smoke.

chapter 1

I'm looking for something. Something to inspire me, something that drugs can't induce. I need something real and beautiful. Lately, everything I've done has been lacklustre and I don't know what to do about it. I've been walking the streets of Manhattan, searching for anything. I've even asked one of my friends to bring me interesting pictures he's taken. Nothing has been sticking out to me. The world is now in black and white, without a spot of colour. I have nothing, no inspiration, no muse. I just hope to find one soon.

~

When Sehun returns, I'm sprawled out on the fainting couch in the main room, a cigarette still hanging from my lips. The room is hazy, filled with smoke.

"Any luck?" he asks, shutting the door behind him. I slowly shake my head and take another drag on the cigarette.

"There's nothing. you?" I flick the cigarette across the room.

"Well, I have pictures, mostly people. Wanna see?" he says, folder in hand. I shrug and roll off the couch, landing on my back. Sehun walks over and drops the folder next to me. I roll over and flip the folder open. The first picture is of a high rise building, half obscured with fog. It's nice, but not what I'm looking for. I set it aside and continue looking through the photos. The second is a girl, who looks like she's trying too hard to be Brigitte Bardot. Long blonde hair up in a headband, eyes half closed as she blows a cloud of smoke out of her almost-too-large lips. She's leaning up against a brick wall, dressed all in black. I will admit, she's pretty, and the picture is stunning, but it's not what I'm looking for. After going through at least a dozen more photos, I reach the last one, and I feel my heart stop.

"Who is this?" I ask, not taking my eyes off of it.

"Oh, a singer in a club a few blocks away. He's really good. I can't remember his name, though-" I stand up and rush to the door, grabbing my coat.

"What's the name of the club?" I say, already halfway out the door.

"I think it was 'K. Song' or something like that. I just found it when I was out taking photos." he replies.

"Great. You can show me how to get there, come on." I start out the door, Sehun following behind. I don't bother to lock the door; I never do. When I get to the front of my apartment building, I stop and wait for Sehun.

"Which way?" I ask. He points to the left and we start to walk in that direction. I can't seem to walk fast enough, yet Sehun struggles to keep up. I want to see that singer. All I'm thinking about is that photograph. I'm picturing the man in it, sitting on a bar stool in front of a microphone. The photo is black and white, but I can see the slight bluish tint of the cigarette smoke that swirls around him. His dark, yet bright eyes seem to be staring straight into the camera, daring it to venture closer. His dark hair frames his face perfectly, and a few strands fall in his eyes. One of his hands is curled around the mic stand in a way that shows off his slender fingers. Because the microphone obscures most of his face, I can only see part of his mouth, turned up in a smirk. It's beautiful. Sehun shaking my shoulder pulls me from my reverie.

"We're here." he says. We're standing outside a stereotypical ,hole-in-the-wall-looking joint, with a few tables with wooden chairs outside. No one is seated outside, but through the dingy windows, we see that the club is nearly crowded. We enter the building and push our way through to the bar on the far side of the club, by the stage. Someone onstage is reading a poem out of a notebook. Someone else is keeping time with some bongos. They're off what the beat should actually be. Sehun and I find two empty seats at the bar and sit down, shedding our coats. It's much warmer in here than it is out in the dead of the New York winter. I scan the room, looking for the man in the photograph. It's hard to see through the smoke, and a lot of people have dark hair. I guess I'll have to wait until he performs... if he performs.

"Can I get you cats anything?" someone says. I turn around to see a guy with a goatee leaning against the counter.

"Can I just get a coffee?" I ask.

"Same here," Sehun adds.

"Sure thing. Be right out." he says before he disappears behind a door. Sehun and I turn back to the scene in front of us. There are people everywhere, and one would think they all just came from a funeral. There's nothing to be seen through the smoke other than black. I have to admit, it's oddly comforting to see this monochromatic madness. Mixed with the scent of cigarette smoke and coffee, it feels like what home should be. I hear snapping, and I know that the poet is finished. I see someone else take the stage, standing in front of the microphone. I can't make out his features, so I don't know if this is him.The room gets quiet.

"Um, hello again. I'm Baekhyun, for those that are new. Today, I will be performing Bob Dylan's 'Blowin in the Wind.' Thank you." he takes a step back from the microphone to take a deep breath before he starts. He has no accompaniment. "Come gather 'round, people, wherever you roam, and admit that the waters around you have grown..." I stop breathing. Even though I can't see his face clearly, I know that this is him. His voice is ethereal and sensual all at once, somehow captured perfectly in Sehun's photograph. He sings the song higher than the original, but it's beautiful, especially when there's no instrumentation to obscure it. His voice washes over the venue, and seems to melt the smoke away, clearing the air, filling every corner. It feels warm. Not the kind of warm where the room is full of too many people, but warm like a cup of tea in the dead of winter. Like being curled up under a blanket in the arms of a lover. I am mesmerised. I am in love.