his desk (the bag can only fit one page at a time), worn at the corners and covered in two distinct handwritings.
So today, I met this girl. She was okay, but she asked me if I had a girlfriend. I told her yes. I don’t know why.
Jonghyun learns about Kibum - but not the things normal people learn, things like what classes he takes, what teacher he hates the most, which class he throws paper-airplane notes to his friends to behind the teacher’s back. What he does learn are the smaller details - what kind of paper airplane Kibum likes to fold, what spice Kibum always includes in his meals, the old lady Kibum met at the fruit stand this afternoon and struck up a conversation about cats with.
On the nights he works at the nearby fast food place, Jonghyun finds himself searching the faces that burst in through the door, teenagers chatting and gossiping about the latest prank on the teacher or the worst grade on the last math test. He watches the girls flit about, the guys with their flashing smiles and witty remarks, and thinks about how any one of them could be Kibum (or himself, really, as he looks back upon his days in high school).
I told my professor today that my dog ate my homework, and he believed me. I don’t even have a dog.
Weeks pass in a blur, tests and worksheets scattered in piles across his desk at home, late nights staying up with his head lowered over long essays and complicated math problems. He has to set three alarms, one at each corner of the room, to make himself wake up in the mornings, dark rings circled beneath his eyes as he pulls on the nearest set of clothing and crashes out the door with an apple in his mouth.
Jonghyun’s notes are there even on the coldest of days, even when Kibum’s gloved hands slip against the plastic and finally manage to pull the paper out - Jonghyun’s handwriting is as neat as ever, lines of characters that Kibum pours over with his chin buried into his jacket.
You’re the only person I tell these things to. I don’t even know you.
They think up nicknames for each other, just in case some curious passerby happens upon their notes and decides to read them (nobody’s that much of a creeper, Kibum had said, accompanied by a frowny face, but Jonghyun insisted). Kibum is Key, and at his persistent, pleading nagging, Jonghyun is Bling Bling. At first, Jonghyun winces when he sees the letters scribbled repetitively on the paper, ridiculously nonsensical and embarrassing, but it’s Kibum. (It’s Kibum, and somehow, he has developed a soft spot for this kid he’s never even seen before.)
Girls approach him at parties less often these days, but Jonghyun doesn’t mind. He still hangs out like a normal college student, but is losing the need to feel popular, to feel like he’s wanted with the ‘in’ crowd, with the girls and their short, tiny pencil skirts, faces painted like masks with mascara. He tells himself he’s just focusing on his studies, waiting for the right opportunity (even when his friend asks him one day, jokingly, whether or not he has a girlfriend he isn’t telling them about).
We should meet sometime.
---
Jonghyun doesn’t answer for days, and it worries Kibum more than it should. He wasn’t expecting an affirmation, honestly, but every day when he passes by the bench and finds his words still the last ones written, he feels a tug in his heart, a clenching that shouldn’t be there (it’s just the stress, he tells himself, just the exhaustion from school that is making him overly sensitive to situations).
But by the time Jonghyun’s absence reaches the one-week mark, Kibum is about ready to give up. He digs his eraser out of his pencil case one Saturday morning, setting off to the park in saggy jeans and a white T-shirt (it’s almost spring, and the weather is warming while his heart cools). His hair is still slightly damp from his shower earlier, and he lets his arms swing in the cool rush of air outside, breathing in deeply to avoid the ache in his chest.
The bench is occupied when he arrives; an elderly woman perched with the week’s newspaper in her hands. There’s a poodle sitting patiently at the side, white, curly hair fluffed up in the breeze and small pink tongue out as she pants cheerfully. When Kibum nears, she barks a few times, causing the woman to glance up from her reading. She regards Kibum with a warm smile, and Kibum shrugs into his jacket, nodding out of courteousness.
“I just left something here,” he tells her when she looks over him inquisitively, crouched and fingers reaching under the other end of the bench to peel the tape off. “Sorry if it seems really weird.”
“Oh no, I lose things all the time, dear. Me and my age,” she beams at him, and Kibum finds himself smiling back involuntarily, his fingers successfully prying the bag off the bench as the poodle bounds up to him, ears perked. Lips still curved up, he reaches forward and pets her gently, scratching behind her ears as she licks his hand affectionately.
“Oh, look at the time!” Kibum looks up to see the woman folding her newspapers, and he grabs the cane propped up nearby in an instant, handing it to her carefully. She smiles. “What a nice boy. You know, I once met a boy just like you here, too.”
---
He doesn’t know why he hasn’t replied yet.
Actually, he does. Jonghyun curses to himself as he kicks an empty can into the sewer, the toes of his sneakers worn to a dull, flattened top and hands, as always, shoved into his jean pockets. There’s something about Kibum that makes him want to stay unseen, this invisible, existent person - whoever, whatever Kibum imagines him as, wants him to be. Every time he meets a new person, they are always struck first by his appearance - oh, you have such nice hair; oh, I love your eyes; dude, cool shoes; man, you’re rocking that blond. And for some reason, he wants Kibum to be different.
He wants to be different for Kibum. He wants to be just Jonghyun (or Bling Bling, even). He doesn’t want to be the Jonghyun he puts on as a show for everyone else - the Jonghyun that charms people with his smile, the beautiful Jonghyun, the flawless Jonghyun, the best Jonghyun, the Jonghyun he really is not.
There’s a familiar bark from the opposite side of the street, and Jonghyun raises his head from his thoughts to survey the area. He is surprised to realize that he’s already in front of the park; the sunlight reflecting rays off the large, swung-open gate. There are two figures standing beside the bench, and he recognizes the elderly woman from all those months ago, her square black spectacles and friendly smile.
The boy standing next to her is smiling, jet black hair slanting down across his forehead in silky strands. His cheekbones are highly defined, hands shrugged into his pockets and stance composed. His voice floats over to Jonghyun in low, smooth tones, and Jonghyun doesn’t even realize he is staring until the shrill bark once again interrupts him in his daze.
He watches as the woman walks away, pink leash in hand (but he’s not watching her, really). The boy is sitting down onto the bench, hair cascading over his eyes as he works at something in his lap. From Jonghyun’s viewpoint, it seems almost as if the boy is scrubbing something off of a surface, his elbow protruding out to the side in sweeps. Cautiously, Jonghyun nears, crossing the street as nonchalantly as possible and scuffing his toe against the cement to look preoccupied.
A paper is in the boy’s lap, and he’s erasing halfway down.
Jonghyun’s eyes widen, and he begins to run.
---
Loud, brash footsteps approach, closing in with the sound of harsh breaths that stop remarkably nearby. Curious, Kibum looks up from where he is dumping the rest of the eraser shavings onto the ground. A boy is standing in front of him, eyes lighted with excitement and desperation, dressed in stylish jeans that cling to his hips and a light jacket, the graphics of his T-shirt peeking out from underneath. His hair is a wash of blonde, darkening at the tips into light brown and fringing just above his eyebrows.
“What are you doing?” His voice is considerably high, soft (like a singer’s, almost, and Kibum is reminded of Jonghyun, his spontaneous mentioning of composing music and singing it quietly to himself to make sure he didn’t mess up the lyrics. Jonghyun, who -)
“What are you doing, Key,” comes the faint whisper, and the eraser falls from Kibum’s fingertips, rolling onto the ground to rest just beside Jonghyun’s right foot.
“You,” there’s a surge of mixed emotions inside of Kibum, an overflow that he braces himself against, wills himself not to break down on the spot. “You,” he repeats, seemingly calm, but his voice trembles at the end.
“Me,” Jonghyun laughs (a short, comforting laugh that fills Kibum from the outside in). He steps forward carefully, like he is planning the route, and they both stay silent as he settles down onto the bench, right knee knocking against Kibum’s in the process.
Chewing on his lower lip, Kibum toes the ground, drawing random patterns into the dirt. The sun warms their backs, and somewhere in the distance, there’s a splatter of childish laughter, happy voices full of possibilities, of people being just themselves, the way they are.
“So today,” Kibum begins, and pauses to let Jonghyun glance over at him. “I met this guy.”
The smile that spreads across Jonghyun’s features is slow, beautiful. “Tell me about it,” he says, leaning back to fit the contours of his body into the bench.
---
When they walk away hours later, the afternoon sunlight dotting the park in dim patches, there’s another name engraved that fills up the second half of Kibum’s heart.