Chapter Text
The stars in his hometown are always shining. Even as the sun rises, bleeding orange as soft and ripe as pumpkin flesh across the bruise-dark sky, the stars cling onto the fabric of the wispy, barely there clouds, winking jewels on an ancient tapestry, until the sun, ever-mighty and blazing in its brilliance, outshines its counterparts, in the undeniable matter of distance.
This particular quality of the celestial bodies above them was an awe-inspiring phenomenon for two children, ages eight and ten, one early spring morning in their formative youth. They sat on the creaky wooden fencing of the sheep pen, holding twin popsicles in place of breakfast, mango and blue raspberry staining their tongues and their teeth in artificial tones. Jisung’s father would be angry if he knew they were having dessert for breakfast, but Jisung figured it was the best sort of apology to give to Changbin, after they’d been woken at dawn by the old rooster during their first ever sleepover.
“Did you know that stars are made of wishes, Jisungie?” Changbin asked, looking up at the sky with a certain kind of reverence, the kind of feeling that grows in dreamers, the kind of sensation that thrives on hope.
Jisung, oblivious to it, hummed in confusion, licking his lips to rid them of the leftover chill. “What do you mean? I thought stars were made of like, stardust and stuff.”
“No, stardust comes from stars. Stars are made of wishes, and then the stardust can grant wishes.”
Jisung scrunched his nose. “How does that work?”
“My noona told me that this town is full of magic,” Changbin responded, seemingly unbothered by his own popsicle melting in his grip, phase change made faster by the warmth of the season, compounded by the warmth of his body. “She said that when people make a wish they mean with all their hearts, a new star appears in the sky.”
“Wouldn't people notice new stars all the time?” Jisung said, dubious. “Maybe she’s just messing with you.” He watched Changbin absentmindedly take a bite out of his popsicle while he made a considering face, eyebrows scrunching seriously.
“Maybe,” he acquiesced. “But maybe not a lot of people make wishes they really mean.”
The thought was surprising to Jisung, who hadn’t, at that point in his life, imagined that people would ever want for things unless they really needed them. Looking back on it, he realizes that life was so much simpler when he was young and taken care of, happy and blessed with the luxury of being unaware of real responsibility just yet.
“What about shooting stars, then? If stars are wishes, why do those wishes move across the sky?”
“I dunno,” Changbin said, stretching out from his place perched on wood posts older than both of them combined. “Noona didn’t say anything about shooting stars.”
Jisung swung his legs above the grassy field, thinking. With another lick at the unreal blue of the sugary treat, a thought bloomed like a great epiphany in his head.
“Maybe they’re wishes being fulfilled. Moving towards earth to find their wish makers, so their stardust can grant the wish that formed the star,” he proposed with excitement, and Changbin turned his gaze back from the steadily lightening sky to stare at him, wide-eyed with wonder and the eager belief that accompanies little kid reasoning.
“You’re a genius, Jisung-ah,” he proclaimed, and it felt real to them both in the moment, as they watched the stars fade out one by one, wishes and dreams best left to the dark.
The moment is crystallized in Jisung’s memory as something core to his being, and his understanding of the world. Even when he gets older and he learns that no, stars are not made from wishes, but from atoms at once otherworldly and overly familiar, he holds on to that morning like a secret, guarded and precious in his hands.
Even when Changbin’s parents get divorced and he moves away with his mother and sister, far away from their tiny, middle of nowhere town to go north to the big city itself, Seoul; Jisung remembers what it felt like to have revelations that seemed as big, if not bigger than all the skyscrapers in the world. To understand, intricately, the complex ways of the universe in very simple terms. He holds the feeling like a hot metal rod against the new wound in his chest, to cauterize the overwhelming feelings of loss he doesn’t know how to deal with, yet.
He doesn’t cry, and he certainly does not mope, whatever his father may say. But every time he unwraps a blue raspberry popsicle from its crinkly plastic prison, he can’t help but think of a spring sunrise, of disappearing stars, and a boy with a smile that lit up his lonely days.
~~~
Jisung’s day starts like it always does. He’s woken by the god-awful cries of their rooster as the sun rises over the countryside, feeling sullen and sleepy. He rouses slowly, blinking away the last traces of a strange dream he’s been having, where the night sky envelops the whole world, until there is nothing but darkness and stars as far as the eye can see. At least, he thinks that’s what happens - the images slip away like sand between his fingers as he props open his laptop to begin his daily routine.
He opens SoundCloud to see minimal change in his artist statistics - maybe a two or three person increase since last week but nothing of any real significance. Not that he was really expecting any change. Jisung knows that success doesn’t happen overnight, and there probably won’t be any life changing, earth shattering, dream realizing spike in numbers when he’s relatively unknown and hasn’t put out a new song in weeks.
He only started seriously making music about a year and half ago, but he’s been pretty prolific in that overall time span. Jisung’s just hit a temporary slump, is all. A minor creative roadblock. There’s no need to feel anxious about something with no time limit. After all, his current life plan is 1) finish school, 2) inherit the family farm, and 3) live in perpetual hope of a silly wish that has no concrete prospects.
Still, as he checks the stats for the other platforms he’s uploaded his tracks on, and sees similar trends, he’s restless. He can’t help but feel the tiniest bit depressed when he thinks about his all-together depressing life plan. There’s nothing much he can do, though, except keep throwing tracks into the void that is the online space, hoping to make it even though he has no connections in the industry, no social media following, and admittedly pretty shitty equipment.
He supposes this is what he gets for not having a dream to aspire to until his early adulthood. He might’ve gone to college far away from here if he’d discovered music just a little sooner…
Ah, well, you can’t change the past. He shakes the thoughts from his head.
Jisung is dressed and ready to go by five-thirty. There are farm hands that do the bulk of the work and conduct the machinery in the fields, so his only real job is to maintain the chicken coops in their backyard; collecting eggs, feeding the chickens, cleaning the coops, and so on.
One of the chickens, who he watched hatch and raised as his own, pecks him when he collects the eggs in her nest.
“Ow!” He pouts at her, offended, but the chickens are demon-spawn, so she just clucks at him ungratefully.
Shaking his hand out, Jisung sighs and continues on.
~~~
After fulfilling the morning tasks, he washes his hands and sits down to breakfast, alone.
There used to be a time where Jisung and his father would eat together, sometimes in silence, but oftentimes exchanging idle small talk. Gossip about the town residents or projections for the season’s harvests or Jisung talking about one or both of his jobs. He tended to avoid the subject of school besides the occasional it’s going well, don’t worry – not because he’s doing badly, but because it bores him. His classes are uninteresting, and his degree in business feels like a moot point.
He knows where his life is going, and he knows where he’d like his life to go. Neither of those things warrant a business degree, but his father had gently insisted that one could never know what the future held, and Jisung hadn’t seen the point in refusing when he had very little else to do.
He takes another bite of eggs, and tries not to think about the fact that he’s been learning how to run the farm for over a decade, since he turned twelve and was dubbed sufficiently old enough to understand the demands of the market.
Jisung taps his phone screen and blinks at the stocks tiredly.
~~~
His day job is even less glamorous than wiping chicken shit off the floor, as hard as it may be to believe. As a student, he works part-time at the local grocery store. It’s not particularly difficult but it is boring as fuck. There’s not that many people that live in town, the houses are spread out and isolated, so he gets maybe ten customers in three hours on a weekday.
Tuesdays are the worst, he muses privately to himself, annotating a particularly dry text while in the slow point of the day. If his manager catches him, she’ll be not angry, just disappointed, and will maybe most likely sigh her long-suffering sigh of woe. Jisung rolls his eyes at the thought of it, but figures she probably won’t come out of her office for another hour, at least.
He gives up on the black hole of academia dressed vocabulary after another two pages, and slips the reading shut and into his satchel bag in favor of retrieving his songwriting notebook.
The pages flip open to one of the creases he’s formed over the last few days, where he’s been absentmindedly jotting words and phrases that pop into his head. Jisung is determined to write himself out of his slump, but he doesn’t have enough for this particular piece to be coherent quite yet.
darkness is settling in day by day, he pens, then immediately winces at his own dramatics. Creative liberties, he tells himself. His reality isn’t that bad at all.
Latching on to the image of darkness, he writes next to it, in neat lines as overcompensation, i feel like i’m lost, stuck in the dark.
Jisung eyes his notebook critically, wondering if that’s any less depressing.
~~~
His afternoon class runs into the evening, and leaves him with another paper to write in a rapidly dwindling time frame. He’d be annoyed at his professor, but it’s his own fault for not taking advantage of the hours he’d spent writing and rewriting lyrics to a song with no discernable purpose. All he has is a vague sense of longing, lamenting the present, and a blank word document headed only with his name: Han Jisung.
He washes his face at the end of the day, and the water, much colder than he expects, is a shock on his skin. It feels necessary, in a way. His fingertips are still freezing when he gets into bed, and the warmth from touching his phone almost burns.
Jisung stares up at the ceiling patterns without aim, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time. A blanketed stillness settles over him, and Jisung measures his exhales in long, deep breaths to slow his heart rate, and bait sleep into finding him.
It takes a while, like it always does, but eventually his eyes slip closed and the world fades with the sound of a new, unfamiliar melody playing in his ears.
~~~
It happens, of all days, on a Tuesday.
Jisung is scratching nonsensical notes into a notebook while occasionally glancing up from the register to make sure his manager or any customers aren’t approaching. Old Mrs. Park is browsing the liquor aisle with enough scrutiny that it makes Jisung huff a little amusedly. He pens in a B flat and hums the tune that’s been bouncing around his head all morning, and the bell above the entrance door dings in the periphery. He sings the partial line he’s completed softly under his breath, not looking up. It sounds a little wistful to his ear.
He's focusing a little too hard, and doesn’t notice the figure approaching until they’re right in front of him. Jisung looks up, already saying, “Found what you were looking for Mrs. P-?” cutting off with a surprised noise at seeing a short, handsome man with fluffy black hair and several lobe piercings in place of a little old lady who can drink her weight in bourbon. A spark of familiarity tugs in the back of his mind, and he sees it mirrored in the not-stranger’s face as the furrow in his own brow smooths out with startled recognition.
“Jisungie?” he says, and Jisung experiences a jolt of lightning down his spine.
“Changbinnie-hyung?” he asks, an incredulous laugh bubbling up from the sudden light feeling in his chest. He stands up from his stool too fast, dizzy with the way he sees his own dumb smile mirrored and spreading on the face of his long-lost childhood friend.
“What are you doing here?” Jisung questions, tone bright and hands start-stopping by his sides. He and Changbin are separated by the register counter, and he has half a mind to jump it just to see if what he’s seeing is really real. “It’s been so long, I didn’t think—”
Changbin just shakes his head, grinning up from under his bangs. Jisung realizes they’re about the same height now, and his head spins with the present image superimposed on the Changbin of his memories: wiry and starry-eyed.
“My uncle’s funeral,” Changbin supplies, and before Jisung can finish his condolences, Changbin shakes his head again. “Don’t worry, I didn’t know him very well.”
“Ah... still,” Jisung says, “sorry.”
“Thank you,” Changbin concedes, eyes warm. There’s no trace of awkwardness anywhere in his demeanor from the years that stretch between them, though Jisung doesn’t supposed there would be, when the older has always been soft and open and easy to like.
“How long are you here for?” he asks, fingers twitching with the strange urge to grab Changbin by the wrist and never let go again.
“A week,” is the answer and the old wound in Jisung’s chest aches with something like hope. And before the moment ends and he can lose his nerve, he speaks, almost tripping over his words in his haste.
“Do you want to maybe get something to eat together? I mean, have you eaten? Or, wait, are you free? Do you want to… play catch up?” He ends the mini barrage with an embarrassed expression and a wince. Changbin lets out a noise halfway between a giggle and a snort. His smile hasn’t left his face once.
“That’d be great, yeah. I haven’t eaten yet, but first…” he trails off, looking down at his hand significantly, and Jisung follows his gaze down to spot a single, bright orange toothbrush held casually between his fingers.
“Oh,” he realizes, face heating up with realization. “Oh, yeah of course, here let me just—”
The toothbrush exchanges hands and Jisung rings him up with giddy hands.
~~~
At 5:30pm, Jisung orders cheesecake and iced americano, to occupy his body while his brain goes a hundred miles a minute. He shakes the jitters quickly - the laughter is easy and the company familiar in the sort of way all his favorite childhood movies are: he remembers the feeling of comfort, but the finer details of plot escape him no matter how hard he tries to remember.
Changbin is different, and really, who wouldn’t be after what feels like a lifetime? Touches of seriousness and sincerity come across in his manner, more well spoken than eight-year-old Jisung could have predicted. He’s grown into his easy sense of confidence, and he doesn’t slouch his shoulders like he used to.
“How is everyone?” he asks Jisung, eyebrows sloping with genuine curiosity. “Does Mr. Kim still own that model train store?”
Jisung shakes his head. “Closed up shop two summers ago. Said he was getting too old to run it by himself anymore, and that he didn’t want to give to anyone but his son – except his son moved to Ansan over five years ago.”
Changbin hums. “I think I remember him. Kim Myeongho, right?”
Jisung makes a noise of affirmation, taking a bite of cheesecake. He licks the strawberry jelly off his lips and thinks it’s the best he’s tasted in a while.
“Mrs. Oh’s ice cream parlor is still around though. And the arcade hasn’t closed down, yet.”
“Thank god for that. I’ll have to visit her soon,” he promises, smiling again. “And you? How have you been these days?”
Jisung stalls, straw halfway in his mouth, as he thinks about what to say. The horrible sensation of stagnation creeps up his spine and fingertips. He considers being honest: I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. I feel like the world is turning around me and I’m stuck in the uncertainty of what does and doesn’t make me happy. But saying all that out loud inspires a queasy feeling in his stomach, so he considers skirting the truth instead. He’s not a very good liar, though.
“I’m finishing up with school,” he settles on with a shrug. “I’ll have a degree in business by the summer.”
Changbin whistles under his breath, gaze scrutinizing. “I’d say congrats, but you don’t seem very excited about it.”
Jisung throws him a lopsided half-smile, sheepish. “Well, when I started school it was mostly a formality since, y’know, I’ll be taking over the farm when my dad retires either way. And now… I guess I’m just sort of tired of it. I’m ready to be done.”
“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.” Changbin shifts in his seat. “I can’t really give you any advice since I don’t know what it’s like, but at least it’ll be over soon?”
Jisung blinks, “Wait, what? You didn’t go to university?”
Changbin shakes his head, a shy smile spreading across his face. “I started making music in high school, and made some connections that let me break into the industry right after graduation. I do it full time now.”
Slacked-jawed, Jisung stares at his hyung, eyes going wide. “Shit,” he laughs. “Anything I’d know?”
Changbin puts on a cheeky look and says, “Maybe.”
“Hyung. Don’t be mysterious.”
Changbin seems to consider it, visibly weighing the decision in his head. Eventually though, he ventures, “Ever heard of SpearB?”
“What?” Jisung almost shrieks. “What the fuck?”
“Does that mean you know me?” Changbin asks, amusement plain to hear at Jisung’s reaction.
“Know you? I love your music! It’s— It’s like—” he sputters. “You’re one of my biggest inspirations.”
Changbin blinks. “You make music?”
A rush of self-consciousness overtakes Jisung in a heartbeat. He hadn't meant to say that, but the shock made him speak without thinking. “Oh, um. Yeah,” he mumbles, shrinking back into the chair. “It’s not nearly as good as yours, though.”
With a lighthearted scoff, Changbin pokes at his shoulder over the table.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Show me your stuff,” he demands with surprised delight.
Hesitating, Jisung waves his hand in dismissal. “It’s really not….”
“Jisungie!” Changbin whines, every bit like the fun loving ten-year-old Jisung used to know, what feels like a lifetime ago. “Show me!”
And really, feedback from someone who actually knows what they’re talking about is too good an offer to resist. “Okay, okay, just a minute hyung,” he gives in.
Hands shaking just the tiniest bit, he pulls out his phone and a pair of headphones from his bag. Navigating to SoundCloud, he internally debates which song to show Spear fucking B. Everything he’s released suddenly seems subpar to the criticizing voice in his head. So he exits the app and pulls up the works in progress he’s got stored in his voice memos. The most recent file sits at the top, simply labeled: untitled.
Jisung connects the headphones, and shoves them across the table for Changbin to settle snugly on his head. When he presses play, he can almost hear the first few lines in his head. Falling down, comes the disembodied echo of his singing voice, I'm an alien on this earth.
He waits with bated breath for the song to run through, heartbeat loud and insistent in his ears, pricks of anxiety bubbling in his stomach, and eyes set firmly on Changbin’s focused expression as he listens intently, face barely shifting at all.
The progress bar of the recording reaches the end on the phone screen, and Jisung quirks his head while Changbin removes the headphones, a silent question of well? hanging between them.
“Jisungie,” Changbin starts very seriously, and Jisung’s heart leaps into his throat. God, he didn’t hate it that much did he? “How long have you been making music?”
Jisung’s stress level rises. Was it very obviously amateur? He didn’t think it was that amateur, but then again, he is the amateur. “About a year and a half.”
“Jisungie,” Changbin says again. “Come back to Seoul with me.”
Time skips a beat. Jisung inhales sharply.
“What?” he whispers, disbelieving.
~~~
“Look,” Changbin begins from behind the wheel of the rental car he’d gotten to drive out here from the airport. “I know it sounds crazy, okay? But you’re good. Really good considering how long you’ve been producing. You have a nice voice, and your rapping on the other track I listened to was even more impressive.”
With every point he makes, Jisung slides lower and lower in the passenger seat, head spinning and hands clasped tightly in his lap.
“I’m just saying that we’d love to have you. Channie-hyung - you probably know him from our collabs, as CB97 - him and I, we work so well together, and we’ve been planning to merge and make music as a unit permanently. I know he’d love you and your sound; your lyricism especially. If I asked him to give you a chance, he would.” Changbin never fully takes his eyes off the road, but he keeps glancing at Jisung, trying to see if his words are getting through.
“What if we don’t work well together, hyung?” His voice comes out smaller than he means it to, but he has to ask. He doesn’t think Changbin’s particularly thought this through.
“We will.” He offers no explanation, but his tone is one of absolute certainty.
“You can’t know that for sure,” says Jisung, frustration starting to build a headache behind his temples.
“I do.”
“Hyung, I can’t just go out of nowhere.”
“Why not?”
“My whole life is here! My dad, the farm, my job, my future.”
Changbin is silent for a few moments, and Jisung dares to hope that he’s stopped with the nonsense, until he opens his mouth again, voice quieter this time, but filled with even more conviction.
“Jisung-ah, don’t you remember we used to say we’d be stars someday? Why not take this chance? Come to Seoul with me.”
Jisung is half overcome with the urge to yell, and he doesn’t bother correcting that that particular desire had been Changbin’s dream always; Jisung had only parroted him out of admiration. Pushing down the urge, he sighs deeply instead. “Can’t you give me time?”
Changbin presses his mouth into a line, and Jisung can already tell he’s not going to like what his hyung is about to say. “If you don’t go now, will you ever? I’ll be here for a week. There’s all your time.”
By the time they finally pull into the driveway of Jisung’s house, the sun is setting and painting the sky in stunning shades of orange, pink, and purple. The stars are beginning to emerge, and they wink down on the two old friends as they say a silent goodbye.
~~~
Jisung can’t sleep that night. He tosses and turns and flips both his pillows multiple times, but sleep keeps escaping him. He’s still thinking about everything Changbin said. He’s still thinking about how the joy of praise had been overshadowed by the surprise and turmoil at Changbin’s proposition.
Seoul is not a place Jisung has ever considered living. He visited once when he was younger for some reason or other that he can’t remember now, and he’d liked it well enough, but the sudden offer to leave the only home he’s ever known wasn’t something he was ready for.
He’s never thought of leaving. His life is a path set in stone. Yes, he wants to be recognized for his music, but he always thought he’d stay in his hometown. To abandon the thing he was raised for… it doesn’t settle right with him.
Turning onto his side for the nth time in the last hour, he has a clear view out his bedroom window. The stars shine softly, reflected on the glass.
His vision unfocuses as he gets lost in his thoughts, so the stars are only faint smudges of light. He blinks to come back to himself, and just as the world refocuses, a shooting star crosses the path of his window.
While Jisung’s eyes follow its path, the memory of an early spring sunrise and the nonsensical conversation that took place beneath it pushes forward, spreading an irrational feeling of certainty that that very star is the answer to all his problems.
Jisung sits up, throwing off his comforter, and slips on a pair of shoes in great haste.
Guided by the old ache in his chest, he lets himself be tugged forward towards his destiny.