02: Hi, Will You Marry Me?

“What’s with the long face?”

Hajoon twists the combination to his locker, and it springs open with a rustic clang. “Wait, no. Don’t tell me. Somebody stole your slippers outside your apartment again. Or you’re behind on bills. Or... your cat’s sick?”

Sighing, Yohan buttons his navy blue vest over his crisp white collared shirt—basic uniform. No employee at the Blue Rose Jazz Bar is allowed to look “unpresentable,” or so his manager says. Hajoon places a lot of emphasis on first impressions, though it’s probably just an elaborate excuse to dress up all fancy to “match the setting’s smoky atmosphere.” Whatever.

“Worse,” Yohan mutters.

“And here I thought you couldn’t have possibly looked any gloomier than you usually do. Is Madeleine okay?” Hajoon shakes a can of hairspray. “Why so angsty?”

If it wasn’t already obvious, Yohan’s not the find-someone-and-settle-down type. He keeps it simple. Roof over his head, food on the table, cat in his lap. Never in his twenty-five years of existence did he ever imagine the day would come where he’d lament, “...I need to get married.”

The jiggling sound of the hairspray can ceases, and the spraying noise stops. Silence hangs between them so loudly that Yohan hears the rush of the air vents in the ceiling.

Hajoon is staring at him. “Yohan. Are you on drugs?”

“You’re making me sound like a cynic misanthrope hermit crab.”

“Correction,” Hajoon intercepts, looking like he’s finally recovering from the initial shock. “A cynic misanthrope hermit crab who also happens to be a ruthless punctuality snob.”

“My most redeeming qualities.”

“You’re welcome.” His manager smooths his gel-slicked hair and shuts his locker. “But that’s beside the point. Correct me if I’m wrong, but did I just hear you say the M-word?”

Yohan’s deadpan stare gives it all away.

“Shocking.” Hajoon emits a low whistle. “I have so many questions.”

“And I have so many pieces to get through before the night is over.” Yohan reluctantly puts on the small, fake teal blue rose on his breast pocket—the finishing touch, cherry on top, according to Hajoon—and picks up his sheet music. “That piano’s not gonna play itself.”

“This conversation is not over!” Hajoon bellows when Yohan steps through the curtains that lead into the Blue Rose’s mini stage. “You have a lot of answering to do!”

Yohan only huffs under his breath, then sits on a low, black leather bench in the middle of the wooden stage.

The first touch of the ivory keys sends his mind to a different realm, and for the first time since the chaos of this morning Yohan closes his eyes and relaxes completely, losing himself to a medley of Davis and Ellington and Sinatra’s bests.

It’s different, with music. Yohan doesn’t have to put on a smile, doesn’t have to think, just lets his fingers dance down the piano as if his bones and the keys are made of the same ivory. Playing at the Blue Rose might only be a part-time weekend gig, but it’s a sacred window of time to him.

Whenever he lets muscle memory take over, playing pianissimo to serve as background ambience, Yohan allows his gaze to roam while patrons sashay in and out of the underground jazz bar.

Most of them are regulars, beloved customers who return time and again. There’s Yeonjun and Seunghwan, striding in arm-in-arm while exchanging secret smiles only forbidden lovers understand. There’s also the Japanese ‘benefactor’ who always arrives with a different lady each week.

Most of the faces here are familiar, but occasionally they do get newcomers.

Like this one.

The first thing Yohan notices is his hair—sunburst gold, so effortless in the way each strand swishes this way and that that you’d think it grew out of the guy’s head naturally.

The second thing that grabs Yohan’s attention is the way the young man walks—like the world is a stage and he owns it. He’s not that tall; perhaps even the same height as Yohan, but when he walks it’s like the entire room holds its breath and shifts to accommodate his presence. And Yohan’s not the type of guy to be fazed by first impressions, but when the young man looks up and catches him staring, his heart tumbles backward and Yohan ends up pressing the wrong key at the wrong time.

What comes out of the piano is a pathetic, off-beat, wrong note.

Grimacing, Yohan rips his gaze away and focuses back on the music—lest he get fired for messing up such a simple piece—but his senses are hyper-aware of which booth Blondie chooses to sit, and Yohan is pleasantly surprised to realize that it’s at the table 2 meters across him.

Focus, Min Yohan.

It’s just another attractive stranger. That’s it. No need to lose his wits over one face.

Yohan takes a deep breath and forces his eyes to stay low on the keys, even though they’re itching to stray back to where he sits.

The guy’s probably taken anyway.

And... surprise surprise, he’s not wrong.

Because not more than ten minutes later, a man built like bricks strides into the club like a bulldozer, nearly colliding into a poor waiter before sliding into the booth to press a sloppy kiss to Blondie’s cheek.

Yohan purses his lips.

A smile blossoms across Blondie’s face, and he leans in to whisper into his boyfriend’s ear.

Yohan averts his gaze. They’re always taken, at the end of the day. Disappointed but not surprised.

The rest of the night blurs by. He may or may not have slammed the piano too hard. It even gets to the point where Hajoon waltzes past where Yohan’s piano pedestal stands, whispering surreptitiously behind his hand, “Tone down the angst a bit, won’t you?”

Only when Yohan reaches the second-to-the-last song of the night does the chaos ensue.

Don’t get him wrong, it’s not like he was deliberately eavesdropping. It’s just kind of hard not to listen when two people start a screeching match two feet away from you.

It’s also hard not to look, because as much as Yohan hates disruption in his life, he can’t say he hates witnessing drama. He’s a busybody like that.

Look but don’t meddle: that’s his personal policy.

“You’re what?” he hears Blondie exclaim, high-pitched and petulant.

The guy next to him—his boyfriend, Yohan presumes—lets out a string of hurried murmurs that he can’t hear, but the next thing he knows, Blondie is dropping a string of loud curses left and right as if he’s beatboxing each word.

Then he picks up a wine glass and dumps its cherry-red liquid contents into his boyfriend’s face.

Yohan has to remind his fingers not to seize up while playing.

“Yeohwan, wait. Babe—“

“Don’t ever call me that,” Blondie snaps, eyes red with outrage. “Especially not when you’ve been engaged this whole fucking time, Choi Johyeon. How gracious of you to only inform me now.”

Behind the piano, Yohan’s eyes widen and his jaw drops. Well, damn.

“But we can always keep this up, you know?” argues the asshole, which has Yeohwan’s hand smacking the side of his face.

“Don’t make me your side project,” Yeohwan bites out, and Yohan can’t help but press each key faster, speeding up the tempo to somehow accompany this tension.

“Tell you what,” Yeohwan spits out, intentionally making his voice ring out across the entire bar. “And this bar is my witness. You’re getting married next month? Well, Choi Johyeon, guess what.”

Tears are welling up in his eyes—Yohan can see the breakdown from 50 yards away.

“If you can get married, then so can I,” Yeohwan continues, his voice breathy and cracking at the end. “I swear I will marry the first man I run into, from now on. Just you fucking wait and see, dirtbag.”

At his words, Yohan’s hands pause, hovering over the piano keys.

What?

He swears he’s hearing things. He must be getting desperate, and the prospect of inheriting ten billion won is messing with his perception.

Yohan doesn’t get to ponder this over, because the next moment, Yeohwan picks up his things and scoots out of his booth seat unceremoniously.

“Yeohwan, wait—“

“You have no right,” Yeohwan half-growls, half-whimpers. “You have no right to— oh!”

At the last moment, Yeohwan trips over one side of the table leg jutting out of the booth, and he falls, almost in slow motion...

...and barrels face-first into Yohan’s chest.

Later, Yohan will regret sliding out of the safety of his piano bench and acting before thinking. Later, he’ll question what the hell could’ve gotten into him for being so brash and bold and dumb.

Right now though, as he holds this wide-eyed stranger steady, all he rasps out is a low, despairing, “Hi. Will you marry me?”

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