Lost and Found

[danishpinkcess]

Sequel to Upholstery of Our Magnet Hearts.
I want you to guess WHO cameos, at WHAT point.
Junho/Chansung, R

Say hello to Junho.



LOST AND FOUND

The prototype is a hit. He smiles on command, is perfectly articulated, can twist and flex and sway at a single pull on the right string, and for just a tiny coin, he even sings; the delicate “ting-tong” of his Barrel organ makes children clap their hands, their mothers dance. They call him the Artist.

The Gorilla decides to make a copy, just in case something goes wrong with the first one.
He uses a softer, more tender wood: pine instead of oak. It's cheaper, too, because nowadays wood is expensive, and only the best craftsmen can afford ebony for their creations. But it's not a problem, because pine also makes excellent puppets, even if some knots and curves aren't exactly the same and the body ends up being shorter. The new tools the Gorilla recently acquired compensate, and it's actually more beautiful than the Artist, with more smooth lines and less rough angles.

The second difference is the hair. He had used silk for the Artist. Silk is rare. He couldn't even properly finish him - though it didn't turn out to be a problem, because it makes the Artist's charm, this unpolished aspect. At least that's what people say.
For this one, the Gorilla doesn't have anymore silk. It's a tie between straw and horsehair, until one of his countryside cousin sends him a package, and amongst rusted keys, pumpkins and carrots, here it is, the orange fur of the fox who ate this year's Christmas turkey. It fits, the Gorilla discovers, it strangely suits the bare, skillfully carved face of this nameless creature.
That's for the body and head.

Now the articulations, the legs and the hands, that's another deal. The Gorilla polishes them one by one, carefully measuring and checking if everything fits. An unfortunate flick of plane, and that's a weakened wrist. He welds a band of iron around it to hold it in place, spends hours studying the mechanism to make it twist and bend again.

The Artist has nylon strings and a varnished handle.
This one gets cotton and two stick tied together in a cross.
It moves great, though. It's fluid and beautiful.

There are no more whistles in the whistle box. The Barrel organ was a unique piece.
It does not matter.
There's still an unemployed violin lying in a corner.

The Gorilla hesitates for a while, and gives him a safety spring as a heart, just in case.
He finally carves the three initials in the puppet's chest, right in the middle. Dresses it with an old, too large white pajama that probably belonged to one of the craftsautomatons, ties it at the waist with a soft rope.
It's finished.
He names it Junho.

Junho's existence at the workshop is rather lonely, and monotonous. The Gorilla never talks to him, and why should he? Junho's just a puppet anyway. Jay the Pendulum Clock mocks him every time he tries to communicate. He's not allowed to help at the creation and he's practiced his violin so much already he could play it eyes closed.

The Gorilla works, every day and sometimes at night, on a beautiful automaton. It's a pure product of his art, with striking features carved in a peculiar, rare piece of rose wood that he polished and tinted until it got almost white. Junho touches his own, veined pine wood and feels his strings go tight. He climbs to the roof and plays a little sonata, just for the stray cats and himself.

The Gorilla gives the automaton the finest, most beautiful hair on the market. It's a shiny multicolored mass of scattered glossy curls and straight locks that catches the dim light of the workshop. It's very beautiful. Junho reaches to touch it but his fingers get slapped away.
“Be still,” the Gorilla tells him. Be still. He's a puppet. Puppets are made to dance and move, not to “be still” in the corner of a dusty room. That's what he wants to say.
The second string of his violin drops low, threatening notes.

Junho looks at the Gorilla so immersed in his work, sees him talk to the still figure on the workbench and doesn't understand.

They don't have enough money. That, he gets. The Gorilla, when he's not working on the automaton, spends his times keeping track of bills and gains and profit and expenses, especially expenses.
“It's not good,” Junho hears him mutter. “Not good at all, I spent everything on your tools, pretty one. And if I don't finish you, what will the King say? Right now I can't even afford a heart for you...”
Junho shudders, in his corner next to the cupboard, and Jay the Pendulum Clock snorts from the other end of the room.
The Gorilla raises his head.

Junho doesn't cry when Jay leaves. He doesn't cry because he doesn't know how to cry, but something tells him to fold his arms against his chest and to lean his head to the right, and the spring feels tight in its case. The strings are silent if not for the third, that lets out a clear, broken sound of pain, when Junho accidentally brushes the bow against it.

“It won't be enough,” the Gorilla is muttering again. “I sold one of my best pieces and it won't be enough. Tell you what, this world is rotting, rotting and nothing to save it. My Marshmallow Machine is handing out bubble gum on Carousel Square and the Prince is getting married soon. Everything is out of hand. Everything...”
There is no Pendulum Clock to make fun of Junho when he tangles his strings together in sour melancholia.

The Gorilla fixes the tools to the automaton, one on each finger but the thumbs. The thing is still majorly unfinished, chest open and legs missing.
What is it, Junho asks with his bow dancing on the strings, head tilted left.
“He's an Upholsterer,” the Gorilla answers proudly. “The best one ever, if only I could...” He sighs and pushes Junho aside. “Let me work.”
The last string goes pizzicato pitifully, and later he tries to muffle the sound of the bow brushing back and forth slowly in a now practiced routine, until his strings and articulations hurt and he feels his heart spring could break with pain.
It doesn't move the Gorilla. It never does.

“No more wood,” the Woodcutter repeats firmly. “All for the King. If you want some, buy it from the Pole.”
“From the Pole? But it costs...” the Gorilla trails off, voice white with tension. He swallows, shakes his head. “Thank you,” he says. “I'll manage.”

Junho is woken up that night by a strong hold on his wrist. His spring goes tighttighttight with fear and he tries to jerk away, but the Upholsterer doesn't let go and glares at him until he stops moving. The other hand is holding the clockwork in his chest, barely keeping it in place. He must have dragged himself here on his elbows.
“You have to go,” the Upholsterer whispers. His tools are scratching the metal on Junho's wrist. “You have to leave tonight, do you understand?”
Junho widens his eyes, tilts his head, opens his hands.
“He's going to take your wood,” the Upholsterer explains. At the other end of the room, the Gorilla snores lightly, sprawled on the little desk. “To make my legs.”
Junho gathers his limbs to his chest and shakes his head, shuts his eyes closed, no, no.
“It's true,” the Upholsterer insists. He lifts his chin. “I don't want that, you don't want it either.”
Junho brings a hand to his mouth and looks away. It can't be true, he tries to tell the Upholsterer.
Yet he's got a feeling it is.

He gets up on shaky legs, offers a hand to the Upholsterer and then remembers. He bows in apology.
“I'd leave with you,” the Upholsterer tells him, “but I can't go out unfinished.”
Junho nods, gathers his strings and his handle around his left arm, picks up his violin and bow in the right one, and bows again, very low.
“Go,” murmurs the Upholsterer. “Good luck.” He raises on his elbows to watch him.
The Gorilla's face is pillowed on a heavy book filled with numbers. Junho shudders as he walks by him.
He steps on the threshold of the door and turns back to look at his old home one last time. Far there in the corner, the Upholsterer waves his fingers wearily. Junho tries to smile, covers his eyes, clutches at his chest, makes to go, and the undisciplined last string lets out a small sob.

It's like a flash, the speed at which the Gorilla surges forward. He seizes his wrist and Junho feels the strong fingers trying to bend the metal there, he opens and closes his mouth helplessly, struggles to break free, until some kind of pebble flies before his eyes and, “No!” the Gorilla shouts. He catches it just before it crashes to the ground. At the corner of his vision, Junho sees the Upholsterer crumpled to the ground. It surges him into action, he jerks his wrist out of the Gorilla's grasp and, desperately, smashes the violin into his face before escaping into the night.

It's cold outside, colder than in the workshop. Junho wobbles on suddenly weak legs, steadies himself against a wall.
The outer world is full of angles and sharpness he couldn't see from his rooftop. It smells strong and stains the bottom of his large, white pants. His feet are wet and muddy.
Junho slumps down the wall. He's a puppet running free without any papers, and that's forbidden, he knows.
He doesn't know what he should do about it, though.

A sudden movement at his feet makes him jump and scramble away.
“Don't freak out,” squeals a voice. “You're gonna crush us.”
Junho peers down to see a tiny man, barely the size of his hand, dressed in bright colors, holding the reins of a fat, snowy-white rat. Junho notices the silver spurs at the heels of his boots.
“Hello,” chirps the creature. “What are you doing here?”
Junho shrugs and offers his palms in apology.
“Can't talk?”
He shakes his head.
“Aw. That shucks.”
Junho shakes his head again and smiles.
“Heh,” chuckles the other. “You don't look too happy, though. Lonely?”
Junho nods.
“That must be awful,” says the man, sympathetic. “I'm used to company.” He points at the rat and Junho stares, mesmerized, at his needle of a finger. “The fella and I are always together, always have been, since we were born and all.”
Junho nods thoughtfully.
“You got no family? Friends? Place to be?”
Junho shakes his head 'no' thrice.
“What are you gonna do?”
He shrugs.
“I'd offer a bed to stay the night, but my bros aren't really keen on having people home.” The- Lilliputian? strokes the fur at the rat's neck. “Well, I gotta go. 't'was a pleasure.”
Junho helps him climb back by offering his index finger as a step, and then waves goodbye slowly, feels an ache for his violin as he looks at the minuscule figure quickly fading in the dark.

He ends up sleeping on a roof, habit telling him to seek height. He curls up against a chimney and welcomes the warmth of two stray cats huddling close to him. The stars are blurry before he closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, it's dawn and it's because someone is shaking his shoulder.
“Hey, wake up.”
It's a chubby man, frowning without nastiness. That must be a good sign.
“Who are you?”
Junho silently articulates his name. The stranger tries: “Chunhee?”, “Chongah?” and finally Junho traces it on the slate of the roof with a bit of chalky stone.
“Junho. Hello. I'm Wooyoung. What are you doing here?”
Just sleeping, Junho wants to say. He joins his hands and tucks them until his cheek, closing his eyes.
“I can see that,” Wooyoung says, “but why here?”
Junho shrugs.
“Do you have any papers?”
He tries to get up and run, but Wooyoung grabs the end of his sleeves and pulls him back.
“It's okay,” he says. “I won't give you to the Guard. But you can't stay here, soon there will be people passing by.”
Junho looks at him helplessly.
“I can't take you with me, I work for the King,” Wooyoung tells him. “But I guess I can give you a ride.” Suddenly he grins and stands aside proudly, and Junho notices for the first time the large rectangle of thick, burgundy red fabric lying behind them.
“That's my flying carpet,” Wooyoung declares. “Hop on!”

Flying is at the same time wonderful and frightening. Junho discovers in full colors the city he has been looking at in black and white for so long, and Wooyoung has to remind him to stay safely at the center of the carpet, “for balance”.
But Junho also startles whenever a balloon wearing the red and gold of the King hovers a bit too close, or when he hears a clatter of heels underneath them.

Wooyoung drops him on a roof next to a wide square full of trees and umbrellas and children, and a large red circle in the middle.
“That's the Carousel,” Wooyoung tells him. “My friend Nichkhun gives candy there. He'll help you.”
Junho wants to say thank you, thank you, but Wooyoung just takes his hand and squeezes lightly.
“Good luck,” he says. Junho thinks of the Upholsterer and smiles.

He knows who Nichkhun is instantly. There is a sea of pigtails and tiny shoes and blabber just at the right of the Carousel, and above the highest wave, a bright smile and a pink top hat. Junho slowly makes his way through the crowd, his handle held protectively to his chest.
“Hey!” a pretty doll yelps. “Watch your elbow!”
He smiles, points at Nichkhun, bows.

“Hello,” Nichkhun says politely, albeit slightly curious. “Do you want some candy?” He hands out a pale pink block of pastry, and a smile.
Junho refuses politely. He points at the sky, makes the motion of a piece of paper slowly falling to the ground with his hand slayed wide, then points at Nichkhun.
“Wooyoung sent you here?”
Junho nods and beams at him.
“Then you must already know but.” He offers his hand. “I'm Nichkhun the Marshmallow Maker.”
Junho shakes it hesitantly and cocks his head to the left.
“Well,” Nichkhun explains. “I used to make marshmallow, but the kids had to pay for it. So now I just give them sugar-coated nougat.”
Oh. Then he's the crafstautomaton the Gorilla talked about.
“What's your name?” he asks. Junho traces the letters in Nichkhun's open palm.
“Junho. Great! Well, why don't you help me hand these out?”
And just like that Junho gets an armful of candy and a hoard of squealing midgets clutching at his pants.

“What is your story?” Nichkhun asks him later, when the sun is turning a bright orange at the other end of the Square, and the tide of children has somehow flown back.
Junho stays still for a while and thinks, he traces meaningless shapes in the dust with the tip of his big toe.
It all starts by squaring his shoulders and bending forward, the Gorilla busy at his workbench.
The lively rocking and jerky motions of Jay the Pendulum Clock, that's easy, because Junho has spent so much time repeating them at night on the roof, and the tiles would creak and shift under his feet.
Three little mice in the corner. They were friendly. Junho gave them scraps of wood for their nest. In return they never approached his violin. He hears laughter as he mimics the tiptoeing of the smaller one, with his fingers crossing and uncrossing delicately.
There is a circle of children and not children around him, and they're all laughing, and Nichkhun looks at him with something that Junho fails to recognize - maybe the way the Gorilla looked at the Upholsterer, only less unpleasant, maybe. The quiet reverence in front of something beautiful. Or talented.
Talented? Junho is not talented. He doesn't know what he was made for. He has no tools and no tongue, no way to express himself except for this, and it isn't even dancing. The Upholsterer didn't even have legs, and he was already twice as precious.
It's the hardest one to represent, him, he requires slowly uncurling fingers and well-concealed strength, and invisible, subtle kindness. Junho clutches at his chest once he's done. He's sure he felt his spring pulling at something.
He steadies himself.
A little girls cries when his figurative Gorilla grabs his wrist. Her big brother covers her eyes and keeps watching, like mesmerized.
And for the final he jumps forward, faintly hears the gasps, arms stretched wide behind him, he finally feels the freedom he hasn't been able to enjoy yet.

Everyone cheers and claps their hands together and smiles wide at him and pulls at his sleeve, and Junho smiles back, happy, so happy he thinks he could drown. Nichkhun squeezes his arm and shouts: “Fantastic!” over the noise. Silently he replies: “Thank you”. It makes a young lady swoon, he rushes to assist her, she blushes.

But it's gone as suddenly as it came.
At first it's just a shout, some man yelling: “Guard!”, but it has the crowd scattering so quickly it reminds Junho of the sparrows that pecked bread on the windowsill at the workshop. It's the same rapid, incoherent bristle of feathers, and the same ache that remains afterward. Junho likes animals.

“Hello,” the man wearing the most decorated uniform says politely.
“Captain Kim,” Nichkhun intervenes. “I am glad to see you again.” But his fists are clenched and his mouth twitches at its corner. Junho tilts his head to understand.
“Nichkhun-Who-Used-To-Be-The-Marshmallow-Maker!” the soldier greats him. “It is a great pleasure! And who, may I inquire, is your much-talented friend?”
“This is Junho,” Nichkhun answers. He grabs Junho's hand. “He spent the all day helping me here, attracted a lot of people, you should have seen that, it was amazing.”
“I saw,” the Captain says, “I saw.” And at the same time Nichkhun spells: “R.U.N.” in Junho's palm, he asks: “Now I would like to see his papers, in all due respect.”
Junho bolts backwards.

He's faster than them, simply articulated soldiers - dirty mass producing, the Gorilla would say. Faster because he's new and finely crafted, he's got hinges at his ankles and knees and every toe, and he's lighter too, without all that lead that handicaps them.
He's faster but they know the town better, years and years of learning every corner of every street easily winning over a quick glance from a flying carpet.
Junho's steps lead him to the river.

From the roof at night it was this wonderful silver ribbon that shone just so, just beautiful and faraway.

But there's a marble under the sole of his feet, and really, close up, the water is not that nice.
It's more green and muddy and smelling like decay and rotting remains; weirdly, his last thought is, my costume, it's gonna be dirty, before everything vanishes, the shouts of “Someone get help!” and the red of the Guard.
He hasn't even survived a day in the real world.

Junho comes to feeling strangely numb all over, his cheek against dark wood. In an instant of panic he thinks he's back at the workshop and he tries to scramble away, but he realizes with terror, he cannot move, he's stuck, and the fear, he's had his legs cut, makes his head spin, until a voice says: “It's okay,” and then later: “You're safe here”.
It doesn't calm him down, not really, not when he can't see the face of his interlocutor, but at least he knows he's not alone - in a room he doesn't know.

It is a workshop after all, he realizes. There are tools and pieces of wood on the floor, scattered nails and gimlets. But behind the window he's facing the world looks unusually green and bright, nothing like the uncontrollable rainbow of the City. Where is he?

“Your handle was broken,” the voice tells him. “I'm fixing it now, and then you'll be able to move again.”
His handle - broken. The thought makes his gear coil in disgust.
“Easy,” the man says. “It's almost done.” There's the feeling of a hand between his shoulder blades. “You're still pretty damaged, I'll have to tend to that after.”

It's a prickling sensation at the tip of his fingers and toes, then it snakes up his arms and legs, tickles the small of his back, his neck and when Junho wants to gape and actually does, he knows his handle has been fixed. He slowly sits up and turns towards his- savior?
He looks like a crafstautomaton, all wooden and precise, but Junho can't see any tool on him, save for the ones he's holding. Holding, in his hands. Hands curled around a screwdriver and a hammer. One in each. Like a living man.
It is most definitely peculiar.

Peculiar but not unfriendly, if the smile is of any indication. The other stores his hammer in the front pocket of his overalls and extends his hand.
“I am Changmin, it's nice to meet you. Awake, I mean.”
Junho shakes it and smiles helplessly.
“Can't you talk?”
He shakes his head no with a strong feeling of déjà vu.
“Here.” He's being handed a pen and a notebook. “I'll have to look around in the storage room for vocal strings, but meanwhile you can use that.”
Junho bows deep, feeling too confused to really think about anything else.
“You should lie down again, while I tend to your scratches.”
It's only then that he takes in his state.

First of all he's entirely bare, his costume lying into shreds at the foot of the workbench. His hair feels sticky, his wood dry and rough and he cannot move his metallic wrist.
Changmin gently pushes at his chest until he's back on the workbench. “Water must have gone through. I checked the cogwheels and they seem fine, though, but I oiled them just in case. You need a good varnish, maybe after a sandpapering. Your wrist... I'm not sure.” His voice is even and quiet, soothing. Junho feels his eyelids click shut. “I might have to open, in case it's more than just rust, but I will be able to fix it anyway, don't worry, you'll see, everything will be just fine...”

When he wakes up for the second time, Junho is folded in two, facing the floor, arms and legs tangled together. It's the weirdest of sensations because it's actually not that bad: none of his limbs hurt, he doesn't feel dizzy, it's the just that, when he tries to put a foot down, he realizes he can't move his leg, let alone the other, let alone the rest of his body. He doesn't know what happened to him and feels neutral - like wrapped into a thick blanket - about it, until there's a violent tug and both his left arm and right leg jerk at the same time.

And then Junho understands someone's actually holding his handle, directing him, and the realization, and the humiliation, are too much, and he would like to scream, except he can't, he can't, he can't do anything except bear with being manipulated grotesquely around.
“Drop him !” he hears through the deafening buzzing of his gear. “Drop him now!”

He tumbles face-first to the floor and gets tangled in his messed strings. Changmin helps him stand up by pulling his limbs back into place - “Careful, you ankle. Here, give me your wrist.”
He pats Junho's shoulder before turning to someone - or something? - behind him. It takes a a bit of courage for Junho to turn back, but it's actually a shock to see a giant, a real one, standing there, head low. And even so, his hair brushes the ceiling.
“YOU!” Changmin barks, and the big thing flinches. “What did I tell you? You had NO RIGHT to molest him like this!” Somehow Junho would like to crawl in the little mouse hole he sees in the corner and never get out, but the giant seems to be thinking the same thing. Meanwhile, Changmin goes on bawling: “What am I going to do with you? I told you to stay out of the workshop, didn't I? Do you have anything to say? No, I bet you don't! You PUT ME TO SHAME, Chansung!”

At the mention of his name, the creature falls to the ground like a small, sobbing bundle and even if he feels still slightly nauseous with the whole episode, Junho cannot help but want to comfort him. Changmin is the same, anger immediately fading. He kneels down next to- Chansung, yes? - and pats his back gently.
“It's alright,” he says. “Promise you won't do it again?”
The giant shakes his head and Changmin lets a small smile slip. “Then I'm not mad anymore. Erm-” he raises his eyes. “This is Chansung; Chansung, I want you to apologize to-”
Junho would say hello, except he can't, and his interlocutor doesn't seem inclined to meet his eyes. “JUNHO,” he traces in shaky letters on the notebook that had been slipped in his belt.
“Junho is not mad either, Chansung,” Changmin says. “Tell him you're sorry, alright?”
But Chansung won't talk or move; Junho tentatively offers his hand. He winces but otherwise doesn't resist and under Junho's rough fingertips, his hair is incredibly soft and warm. Junho pats his head awkwardly and fights the urge to drag his fingers into the fluffy locks. It would be rather strange.
The patting seems to work, since Chansung raises his head and Junho is faced with round, glassy black eyes and a small smile. “Tzoing!” goes his heart-spring. He smiles back.

Changmin introduces him to the house while Chansung is sent butterfly-picking. (“You know,” Changmin explains. “For silk.”)
Above the workshop, there's a cozy little room with a chimney that makes Junho's wood tighten agreeably and a large bookshelf. “Motor Oil And Environmental Issues”, he reads. “History of Clockwork”, “Who Was Gutenberg?”.
He has trouble with some of the words, because Jay the Pendulum Clock wasn't that much of a teacher to begin with. He was better with numbers - in the hexadecimal base only, though.
Changmin shows him a wide armchair with padded armrests: “That's where I sleep, when I feel like it.”
Junho puts his head on his joined hands and quirks his brows.
“Oh. I don't need a bed. But, don't worry, we'll give you one. Here-” Changmin opens a small door hidden at the corner of the bookshelf. “This is Chansung's room. Do you mind sharing? His bed is spacious.”
Junho shakes his head no, then waves at the outside and frowns.
“Don't worry, you won't be a bother at all. Chansung likes company.” Changmin looks by the window and smiles slightly. “He was supposed to end up a stuffed bear, you know? I guess I pretty much saved him from it.”
Junho opens his hands in front of him.
“He's too intelligent for that, it would have been a waste. He's doing just fine like that, don't you think? He just can't talk, but that's... different.”
Surprised, Junho points towards himself.
“No, it's not the mechanics. He's in perfect state, I checked. No...” Changmin sights. “The problem is here-” he pats his head. “Anyway. I forgot to ask, is everything alright with the repairs I made?”
Junho nods. He wants to ask Changmin why he did it, why he's doing all of this, where they are, but it's an awful load of questions and he's surprisingly tired.
“You should get to sleep,” he's told. “Everything will be more clear in the morning.”

The bed smells of tiny kittens and wet earth, it's incredibly soft and Junho squirms around, used to the hard floor of the workshop. He can hear a soft warbling sound outside and wonders if it's the river, or some kind of animal. This house cracks and talks more than the Gorilla's workshop, and her voice is less smoky, healthier, like freshly cut chestnut tree. Eyes wide open in the dark, Junho listens and feels the faint pulsing ache of his just-repaired limbs. It's comfortable and slowly numbing.

There's a “tap-tap” to the door and a voice that hisses: “Just go!”, and Junho sits up somehow still half-asleep. The bed dips under a heavy weight, and suddenly it smells even more like kitten and earth, and also warm milk and spinach puree. Chansung's eyes are bottomless puddles of ink in the dark; Junho feels himself smiling, and, in an incomprehensible need for warmth and contact, he reaches for his hair again, amazed at the warm, brushing sensation. It earns him a tiny squeak and Chansung wraps his arms tight around him, envelops him into a bear-hug that makes his case creak. Junho feels his eyelids drop inexorably and wiggles feebly before giving him and falling, falling, fall...

Changmin builds cards-castles in the morning. Junho discovers him, the first time he wakes up, in front of a huge construction made of cardboard that certainly wasn't here last night. He watches him line the edges with glue and quirks an eyebrow.
“I used to have more patience,” Changmin says without turning back. “But when Chansung destroyed the sixth one in a row, I decided I would start cheating.” The Queen of Clubs nods agreeably. “Did you sleep well ?” Changmin asks, raising from his armchair. Junho beams and raises a thumb. It was probably the first time he ever felt so genuinely relaxed, and although the dreams about blue little fruits growing on a bush still unsettles him, he's more rested than he's ever been.
Changmin chuckles. “I knew it. It's all that fluff inside of him, it works like that. Say, what do you smell when he's near you?”
Junho draws cat ears with his fingers, and then points at the ground.
“Really. I usually smell talc and dusty taffeta. It would be interesting to investigate, but stuffed creatures aren't my forte...” His gaze lingers on the bookshelves. “So! Do you want me to show you our garden?”

It's actually more of a wasteland, a wide field of copper and iron that emerge from the sandy earth, amongst sparse tufts of grass.
“The river carries all sort of things,” Changmin explains. “That must be why the workshop was built here in the first place. Chansung found you there.” He waves at a spot between a rusty bathtub with lion-pawed feet and a locomotive.
Junho touches his shoulder lightly, takes a deep inspiration, and asks the question. He puts a hand to his chest, fakes a screw-driver in his clenched fist and opens his hand, palms up, in front of him.
“I don't know,” Changmin says, staring at a metallic grasshopper, the screeching of its elytrons. “I guess I like fixing things up. You can stay here as long as you want, you're not bothering us at all, on the contrary.” He smiles. “Chansung likes you a lot.”

So Junho stays, without really thinking about it. It's just that, he goes to bed at night and wakes up in the morning and finds no reason to leave, and weeks and months pass like that.

And one morning Chansung finds a broken violin amongst the trash carried by the river, brings it back to the workshop where Junho is idly reading “Carpenters' Weekly” while waiting for Changmin to come back from bolt-shopping. He recognizes it immediately even if the wood is warped and the neck wrung. His spring tightens and tightens and tightens as he caresses the worn out strings. Chansung hovers close, and he seems hesitant to do anything - he doesn't know what this is about and cannot understand. Junho reaches for his hand, plays with his fingers absentmindedly and hates himself because he isn't able to give Chansung the affection he needs.

He grabs the body of the violin carefully, with a sigh that weight heavy and cold on his chest; the neck hangs limp from a few splinters and fibers. When he pinches it, the first string lets out a low, broken sob, tremolo, and returns to silence. Chansung wraps his arms around Junho's shoulders like a too long, knitted in front of the fireplace, woolen scarf, and buries his face against Junho's shoulder. Stroking his hair comes naturally, and it's comforting, and Junho puts the violin back on the table because somehow the only way to escape the pain pounding in his case is to hold Chansung against him and inhale his warmth.
“Something wrong?” comes from Changmin's voice. Junho points at the violin, then at himself, and then the imaginary violin is solid against his chin, bow heavy in his palm, and Junho goes Tchaikovsky.
“Yours?” Changmin asks. He drops a little tinkling bag on the workbench as he comes closer and examines the wounded instrument. Between his eyebrows, his wood is veined with worry.
“You'd need a Luthier to repair this one,” he finally says. He pronounces the word “Loo-tee-eh” and it whistles slightly on his tongue. “Someone from the City. I'm just- I'm just a fiddler.” He stifles a laugh. “I guess you were one too. Violin.” His fingers brush the rusted keys on the neck. “I don't think I can do this, Junho. I'm sorry.”
Junho motions helplessly at the collection of tools hanging from the wall. Surely, there must be one that can repair his violin, right?
“I'm not a crafstautomaton,” Changmin explains.
Junho looks pointedly at the letters carved behind his ear.
“You saw that? Oh.” Changmin seems embarrassed and ruffles his coarse, simple black cotton hair over the mark. “Not this kind,” he says. “I learned all of this step by step, there's no way I would be able to... Look, I don't know. I can't promise anything, I'll read books and do my best, but-”
Junho jumps at him and squeezes hard, and Chansung wraps his arms around them both, and they stay like this until Changmin snaps: “Okay, now you two get off me.”

Junho hopes. He wakes up in the morning and tiptoes outside, not wanting to bother Changmin who's studying every book that could/would/may be helpful. He joins Chansung outside and lets him play with Junho hair and the hinge on his wrist, and maybe even, just one time, pull at the string linked to his elbow - just to see. He does those things and sees Chansung's smile and never stops hoping, goes to sleep lulled by the faint beating or screeching, for his part, of their heartbeats.

“It can't be repaired,” Changmin says. It's an icicle like the ones hanging from the roof, right in Junho's chest. Chansung's arms tighten around his waist. “I'm sorry.”
The violin lies abandoned, lonely, amongst scraps of wood, on the workbench. Junho traces a tiny heart in the sawdust and nods once. He'd like to thank Changmin for what he knows he did, but right now he just can't. He thought... he thought it could work.
“Do you want to keep it?” Changmin asks softly. “I'll put it in a box.”

Junho nods again and strokes the strings one more time. And it should be expected that the last one, the tiny one, would cause some trouble again, because at that right instant she cries and Changmin stills and stares at Junho intensely and manages a: “Don't move. Don't move from here, I'll be back.” He rushes upstairs, Junho and Chansung hear him drop books and rummage around the shelves, comes down again with a heavy volume that he sets on the workbench. He leafs through it quickly before finding the right page, mumbles a few words along. “That could work,” Junho hears.
“Alright.” Changmin turns to them. “Open your mouth wide.” He brandishes a small lamp that winks playfully at Junho, who complies because he's a bit afraid of that new Changmin, the one who looks at him with purpose, so much it makes his eyes cross.
“Right,” he says, seemingly delighted. “What would you say - wait, close your mouth - what would you say if I gave you vocal strings?”
Junho cocks his head to a side.
“Those vocal strings,” Changmin precises, pointing at the violin. “It could work. I could do it.”

Junho sits on the small wooden bench and the deep grayish water laps at his feet. The violin rests on his lap and he strokes it absently, like a caramel-colored cat; the first string even purrs, just the faintest rumble. He hears Chansung arriving behind him and doesn't move, doesn't do anything - lets the “thud-thud” of his steps get closer, lets him sit close and hold him tight. His nose is a bit wet, a bit cold, but it presses just right into the crease of Junho's neck, and Junho sets the violin aside, pulls him just there, just where he fits, even if he doesn't, in the crease of his arms. He wonders how Chansung managed to live alone with Changmin, because even if there is obvious affection between these two, it sure isn't the same as Chansung who sprawls on his lap and gazes at him with undiluted adoration when Junho combs a hand through his hair.

“It's easy,” Changmin explains. “You just need to trust us.”
Junho takes a glance at Chansung who's idly playing with the hinges on his fingers and nods.
Then his cogwheels lurch when he understands “trusting” means letting Chansung take hold of his handle, “so that you don't harm yourself”, according to Changmin. It makes his spring creak with the effort of remaining calm, a furious beat in his wood.
“Easy,” Changmin says, and the pull on Junho's strings loosens a bit, lets him feel the tip of his fingers briefly. Chansung wraps his free arm around Junho's waist and nuzzles his neck, lets him lean back against his chest. Junho twins his ankles around the feet of the stool.

“Chansung,” Changmin orders, voice quiet. “Pull on the top string, lightly. Good.” Junho feels his mouth open wide, like the metamorphic toads that proliferate in the area. Changmin holds a screwdriver and a small tape measure. It's all slightly surreal, feeling but not feeling. Like behind a stiff corduroy veil, and the sudden play of the gimlets under his ears is utterly foreign and Junho teeters on the verge of nausea for a while. Then sharp little nails tickle his wood when Changmin fixes the strings to the bottom of his throat, and Junho feels like coughing, little wheels jumping in their cage. Everything is put back into place one by one, the familiar tightness of his pieces together. Chansung slowly lets go.
“Should be good,” Changmin mutters. He wipes his hand on his overalls and steps back. “Try saying something?”
“Wha-” Junho tries. “Wha-a-a-a-aaah?”
The second string is undulating with laughter, vibrates in his throat at the deep, uneven sound that came out.
“Oh,” Changmin notices. “Forgot to tune them.” He shows Junho the four violin keys attached to his neck, two on each side. “There. You do it, yes?”
As always, the last string protests that eet's too tight, doesn't like eet, nonononono, pleezpleezpleez, and stays off key for a while before finally agreeing to toe the line. Chansung watches with wide eyes.
“Is it alright?” Changmin asks.
“Oh- oh-light,” Junho repeats. “Oooh-light.”
Changmin beams but tries to stay modest.

He sits on their bed and fiddles with his keys, trying to understand why Chansung has been moody, why he has been staring at Junho with hurt in his eyes, why he went to bed without Junho and slept far from him, so far it was cold and now Junho is up in the fresh, translucent dawn, gets up to find Changmin in his armchair.
“He doesn't like me anymore,” the third string rasps pitifully, taut with sorrow.
“He's thick-headed,” Changmin's voice replies. “But I'm sure he'll get over it.”
Whatever that means, it's a feeble comfort, and Junho drags himself out of the workshop, feels his wood retract at the cold. His bare feet leave light imprints in the wet mud with a soft sound. He lifts the hem of his too-big overalls so as not to dirty them.

The water flic-flocs sleepily at him. Junho wraps his arms around his knees in a semblance of warmth and contact. He didn't know silence could hurt more than a sprained hinge or a bent nail, all of his strings mute and pained. Resting his cheek on the icy metal of his wrist, he looks at the droplets falling in the moon-shaped faced of his reflection in the greenish gooish waters.

And when Chansung's face appears at its left, well it's like the sun to this moon, Junho sees himself blink and the day is gaining in intensity, he leans back and Chansung holds him tight, with this low, continuous rumble that he doesn't understand until he puts his ear close and hears: “Junho Junho junho junhojunhojunhojunho...”

Chansung's nose is cold and wet in his neck but the rest of him is warm and fluffy, carefully stuffed to marry Junho's every angle and dent.