Archive of Our Own ^beta

Footsteps echoed through the silent night street, the sound of water splashing rhythmically as it struck every surface it could find. The rooftop door slammed open with a gust of wind, and in that instant, eyes met—two gazes locking, both rich with emotion, layered and profound.

By the edge of the rooftop fence stood the taller figure, staring intently into the eyes of the slightly shorter one, whose deep brown irises shimmered like captured orbs beneath the moonlight. The man stepped closer, resting casually against the barrier as well—though he stood on stable ground, unlike the other, who seemed one gust of wind away from falling into the abyss below.

No judgment passed from his lips. No sigh escaped him. Only a calm inhale, deliberate and steady. He slipped the guitar case from his shoulder, setting it down beside him with a muffled thud that reverberated through the quiet rooftop.

The other’s grip on the metal fence tightened, his gaze flickering down toward the vast, glittering city beneath them. His black eyes mirrored the chaos and vibrance of life far below.

The guitarist reached into the deep pocket of his jacket and pulled out a single cigarette, accompanied by a worn, crimson lighter. The flame briefly illuminated his face—his dark brown eyes, the faint red liner tracing beneath them, thick brows, and the shadows of exhaustion resting beneath his lashes.

He brought the cigarette to his lips, the glow casting warmth against his bruised, slender fingers. Then finally, something more than smoke emerged from his cracked lips—a voice, low and unhurried.

“You interrupted my usual playing session.”

The other finally looked back at him, guilt washing over his expression like a rising tide.

“Sorry…” he exhaled, voice soft. His grip on the fence tightened further, knuckles turning pale beneath the strain.

The guitarist held his gaze, taking a long drag before exhaling a slow stream of smoke into the cool night air. Wordlessly, he extended his hand, offering the cigarette to the other. Startled, the man at the edge shifted abruptly—his foot scraping against the crumbling rooftop wall, a small piece of it breaking away and tumbling into the darkness below.

A sharp breath caught in his throat, panic flashing in his eyes. But then his gaze fell back on the offered cigarette—still extended, unwavering.

The guitarist raised an eyebrow, his tone smooth and almost amused.

“Do you smoke?”

The question lingered in the air, simple yet oddly intimate. He nudged the cigarette toward him again, insistent but not forceful.

The man clutched the railing tighter, his knuckles pale, eyes flickering with uncertainty.

“No… sometimes… I’m not sure,” he replied softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, you look like you could use one right about now,” came the reply, calm and knowing.

Once again, the guitarist dug into his jacket, retrieving a second cigarette—untouched, pristine. He placed it gently between the other's trembling fingers, watching as he accepted it with care, turning ever so slowly away from the ledge, each movement deliberate, as though the world beneath him might shatter at a single misstep.

He hesitated, glancing sideways, clearly expecting the other to light it for him.

But instead, the guitarist brought his own cigarette to his lips, leaned in—close, almost too close—until the glowing tips of their cigarettes met. A tiny ember passed from one to the other, and for a breathless moment, the space between them disappeared.

The taller man’s eyes widened, pupils dilating. A deep blush spread across his cheeks as he stared into those calm, steady eyes—so collected, so unaffected by the intimacy of the moment.

His cigarette finally caught flame, and he pulled away, exhaling a clumsy puff of smoke that was quickly followed by a soft cough. It was clear he wasn’t used to the act.

But he didn’t let go of the cigarette. Not yet.

The two remained in silence, the gentle hiss of burning cigarettes the only sound between them. Smoke curled into the night air, dancing upward like whispered secrets. When the flames finally died and both cigarettes were nothing more than spent ash, the guitarist plucked them from their lips and flicked them carelessly over the rooftop's edge, sending them spiraling into the darkness below without a second thought.

With a slow exhale, he slid down against the cold metal fence, letting gravity pull him into a seated slouch. The ridges of the barrier pressed into his back, but he didn't seem to mind. Reaching lazily to his side, he retrieved the guitar case and unzipped it with a steady hand.

The case opened to reveal a striking electric guitar—deep red streaked with black, its surface worn but dignified. It had the look of something well-traveled, well-loved. Old stickers clung to the case like faded memories, telling silent stories of places been and nights survived.

He ran his fingers across the strings, almost tenderly, before beginning to play. He didn’t ask for attention, didn’t speak a word—just let the music come. The melody that emerged was raw, yet strangely gentle. It had weight, history, something unspoken tucked within each note. Even without lyrics, it sang.

The boy by the edge leaned forward, drawn to the sound as if pulled by invisible threads. Slowly, cautiously, he climbed over the fence—back onto solid ground, away from the yawning void behind him. He moved like someone waking from a long sleep, every motion careful, deliberate.

He settled beside the guitarist without a word, cross-legged, his gaze fixed on the boy’s hands as they danced fluidly across the strings—telling stories where words had failed.

Time seemed to pause as the two sat in silence, the only sound being the gentle strumming of the guitar. The melody flowed effortlessly, weaving a tapestry of unspoken emotions. Then, softly at first, a voice joined in—a delicate, angelic hum that gradually blossomed into song. The improvised lyrics, though spontaneous, intertwined seamlessly with the music, as if the melody and words were two halves of a whole, destined to find each other.

The guitarist's fingers continued to dance across the strings, his eyes closed, absorbing the harmony they created together. The taller boy, drawn by the music and the moment, inched closer, eventually resting his head gently on the other's shoulder. It was a simple gesture, yet it carried an unexpected intimacy, especially between two souls who had only just met.

After a while, the guitarist exhaled softly, breaking the silence. "Jisung."

The other lifted his head slightly, eyes meeting his in quiet curiosity, as if to ask the unspoken question: Why now?

"That's my name," the guitarist clarified.

A small smile played on the other's lips. "Minho," he replied, allowing his head to settle back onto Jisung's shoulder, finding comfort in the newfound connection.

Another hour slipped by, the two still grounded, now in a different position. Jisung lay on his back, his head resting comfortably in Minho’s lap as he strummed the guitar absently, while Minho stared up at the star-speckled night sky—smoky and dim, yet somehow serene.

The silence between them was vast, almost deafening in its stillness, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that speaks when words fall short. As if the earlier pain, the darkness that once threatened to swallow the night whole, had been temporarily softened by shared presence.

Below them, the usual hum of the city had begun to fade, the restless noise of life surrendering to midnight.

Jisung’s fingers gradually stilled on the strings. His gaze drifted up toward Minho’s face, quietly studying him. Their eyes met again, and for the first time in hours, Jisung spoke.

“How late do you think it is?” he murmured, a sly grin curling his lips. “I should probably get home before my parents realize I climbed out the window again.”

The mischief in his voice lightened the air like a spark, and Minho responded with a small, knowing smile—silent, but full of understanding.

Moments passed, quiet and slow, before they both stood. Jisung began packing up his guitar while Minho lingered by the edge, watching the lights of the city. The wind tugged gently at his hair, and in the golden glow of neon and streetlights, his dark eyes looked vast—beautiful, yet hauntingly hollow.

Jisung watched him for a moment longer, admiring him in stillness. There was something ethereal about him, as though Minho were never quite meant for the world, a fleeting soul who had graced the earth just long enough to make someone feel less alone.

He finally stepped beside him, breaking the silence.

“So,” he asked softly, “do you have any songs you like?”

Minho looked over, eyebrows raised in surprise at the sudden question.

“A few,” he replied, “but there’s one I’ve been really drawn to lately… it’s called Sailor Song.”

Jisung tilted his head, brows furrowed. He didn’t recognize the name—he’d never heard of it. Still, he nodded, adjusting the guitar straps on his shoulders as he turned to leave. Just before passing, he glanced at Minho once more, catching his gaze with a faint smile.

“You know,” he said, voice playful, “you’re not bad company. I wouldn’t mind seeing you up here again tomorrow.Maybe under better circumstances.”

Minho returned the smile, and a soft, airy chuckle slipped from his lips. It was light as a breeze—like a melody sung by something divine.

Jisung smiled in return, then turned on his heels. His footsteps echoed against the rooftop, rhythmic and soft, like rain tapping against water.

“I’ll see you, Minho,” he said over his shoulder.

And with one final glance, he disappeared through the exit door.

---

The next morning, Jisung sat at the breakfast table, staring blankly at a bowl of soggy cereal. Across from him, his father sipped his latte, a newspaper spread in one hand, his eyes darting methodically across the page. In the background, the muffled hum of the television filled the kitchen with the morning news.

His mother stood at the sink, a dish scrubber in hand, working at a stubborn stain on the dog’s bowl. The atmosphere was still and mundane—almost too normal.

Until it wasn’t.

The sound of the television suddenly pulled her attention. She stopped mid-scrub, her eyes locking onto the screen. Her hand flew to her mouth, a gasp slipping past her lips. Her brows knit in shock, grief, empathy.

“Oh my god…” she whispered.

Jisung glanced up, curious. His gaze followed hers to the TV, where a news anchor reported with a somber tone. A headline flashed on the screen:

“18-year-old high school student Lee Minho found deceased beneath apartment tower.”
“Cause of death: Suspected suicide.”

A photo appeared—Minho. Pale, with a tight, practiced smile, the kind taken during school picture days. A name. A number. A headline.

Jisung stared.

Oh.

He should have expected it. A boy he barely knew—standing on a rooftop with only one intention. He should have realized that their brief, midnight connection wasn’t enough to change a mind already set on letting go. And yet, the loss of that stranger burned deep in his chest, hollow and aching. Jisung couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed—that somehow, by leaving first, he had sealed Minho’s fate. That perhaps Minho waited until the silence returned... before stepping off the edge.

But now, none of it could be undone.

That night, with a bit of effort and a familiar sense of rebellion, Jisung climbed out of his window once more. He returned to the rooftop—the same one as before, now absent of the quiet company he’d unexpectedly come to crave. With guitar in hand, he slid down against the same fence and let his fingers fall gently across the strings.

This time, he played a song he didn’t fully know, but one he was determined to learn.
Sailor Song.
He poured feeling into every note, letting memory guide the melody.

When it came time to leave, to slip back into the ordinary world before he was caught, Jisung reached into his side bag and pulled out a small bouquet—chrysanthemums, white lilies, and deep red roses. Without a word, he leaned over the ledge and let the flowers fall into the night, down into the wind and the dark, where they could rest with the memory of the boy who once stood there.

Then, quietly, he walked away.