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NSFW MINORS DNI 🔞

♬⋆.˚ Pairing: Minho x Jisung (Minsung) ♬⋆.˚ Genre: Punk-flavoured enemies to lovers | eventual smut ♬⋆.˚ Chapter Warnings: Heavy cussing throughout. A bit of angst. LOTS OF MUSIC TALK. I feel like I should also warn that it's all very British.

♬⋆.˚ @vinylovervirtue is the RP acct that runs in tandem with this fic

♬⋆.˚ Authors Note: thank you ENDLESSLY to the Minsung Courtiers, for the encouragement with this fic. I genuinely don't think this would have ever left the "brain fart files" if it wasn't for you guys. Thank you for your crash outs, your fic fuel flavoured photos and for your asks. I love you all stupid amounts.

♬⋆.˚ Word count: 5600

⏮ Welcome to Safety Scars HQ ♬⋆.˚ Track 2 ⏭

Track 1: Born to be ODDinary

It is a universal truth, that people are dicks.

Jisung had been told this philosophy seven years ago by his best friend Felix, and, well, it was as true then as it is now.

People, specifically the prick wearing the counterfeit Nirvana t-shirt standing in front of him, are dicks.

The man wags his finger like a magic wand, jabbing with the fervour of someone who believes indignation is a spell powerful enough to make Jisung crumble beneath the weight of his consumer outrage. Yet another millennial, clearly still grieving the Hogwarts letter that never came, now conjuring so-called entitlement from thin air.

“Young man,” he says, again, because once apparently wasn’t enough, “this is outrageous. I’ve been shopping here for years and never had to deal with such ridiculous rules.”

Jisung blinks, deliberately slowly. “Right. And I’ve been breathing air for nineteen years, doesn’t mean I get to tell the atmosphere what to do.”

The man sputters. Actually sputters. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” Jisung says, his patience wearing thin. He leans a hand against the counter. “Our policy’s on the sign. And also on the receipt. And also on the website. And also, if you tilt your head to the left and squint real hard, in the air itself.” He gestures vaguely upward. “See it? Floating between the fluorescent lights and your oversized sense of entitlement?”

“I paid forty-five quid for this, and now you’re telling me I can’t return it?”

Jisung leans forward, elbows on the counter, and gives him another long, slow blink. “No. I’m telling you you can return it. You just won’t get a full refund because it’s scratched to hell.”

“I only played it once.”

“Once, twice, or ten times—you could’ve used it as a dinner plate for all I know. The point is, this”—he taps the edge of the record sleeve—“is no longer in a good playable condition. And our return policy doesn’t cover... user-inflicted vinyl violence.”

The man gasps like Jisung just accused him of clubbing a baby seal.

“I handled it carefully!” he insists, incessant, indignant and insufferable.

Jisung raises an eyebrow and flips open the sleeve with the delicacy of a surgeon. He makes a show of inspecting it, for the second time. The record inside looks like it had been used as a frisbee with an over excited labrador in Greenwich Park. He holds it up, turns it toward the light, and makes a soft, sympathetic noise. “Did you handle it with a fork?”

Fake Nirvana Dude opens his mouth, probably to launch a counterattack with the full weight of his LinkedIn profile, but doesn't get the chance.

“Hey there!” Felix appears out of nowhere, all sunshine grin and weaponised customer service voice. “Everything okay here?”

FND blinks at him.

The Felix Effect™, turned up to full volume for the customers pleasure… or pain. Jisung watches it hit with the force of a dropped amp.

Felix is what you'd get if Tinkerbell learned to snarl and shacked up with Yungblud—half-up dirty blonde hair, part braided, metal glinting from every piercing: ears, snake bites, attitude.

He’s in a red and black tartan skirt and a sleeveless black biker jacket, the leather worn and weathered, shoulders weighed down with hanging chains and safety pins like war medals. A small pansexual pride badge sits pinned above his heart, unapologetic and gleaming.

Black eyeliner wings out from his eyes, so sharp it could slit throats, and he’s got that look—like he could kiss you or kick you, depending on the beat of the next song. The perfect personification of punk rock, swaggering across the floor like he invented anarchy and dressed for the funeral.

If he wasn’t wearing his platform biker boots, he’d be almost one head shorter than Jisung.

But it’s his voice that seals it—that slow, subterranean bass that hums more than speaks, the kind you feel in your chest before your brain can catch up.

Jisung watches FND’s face twist like his ears are scrambling to process the frequency, and he can’t help the smirk tugging at his own mouth.

“Are you the manager?” FND demands the second Felix steps up to the counter. “I want to complain against this—” he waves a hand at Jisung as though he’s trying to determine whether he’s even human. Jisung grins at him, waiting. “this—boy!”

Jisung is disappointed on behalf of FND. If you’re gonna be a dick, at least commit to the bit.

Felix pulls a sad face, bottom lip pouting, “No. Sir, I am not the manager, but perhaps I can assist you?”

Jisung palms the vinyl that FND had brought into the shop and slides it over to Felix. “He would like a refund.”

Felix carefully lifts the record, then frowns at it. “Sir,” he says, with the weary patience of someone spiritually overqualified for this nonsense. “We cannot give you a full refund for this. It’s been badly damaged. Best I can offer you would be…” he hums thoughtfully, considering. “Ten percent of the original cost and hope someone who’s a fan of the band would purchase it to use as an art and craft piece.”

Jisung, vindicated, grins at FND.

“That is how it was sold to me!” FND bellows, all red cheeks and bluster.

“That’s funny,” Jisung says, his patience on the floor now. “Wasn’t what you said five minutes ago.”

“Yes it was!”

Jisung inhales, ready to launch a scathing ‘No it fucking wasn’t’ when Felix says with perfect calmness, “Not a problem—I’ll just review our CCTV and clear this up,” he grins, all Hell’s Angel charm, pointing overhead at the dummy camera staring blindly down at them.

FND blinks up at it, then at Jisung as he makes a noise like a broken hoover. He snatches the record from Felix’s ringed hands with the grace of a toddler mid-tantrum in Tesco.

“I’m never shopping here again!” he declares, as though this were a threat and not a blessing.

“Okay!” Felix calls after him, cheerfully. “Have a nice day!”

“Have the day you deserve!” Jisung chimes in sickly sweet.

Felix elbows him playfully.

With all the grace of someone who believes ‘Hardcore’ is a yoga class, FND sweeps his arm deliberately through a display stand, sending a hundred tiny vinyl band badges, patches, and stickers clattering to the floor in the world’s saddest percussion solo.

The door gives a cheerful ding-dong! as he storms out.

He tries to slam it for good measure, but the soft closer ruins the drama, dragging the door shut with an apologetic shhhh-thunk.

Jisung watches the door for a beat, then sighs. “Somewhere, Kurt Cobain is spinning in his grave fast enough to power a small village in Yorkshire.” He pushes off the counter, muttering, “I’ll get the badges—”

But Felix is already moving, and crouched beside the display, carefully scooping up a tiny Bowie pin. His tartan skirt kissing his knees.

“Go take a break,” Felix says without looking up. “Find something inanimate to kick. That usually makes you feel better.”

“I swear to God,” Jisung grumbles, dragging a hand down his face, “if one more Camden wanker in a Nirvana tee going through a midlife crisis tries to gaslight me about scratches, I’m gonna eat a drumstick. Raw.”

“Don’t diss Camden. You know I like that area.” Felix grins as he scoops fallen badges into the folds of his tartan skirt like it's a makeshift kangaroo pouch. “But I’ll find you a drumstick. Chicken or percussion?”

Jisung chuckles a little at that.

Felix looks up at him, his smile falling for a moment. He gently squeezes Jisung’s calf. “You okay?”

Jisung inhales, twisting his silver thumb ring. “Not really,” he admits only because it’s Felix asking and it’s hard to lie to him. “But I’m okay enough not to punch a fake Nirvana fan, so I guess that’s growth.”

Felix beams up at him. All sunshine and glitter. “Proud of you. You didn’t even mention the shirt was counterfeit.”

“Because I’m, like, so mature now.”

“Mature and petty. Just the way I like you.”

♪ ༘⋆

Outside, the air is cool and crisp, biting at his skin like it’s trying to remind him he’s still alive. Jisung drags in a lungful, lets it out slow. The city smells like wet pavement, petrol fumes, and the sugary ghost of fresh buns from Greggs up the road. A scooter backfires. Somewhere, a siren wails, reminding him that someone is having a far worse day than he is. He stares up at the sky. Solid grey, as indifferent as the Northern line at rush hour.

“Fucking cunt,” he mutters.

Jisung gives a cursory glance before crossing the road, only to get honked at by a black cab overtaking a double-decker. He flips it off. Cabs are allowed to use the bus lane—what the fuck's his deal? Is it officially wanker Wednesday? The cabbie shouts back at him, but Jisung is already moving, dodging a Deliveroo cyclist with far too much energy for eleven a.m.

He makes it to the other side, probably with the same relief the proverbial chicken felt.

His mustard plaid overshirt flies open behind him like a warning sign, Converse slapping pavement with every step, one of them held together with what might be hope and a safety pin. His black beanie pulled low to tame his curling hair, hoodie layered under a faded band tee.

Jisung waves a half-hearted 'morning' at the kiosk worker, who returns it with a knowing nod—this day already sucks for both of them—before pushing open the door of his second favourite haven.

The bell above The Book Nook and Brew dings softly. The sound is almost Pavlovian—his rage already starting to melt with the smell of old pages and fresh espresso.

Warm light pools over mismatched armchairs, worn with stories, and tall shelves stacked with dog-eared books, patiently waiting. There are lamps here and there, everything soft and cozy. It feels like a dozen sitting rooms smooshed together, that perfect mix of personal space and great service.

The farthest wall, drawn with years of sharpies, is a wall of quotes, where readers can add their favourite lines.

Without thinking, Jisung’s eyes flick to the one he scrawled there two years ago, half-faded now under newer layers—“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.” ~ Bukowski.

He hadn’t read it for the poetry or the heartbreak, or even the punkish bite of it. He’d read it because Seungmin had lobbed the thing at his head one day like a brick.

“If you can read, which is debatable,” Seungmin had said, nose buried in something posh and quiet. “Try this. Maybe it’ll humble you.”

And Jisung—out of sheer bloody-minded determination to prove him wrong—had flopped onto the counter right there and started reading out loud. Dramatic voice and all. Hamming it up for the customers who looked at him with a mixture of amusement and displeasure.

Two pages in he stopped reading aloud. It had taken, like, twenty pages before he stopped pretending it was awful. Forty before he stopped snarking entirely.

By the end, he'd been curled on a beanbag by the poetry shelf, sleeves over his hands, the rest of the shop forgotten.

He’d added the quote to the wall the next day. Tiny letters, almost hidden between a Shakespeare sonnet and a Terry Pratchett pun.

And now, every time he walks in, his eyes still find it first.

And every time, right after that—he finds Seungmin.

Seungmin looks like a librarian in an apron—young, but with that quiet maturity only good parenting can be blamed for. His apron’s slightly wrinkled from hours behind the counter, but his posture is effortlessly straight, like he’s been standing in this space for years, watching the world spin from behind the espresso machine.

He’s wearing a soft white cardigan that looks like it was loved by a granddad once upon a time, but Jisung just knows it’s his favourite.

“Who pissed you off this time?” Seungmin asks, already reaching for a cup.

“Some twat in a fake Nirvana shirt tried to return a record he’d clearly wrestled a cat with.” He drops onto a stool, drumming his fingers against the wood.

Seungmin snorts. “Did you let him live?”

“Yes. He actually did the world a favour. It was the kind of record that mere ownership of would’ve gotten me thrown out of any self-respecting venue.”

He drapes himself over the counter with a melodramatic sigh, fingers idly tapping a beat only he seems to hear.

“You can’t just wear the shirt and not feel the noise. Punk’s not fashion—it’s memory. It’s blood in the cracks of a basement floor.”

Seungmin’s eyebrow lifts, but before he can comment on Jisung being lyrically morose again, Jisung’s already moved on.

“Anyway. Felix intervened before I could thump him just to feel better. I think he’s officially earned sainthood.”

Seungmin starts scooping ice into a cup like he’s preparing holy water. “So—regular iced Americano, two shots of vengeance?”

“Make it three.”

He sits up when Seungmin thwacks him with a cloth.

“Minnie,” a voice calls from the far end. “Another espresso for table four.”

It’s practically impossible to stay mad around Jeongin. The soft ginger hair, the dimples, those annoyingly earnest eyes—he radiates a ‘you’re-happy-just-looking-at-me’ energy. It’s like a fucking superpower. Especially when he laughs.

A grin tugs at the corners of Jisung's mouth as Jeongin appears around the corner, balancing a tray of used mugs.

“Oh dear,” Jeongin says, deadpan. “Who did what, when, and why?”

Jisung’s a little peeved that his face is apparently that easy to read.

“Fake Nirvana. Scratched-up record,” Seungmin summarises. “No alibis required this time round.” He adds, to Jeongin’s disappointment. “You taking something for Lix? Or is this a ‘woe is me and my ego’ visit?”

“Firstly, fuck you, I'm a delight,” Jisung says. “Secondly, gimme one of those yellow cake thingies he likes, since he stopped me from committing customericide.”

Across the room someone covers up a chuckle with a cough.

Jeongin’s already at the display, tongs snapping like castanets. He lets out a low giggle—warm, stupidly contagious—the kind that makes you smile before you realise it’s happening. If serotonin had a sound, it would be his laugh.

“How’s my tab looking?” Jisung asks, with the air of a man who already knows the answer.

“Red,” Seungmin says. “Woefully red.”

“Don't at Swift in my direction.”

Seungmin sighs. “Shall we just pretend that you didn’t make the reference all by yourself?”

Jisung is absolutely going to pretend. “I will pay you back. Next cheque.” He draws an X over his chest. “Scout’s honour.”

Jeongin nods toward Jisung’s crossed fingers behind his back with a grin that crinkles his eyes.

Seungmin, knowing him all too well, arches an eyebrow and slides the drink across the counter. “You got kicked out of the Scouts, because you lacked honour. The whole thing with the frog–”

“The frog was unharmed.”

“The leader broke his arm!”

“I didn’t know he had a fear of frogs.”

Jisung stabs the cup cover with a straw like it’s personally offended him, then all but snatches the paper bag from Jeongin as he rises to his feet.

“These are on the house though, right?” he asks as he heads back to the door. “Thanks sweetie! Love you! Bye!”

Jeongin’s laugh follows him out, bright and bubbling like he can’t help it. “Pay your tab, you gremlin!”

♪ ༘⋆

Late afternoon spills into early evening, golden light pooling across the counter and stretching long shadows through the rows of wax. The shop has quieted, bringing with it, the kind of silence that hums beneath your skin.

From the back, Felix is humming something vaguely hostile while he clatters through closing duties. Probably Slipknot, something with blast beats and spite.

Jisung leans on the counter, chin on his palm as his finger skims the delivery list for next week’s second-hand drop. The printed names blur. The usual suspects: Thriller, Rumours, Purple Rain, Born in the U.S.A., Jagged Little Pill—good albums, sure, but they’re everywhere.

Until one catches: London Calling by The Clash. A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth.

That gritty, raw energy. Exactly the kind of thing he puts on when the world gets too loud in the wrong way. Like silence pretending not to care.

The Sex Pistols. Buzzcocks. The Damned. He’s always had a taste for sharp edges. The classic cuts.

Sometimes, he’ll put on Joy Division or The Cure —not for the bite, but for the ache. A different kind of raw. A bruise instead of a blade.

He’s not immune to the newer stuff—he’s spun Arctic Monkeys until the vinyl wore thin, played Fontaines D.C. on rainy mornings like they were gospel, let Loathe seep through his headphones like smoke through a crack in the wall.

He respects a sound that bleeds. Stuff that echoes his own mental soundscape. Bad Omens. Sleep Token. Motionless in White. Bring Me the Horizon. Music that screams back the thoughts he too often gets lost in.

But older vinyl? It doesn’t just sound different. It hears different. You drop the needle and it crackles like it remembers the first time it was played. Like it’s been waiting for someone who just… gets it.

He’s surrounded by records all day, but most of them lack bite. Too polished. Too careful. Curated specifically for mass appeal. But his shelves at home are a homage to the great and the good and the underappreciated.

London Calling would belong there. Now that Jisung thinks about it, it has always been missing and he just hadn’t noticed the silence it left behind.

He checks the notes: VGC. The store's asking price is a little steeper than he’d usually go for (fuck his job for not giving credit or discount) but still doable. If he doesn’t spend money on things he needs... like food.

But Seungmin wouldn’t let him starve for the pleasure of reminding him of that fact. And if he really pushes it, Felix will probably bring over leftover takeaway and act like it was Jisung’s idea in the first place. And Jeongin would slip him under the counter brownies if Jisung pouted and made his eyes big and sad enough.

So, with one housemate who feeds him out of spite, one best friend who feeds him out of denial and another out of pity, what’s the harm?

He chuckles, drawing a little star next to it. It will be his. In just one week.

♪ ༘⋆

Record shops are funny things.

There was a time when they were packed to the rafters. Back when vinyl was king and music lived in grooves you could touch. Then came tapes. CDs. MP3s. And after that? Streaming.

By all logic, record shops should’ve died out completely.

But they didn’t.

Their comeback didn’t start with the old boys—the ones who’d been rocking out at basement gigs before Jisung was even a twinkle in his mother’s eye. No, it was the purists who brought them back. The ones chasing the crackle, the buzz, the imperfections. The ones who believed music should be felt as much as heard.

It’s the same reason vloggers are trading in their smartphones for chunky old camcorders.

Purity.

Or maybe just aesthetics.

Over the years, Jisung’s gotten pretty good at telling the difference.

And he’s betting his collection that The Guy lurking outside the door is an aesthetics guy the moment he lays eyes on him.

Polite version? He looks as out of place as a suit at a basement gig.

Crisp white shirt. Tailored trousers. No jacket, but the gleam of metal at the cuffs—cufflinks. Seriously? The lack of a tie somehow makes him look more put-together, not less. Like a cologne ad whispering timeless elegance in a sultry French accent. Pretentious and definitely flammable.

The man tilts his head, glancing up at the sign—Wax & Wane, like he’s trying to decode a riddle. Or maybe he's just aware he doesn’t belong, but curiosity got the better of him. That kind of intentional pause. Like he lost a bet, and is debating whether he has to follow through.

Jisung narrows his eyes.

Definitely one of those ‘Check out my record collection, babe’ types. Probably here to buy a vinyl he’ll never play, just to impress someone who thinks owning a turntable is a flex.

The Guy reaches for the handle. He doesn’t immediately combust. Shame.

Ding-dong.

Jisung exhales sharply and straightens up behind the counter. Here we go.

The Guy doesn’t head straight for the counter. He hovers for a moment in the centre of the store like he’s getting his bearings. His eyes flick over the records, then land on the far wall. And that’s where he heads—purposeful, like he knows exactly what he’s looking for.

Which… doesn’t fit…

The far wall is the heavier section. The classics section. Jisung’s preferred section. And this…guy is tarnishing it with his starch.

Jisung leans, craning his neck around the poster-covered pillar to keep him in view. He looks a little taller than Jisung. Broad shoulders straining under that shirt. His hair is a silky, almost-black brown that moves like liquid when he shifts. Not too long, not too short—just the kind of cut that says I know what I’m doing, but I’m not trying too hard. He’s got this presence, like he’s carved from marble, every angle and line too perfect to be real.

He flips through the records, each movement graceful but deliberate like he’s someone who’s done this before. He shifts slightly, the last vestiges of sunlight hits his face just so—

And Jisung feels it. The glow. The sharpness of his jawline, the slant of his cheekbones, the way the light catches the edges of his features—it’s like someone took a sculpture and made it breathe. It’s fucking ridiculous.

The Guy flicks through more crates. Moves on. Again. Like he’s looking for something specific. Probably some album his date casually mentioned, all giggly and preppy, with lipstick marking their glass of wine, ‘Oh, I love this song!’—and now he’s out here, after a stressful day sitting behind his computer looking at markets and what-not, trying to curate the perfect moment. ‘Let me play you something I think you’ll like.’

Jisung rolls his eyes, exasperated by the whole routine.

Ugh. Men.

Somewhere out there, a girl is waiting to be impressed by a man just like this one who thinks The Smiths are a personality and a turntable is the ultimate in home decor.

Jisung cranes a little too far, the stool beneath him tipping dangerously. His heart skips a beat as it wobbles, but he slams a hand down on the counter keeping himself from toppling over.

The Guy looks up at the sound of Jisung’s stool slamming back to the floor, beside Jisung’s pride.

“You alright?” Felix calls from the storeroom.

“Yeah. Good,” Jisung answers instinctively. Scooping up his dignity, now slightly bruised, and pulling himself together. Thank everything, that pillar is between him and The Guy.

He pushes off the counter with a sigh, doing his low-paid duty as he makes his way over to The Guy, who’s still flicking through records, so damn intentional.

“Can I help you?” Jisung asks as politely as he can, though he’s thinking, You look lost mate.

The Guy startles, blinking like Jisung’s voice snapped him out of a trance. And—well, fuck. Upclose he’s gorgeous.

It’s not just that he’s attractive. It’s the fact that Jisung’s body reacts before his brain can process it. He’s got the kind of face you want to study for hours—perfectly sharp, perfectly sculpted, with dark eyes that seem to see too much. Lashes that belong on a fucking painting. A nose so sharp, it could cut paper. A bow-shaped mouth that somehow manages to look soft and dangerous all at once. It’s the kind of beauty that makes Jisung’s breath hitch without meaning to. His head goes dizzy for a second.

The Guy doesn’t hesitate. He turns back to the records. “Yeah, I’m looking for a record,” he says, his voice steady and casual.

“Well, we have those.” Jisung winces at the weak response, but he doesn’t have a better one. “Um, the popular section is over by the window.”

The Guy almost smiles. A slight quirk in the corner of his mouth. “Nevermind.”

The word lands like a slap. “If you don’t want help—that’s fine.” Fuck you.

The Guy looks up at him, “The album, Nevermind. Nirvana?”

“Oh.” Of course. Nevermind. The vinyl equivalent of a starter tattoo. Fucking hell. Why couldn’t he just be ugly? “End crate.” He leans against the shelves, forcing himself to focus as The Guy goes to the last crate and starts flipping through records. “You don’t seem like a Teen Spirit guy.”

The Guy doesn’t even look up, just continues thumbing through the vinyl. “I’m not. I prefer Breed.”

Jisung is fucked.

His stomach tightens. Breed. Are you fucking with me right now? That’s the track he’d throw on when he needed to release some anger—raw, honest, relentless. Not something you’d expect from someone who looks... like this.

Okay. Okay. So he’s got taste.

Or… he’s just good at the game…

Jisung’s lips twitch into a smile, but he can’t let it go just yet. He’s got to test this guy, right? He’s not just going to throw around one name and impress him. Impressive as it is.

“Breed huh?” Jisung says, tone sharp but playful. “What about Lithium? You can’t just like one side of the record.”

The Guy responds like it’s nothing. “Lithium’s good. But the real heart of that album is in Something in the Way.”

Holy shit. This guy knows his stuff. He’s not just some clueless jerk looking to impress. He knows the layers. The emotion. Jisung folds his arms. He can’t help it. He needs to push a little further—for the sake of his pride.

“Alright,” Jisung says, feeling the pressure. “What about the deeper cuts? Like Blew or On a Plain?”

The Guy looks back at him now, those dark eyes, all liquid, glinting with a hint of amusement. A ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips.

“I can appreciate On a Plain, but for real, Blew is where it’s at. That’s the one that gets to the heart of the sound. The rawness. No filters.”

Well, bend me over right here, right now.

“But, that was on their debut album, Bleach. Not Nevermind.” He turns away, focussing back on the crate.

Jisung has to actively tell his brain, to tell his jaw to close, which it does with a clack of teeth. He’s not used to being outclassed in his own turf, especially not by someone so… effortless about it. Is this guy even real? Felix doesn’t know half this shit, and they’ve been working here for three years. Excluding the three years before that where they basically made this place home on the weekends.

This guy? Is pretty fucking cool. Not just the knowledge of music, but the confidence—hell, the swagger—to back it up. And here Jisung is, struggling to keep his thoughts straight.

Not that he’s ever been straight.

The Guy speaks in the direction of the vinyl, “I had an accident with my copy the other week, and I want to replace—ha!” He snatches out a record, blue cover with a baby boy underwater chasing a dollar bill. “Thank fuck.”

He’s already walking towards the counter, wallet in hand.

Jisung blinks in confusion, genuinely forgetting that this guy can’t buy anything without him. He follows after him, wiping his palms on the back of his jeans, and slinks behind the till. He starts ringing the order in. “You could’ve found a copy of that online,” he says.

“Don’t trust it,” The Guy responds, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smile. “Last record I ordered looked like my cats had been using it as a scratching post. And I prefer original presses.” He picks up a set of new turntable needles from the counter and adds, “I like the selection you have here. I’ll have to come back when you’re not about to close.” He nods to the shuttered window.

When the fuck did Felix do that?

The Guy looks down at the pamphlets on the counter, lifting one and reading from it. “Howl Night at the Lunar Lounge?”

“Oh, uh, we, the store, sponsor open mics and underground bands. Um, non-mainstream stuff.”

“Sounds cool.”

Jisung fights back a smirk, “Don’t think it’s your scene.”

And The Guy arches an elegant eyebrow at him. “Is that so?”

Jisung has an unbearable urge to check the state of his own hair.

“I’m not sure your Gucci shoes will appreciate the sticky floors.” Jisung doesn’t bother hiding the up-and-down look he gives him. “Your turntable’s safer. Trust me. Less vomit.”

The Guy reads the pamphlet with interest. “Headline act: Safety Scars,” he reads aloud. “Any good?”

“Oh yeah.” Jisung leans on the counter, arms folded, feigning nonchalance. “Not a lot of original songs, but they hit the scene swinging.”

The Guy glances over, curious. “If you had to compare them?”

“To another band?”

He nods and leans in slightly. Fucking hell, he smells good. What is that? Something expensive definitely.

Jisung pauses, considering.

Safety Scars aren’t mainstream. Not even close. No videos, no interviews, no bullshit. Just grainy clips of spare room practices and the kind of vocals that sandpaper your spine. You didn’t stumble on them by accident. You had to look. You had to know where to dig. They were the band talked about by those in the know.

They’d started on Soundcloud—just raw, furious covers—and then, slowly, a few originals slipped through the cracks, like weeds in concrete. Jisung couldn’t explain what their sound did to him. Not properly.

But it got in.

Right under the ribs.

Deep.

Especially the two songs written by their drummer, Bunny. Both tracks hit like bruises blooming under skin. Soft. Aching. They made Jisung feel seen in ways he couldn’t articulate.

Not that he ever, or would ever, say any of that out loud. Not even to Seungmin, who didn’t mind when Jisung got emo about stuff. Definitely not to Felix who would probably punch him on the arm and call him a sap.

The Lunar Lounge would be Safety Scars first ever proper live performance. And Jisung had been counting down the days that he would see them live. For their first official live.

“Um. If I had to describe their sound…” His eyes flick toward the ceiling like the right answer might be stapled to the pipes. “Their kind of a bastard child between The Misfits and Joy Division, but spends the weekends with Metallica—sipping beer in the garage with Arctic Monkeys.” he shrugs, “Punk with dark, atmospheric depth. Raw, fast, sweaty—like a pitbull in a leather jacket. No polish. Just punch.”

“No polish, just punch?” The Guy nods with a downturned smile, pocketing a flier. “So not like Nirvana then?”

Jisung laughs at that. This guy wouldn’t get it. “Kurt said himself that Nirvana was a punk band that wrote pop songs. Aside from the skill of their drummer. No. I wouldn’t compare Safety Scars to Nirvana.” Jisung starts punching buttons on the register.

“You think their drummer is as skilled as Dave Grohl?”

Jisung nods. Confidently. “He is for sure up there with the best of them. Are you paying cash or card?”

“Oh, cash.” He pinches his earlobe—Jisung notices it’s slightly pink and there’s definitely a hole there from an old piercing. He opens a wallet fat with notes.

Of course. It’s such a power move. Yes. I have money. Look at it.

“So you’ve seen them perform before?”

“Nah—this’ll be their first official performance. I’m buzzing to see them live. They’re still starting out, so they predominantly do covers, but they have a few of their own which are pure fire. That’ll be £68.99.”

The Guy is already pulling notes from his wallet, silently counting them out beside the delivery manifest. “You have a favourite cover?”

“Oh, well now… um… maybe Love will tear us apart by—”

“Joy Division.”

“Yeah.”

The Guy nods, smiling like he doesn’t know he’s lethal.

Fuck. That smile should come with a warning.

Jisung was not prepared.

“That’s not really a punchy song though, is it?”

“The way they sing it, it still hurts.”

“You like songs that hurt?”

“I like songs that make me feel things,” Jisung says and as soon as the words leave his mouth, the heat crawls up his neck. He doesn’t fucking know this guy. Why the fuck is he blurting this shit out at him.

The Guy blinks, clears his throat, takes the record and the needles, dropping cash on the counter without a second glance. “Keep the change.”

Jisung’s not sure whether he should be relieved that The Guy’s leaving, or disappointed that the whole thing was so... brief.

“Have a nice day!” He calls after him.

The Guy doesn’t glance back, just raises a hand loosely over his shoulder.

And with the ding-dong of the door, he’s gone.

Jisung exhales. Stares at the empty doorway for a beat too long. Hand still holding the cash.

“Who the fuck was that?” Felix leans halfway out the storeroom, like he teleported in on gossip-sensing radar, eyes flicking to the door, then back to Jisung. “Who were you wishing a nice day to? You never wish anyone a nice day!”

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As mentioned at the start this fic would not have left my drafts without the support of the Minsung Courtiers: @blueohs @shipwithnocaptain @0sunshinecryptid0 @splittergheist @kaelavee @thebibleophile @soechangbinsrightboob @azraelyz @pixelisthename @platypusundercover @they-reap-what-we-sow <3

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