comment_fic | Thursday: Beloved and Treasured Things

Hi again, and welcome! I’m

creepy_shetan, your host this week. How's your "2024" writing practice going?

As a reminder, for January, we will be trying a new posting schedule. Sundays are for Lonely Prompts and sharing the fills that you completed during the week, Tuesdays and Thursdays are for new themes and prompts, and Saturdays will remain a Free for All.

With that being said, here's ✎ today's theme: beloved and treasured things. Prompts can be about or feature anything that a character holds dear. Something they fought hard for? A memento of a good memory? A family heirloom? Something seemingly worthless to anyone besides them? Tangible or intangible, if it's something they have and would hate to part with, it's fair game.

Just a few rules:
No more than five prompts in a row.
No more than three prompts in the same fandom.
Use the character's full names and the fandom's full name
No spoilers in prompts for a month after airing, or use the spoiler cut option found here.
If your fill contains spoilers, warn and leave plenty of space, or use the above-mentioned spoiler cut.

Prompts should be formatted as follows: [Use the character's full names and fandom's full name]
Fandom, Character +/ Character, Prompt

Some examples to get the ball rolling...
+ Resident Evil (game/CGI 'verse), Sherry Birkin (+ any) (/Jake Muller), she still has/wears Claire's red jacket (and something of Leon's?) from Raccoon City
+ any video game fandom, any +/ any, "Why do you carry around that old [item]?"
+ author's choice, any, someone breaks or throws away something they've used in their kitchen for many years

We are now using AO3 to bookmark filled prompts. If you fill a prompt and post it to AO3 please add it to the Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2024 collection. See further notes on this option here.

Not feeling any of today’s prompts? You can use LJ’s advanced search options to limit keyword results to only comments in this community.

While the use of LJ's advanced search options is available, bookmarking the links of prompts you like might work better for searching in the future.

If you are viewing this post on our Dreamwidth site, please know that fills posted here will not show up as comments on our LiveJournal site, but you are still more than welcome to participate. =)

If you have a Dreamwidth account and would feel more comfortable participating there, please feel free to do so… and spread the word! comment_fic

tag="beloved and treasured"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

nagi_schwarz

Seonghoon looked up when the bells above the door jingled.

The teenage boy who slipped into the shop was probably taller than Seonghoon, but still slender in the shoulders, whipcord thin. Seonghoon wouldn’t have put him much past eighteen based on his build, but he had a strong, severe brow, and something about the intensity of his gaze made him seem much older.

The boy — he wore a tank top under a jacket, and a pair of black skinny jeans that showed off every shift of the muscle in his thighs — made a beeline straight to Seonghoon’s desk.

He reverently placed an old shoe box on the desk, opened the lid to reveal pair of thoroughly worn-out canvas sneakers, and bowed.

“Welcome, customer.” Seonghoon peered at the boy over the top of his glasses, then set down his mallet and awl, swiveling on his chair to face the boy. “What can I do for you?”

“Sir, can you fix these shoes? They don’t sell this kind anymore, but they’re my favorite shoes.”

The soles had completely worn through in some spots, but given how the stitching had come loose and the soles were flopping loose from the canvas, patching the holes wouldn’t save the shoes. They were dirty and stained and had been used within an inch of their lives and then the whole nine yards beyond.

Seonghoon looked back up at the boy, whose expression was solemn.

“Student,” Seonghoon said gently, “there’s no saving these shoes.”

The boy’s face fell.

Seonghoon eyed the canvas shoes. They were hardly anything special. He didn’t even recognize the brand insignia on the back of the heel, which meant they weren’t even particularly expensive or popular. That was probably why they’d been discontinued — because the brand had gone under.

Seonghoon said, “What’s so special about these shoes?”

“I’m a dancer,” the boy said. “They’re the best shoes to dance in. You can do anything in them — jazz, modern, hip-hop, popping, breaking, even street tap and basic ballet.”

Seonghoon had never imagined that he’d hear ballet and hip-hop in the same sentence. He glanced toward the back of the workshop, where a pair of pink satin pointe shoes hung from the wall, waiting for a dancer who would never return. His sweet Bitna had never had to break in her shoes the way other ballerinas did, because he’d always made them just how she liked them, with the flexible shank and thinner insole.
Seonghoon said, “If you really wanted, I could just make you a new pair.”

The boy raised his eyebrows. “As in…the exact same pair?”

“You could pick another color for the canvas if you like.” Seonghoon turned the left shoe over in his hand, inspecting the stitching, the shape and thickness of the sole and insole. “It’s a fairly simple design.”

“Black is fine. It goes with everything,” the boy said, reaching into his wallet. “How much?”

“I don’t know how much for certain, but I can give you an estimate.” Seonghoon set the shoe back down on the desk and rifled underneath for his order ledger and receipt book. “Half up front?”

The boy nodded, drawing out a wad of cash that was frankly unsafe to carry in this part of town.

Seonghoon eyed the boy’s trendy jeans and expensive watch and gleaming silver ring embedded with a tiny amethyst gem and wondered what such a boy was doing in this part of town.

“How did you find this place?” he asked, keeping his tone casual, as he calculated how much canvas he’d need, whether he had the right kind of grommets for the laces or would need to buy custom.

“Ah, my mother recommended it to me,” the boy said. “She said her uncle knew a good shoemaker who’d moved up here.”

Seonghoon raised his eyebrows at moved up here. “Your mother’s uncle is from Jinju?”

The boy nodded. “Yes. I was born and raised there, too, before I moved here for school.”

And like that, Seonghoon could hear the faintest traces of a southern accent, in the cadences and lilts of the boy’s voice.

“You must have moved here when you were quite young. You don’t have much of an accent anymore,” Seonghoon said.

The boy hadn’t commented on Seonghoon’s accent the way many people did, even children, come to think of it.

“My roommates make fun of my accent, and people think I sound rude if I speak with my native accent, so I’ve done my best to adjust,” the boy said, shrugging, but Seonghoon could read discomfort in the tightness of the boy’s shoulders and the corners of his mouth.

“People can be intolerant about the smallest things sometimes,” Seonghoon said. He spun the ledger around for the boy to read, with a list of supplies and an estimated cost.

“Could be a bit more, could be a bit less by the time the job is done,” Seonghoon said.

The boy read it over carefully, and Seonghoon could practically hear the abacus clicking away in his mind before he nodded and held out cash.

It was exactly half the amount of the estimate.

“About how long will it take?” the boy asked.

Seonghoon scanned the list of his work orders, most of which were simple patch jobs and stitch repairs and sole replacements. “Two weeks.”

The boy nodded.

Seonghoon tucked the money into the cash box. “Your name?”

“Park Minhyuk.”

“And a good phone number to reach you at?”

Minhyuk rattled it off, and added, “Thank you, sir.”

Seonghoon passed Minhyuk a business card. “Thank you for coming in. See you in two weeks.”

Minhyuk bowed left the shop. His thoroughly worn-out shoes remained on the desk in the battered old shoe box. Judging by the label on that box, it was the box the shoes had originally come in.

Seonghoon shifted the box to his work table, curious about the best shoes a dedicated dancer could buy.
For earnest Park Minhyuk from Jinju, he’d do his best.

*

Two weeks later, Seonghoon called Minhyuk to let him know that his shoes were ready to pick up.

An hour later, the bells above the door jangled, and there was Minhyuk, wearing the same black skinny jeans — they didn’t look all that comfortable to dance in — and a pair of canvas shoes similar to the ones Seonghoon had made for him.

Seonghoon blinked when Minhyuk doffed his baseball cap. Was it just Seonghoon’s imagination, or was Minhyuk’s hair lighter? A shade of brown that was surely not natural to native Koreans. Unless Minhyuk was only half? His mother and her family were from Jinju, yes, but what about his father? Only Park was a Korean name. Unless he just went by a Korean name for convenience? To fit in better at school. He’d mentioned moving to Seoul for school.

Seonghoon knew well how teenagers could be cruel to someone they perceived as different. He glanced back at the ballet shoes, then back at Minhyuk.

A taller, broader young man was trailing him. He was wearing a black beanie and thick glasses, wrapped in a much warmer jacket.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he was saying. “You have money. You can buy any shoes you want.”

“I like these shoes. They’re the best to dance in,” Minhyuk insisted. “And not just because you bought them for me.”

“Far be it from Park Minhyuk to place sentimental value in anything,” the other man muttered.

Minhyuk ignored him and greeted Seonghoon with a polite bow.

Seonghoon rolled toward the desk and placed the new shoe box on it. When Minhyuk approached, Seonghoon lifted the lid. “Would you like to try them on?”

“Yes, please.” Minhyuk peered into the box.

His friend peered right over his shoulder. “Are those the new shoes? Wow. They look just like the old ones.”

Minhyuk glanced at Seonghoon. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

He immediately toed off his shoes, then knelt to put on the new ones and tie the laces. He straightened up and wiggled his toes, bounced up and down, testing the give of the canvas and the flexibility and softness of the soles.

“How are they?” Seonghoon asked.

Minhyuk’s friend stepped back, and Minhyuk shook his limbs out. Then he stepped back, and Seonghoon recognized the set of his arms, the angle of his legs, before he spun into a graceful ballet pirouette. He came out of it with a flourish and a bow.

When he straightened up, he smiled at Seonghoon. “Thank you very much. They’re perfect.” He kept the shoes on, shoving the other pair into a plastic bag and then into his backpack. He stepped up to the desk and reached into his pocket for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

Seonghoon showed him the ledger so he’d understand the cost breakdown.

Minhyuk’s friend raised his eyebrows when Minhyuk once again drew a wad of cash out of his wallet.

“Yah — you shouldn’t carry that much cash around.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t usually,” Minhyuk said, and counted out a stack of bills that he then gave to Seonghoon with both hands.

Seonghoon accepted them and didn’t bother counting them again on account of having counted with Minhyuk, just put them into the lock box.

“What are you going to do when this pair wears out?” Minhyuk’s friend asked.

He had, Seonghoon noticed, pale pink hair sticking out from beneath the edges of his beanie.

“Ask Seonghoon-ssi to make me a replacement pair, obviously,” Minhyuk said.

Seonghoon pushed the old shoe box across the desk. “I didn’t know if you still wanted these or not, so I didn’t throw them out.” Anyone in their right mind would have thrown such useless shoes out, but he knew what it was like, to be sentimental about a useless pair of shoes.

Minhyuk picked up the box reverently. “Thank you for saving them. They mean a lot to me. And the next time I need a new pair, I’ll bring them back. I don’t want my shoes to be copies of copies, after all. I want them to be copies of the original pair.”

Minhyuk’s friend looked deeply amused. “So you do know how to be sentimental.”

Minhyuk shot him a look. “Don’t you have anything of mine you keep to remember me by?”

His friend let out a burst of startled laughter. “Why would I? We live together.”

Minhyuk pouted a little, then turned back to Seonghoon. “Thank you so much.” He bowed again.

“I enjoyed the challenge,” Seonghoon said. “Happy dancing.”

Minhyuk’s friend reached out and patted Minhyuk’s shoulder. “Dancing is the number one thing that makes this kid happy.”

Minhyuk shook his hand off. “You’re certainly not number one anymore.” He bowed to Seonghoon again, and then he strode out of the shop, his friend trotting after him, entreating, tone a little wheedling, Come on, I’m still your favorite hyung, right? You like me better than Jinwoo and Myungjun for sure.

Seonghoon watched them go and hoped dancing really did make Minhyuk happy.

Then he turned to his next repair job, a small patch on a sole of a fine leather dress shoe, and put Minhyuk out of his mind.

From:

nagi_schwarz

A year and a half later, Park Minhyuk returned, this time alone, and this time also sporting dark pink hair.

Was he some kind of gangster?

Seonghoon had imagined, idly, looking up Park Minhyuk the dancer, but outside of answering customer and business emails, he and the internet didn’t get along well.

Besides, he’d been pretty sure he’d never see Park Minhyuk again.

Yet here the boy was — a man now, definitely finished with high school, his features sharper and stronger, the sweetness of adolescence gone from his face, his shoulders broader.

“You need a new pair of dancing shoes?” Seonghoon asked when Minhyuk placed a familiar shoe box on the desk.

Minhyuk nodded. “You remember.”

“It was an odd request you made, but an enjoyable project. Made from the old pair?”

“Yes, please. Half up front, same as last time?”

Seonghoon nodded, and once again Minhyuk counted out money from a ridiculous stack of bills. He stood still, patient, not fidgeting or poking at his phone, while Seonghoon wrote up another job estimate and logged it in his job ledger. He showed it to Minhyuk, who nodded.

“Two weeks, same as last time,” Seonghoon said, after Minhyuk handed him the stack of carefully counted-out bills.

“Thank you, sir.” Minhyuk bowed and left the shop.

Seonghoon eased open the shoe box, and there they were, the original worn-out pair. How long had Minhyuk had this original pair? And just how hard had he been dancing, that he already needed a new pair?

Two weeks later, when Minhyuk came to pick up the shoes, he was accompanied by his same tall friend from last time, though this time his friend had pale blue hair. Seonghoon kept his misgivings about unnaturally-colored hair to himself. All growing up, the only men who’d bleached and dyed their hair odd colors had been gangsters. Now kids seemed to dye and color themselves willy-nilly. Bitna would never have had such outlandish hair colors. It wasn’t done, for a proper ballerina.

Two weeks later, when Minhyuk returned for the shoes, he did some more ballet moves to test them, and Seonghoon wondered if Bitna would have liked having pink hair, maybe to match her shoes.

Seonghoon didn’t expect to see Minhyuk after that.

And he didn’t.

Until three and a half years later.

At first he didn’t recognize the man with the sharp cheekbones and laser-intense gaze and platinum blond hair who swept into his shop and came to stand at the desk. And then he bowed, and when he straightened up and said hello, Seonghoon recognized his voice.

“Hello. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Park Minhyuk. I’m in need of a new pair of dance shoes, if you still make custom shoes.” He pushed the old battered shoe box across the desk.

“Two weeks, same as always,” Seonghoon said. “It’s good to see you again. I thought you’d given up dancing.”

“I thought I had for a while too,” Minhyuk said softly.

“I’m glad you’re still dancing — and not just because you’re bringing me business.” Seonghoon still had a copy of the old work order tucked into the back of his ledger, that he transferred to every new ledger, just in case. While he wrote it up, he said, “Your friend didn’t come with you this time?”

“Ah, no. He’s — not with us anymore.”

Minhyuk’s voice was steady, but Seonghoon lifted his head sharply anyway.

“I’m very sorry,” he said.

Minhyuk just inclined his head politely.

Seonghoon finished writing up the order and showed Minhyuk the estimate. While Minhyuk was counting out cash, Seonghoon glanced over his shoulder at the lonely pink pointe shoes. He’d have given anything to see their owner dance one more time.

Minhyuk handed over the cash. “Two weeks?”

“Two weeks.”

Minhyuk bowed one last time, then strode out of the shop.

Seonghoon watched him go, then opened the shoe box and peered inside at the familiar tattered and crumbling shoes. For the first time, he noticed a message, almost illegible, scribbled on the inside of the box.
Happy Birthday, my Minhyukie! Let’s dance together forever, okay? Always cheering for you! Your Bin-hyung.

Seonghoon took the shoes out of the box and closed it, and he set to work. He hoped the shoes he made helped Minhyuk dance for a long time.

*

Minhyuk was still pale blond when he came to pick up the shoes. He paid in cash, and he bowed respectfully, and he tucked the box with the new shoes into his backpack. He hugged the old box with the old shoes to his chest as he left, his gaze hollow but the set of his jaw determined.

Seonghoon watched him go and wished him well, then resumed work. He had a lot to get done before he closed the shop for the holiday. For the first time in a long time he’d be spending both Christmas and New Year’s in Jinju with his sister and her family instead of being by himself.

His sister had a couple of teenage daughters who’d been much younger than Bitna the last time he’d seen them but were now about the same age she’d been before the accident.

While Seongja and her older daughter Naeun were in the kitchen baking the traditional Christmas strawberry cake, Seonghoon was sitting on the sofa in the den half-playing a game of baduk against himself while her younger daughter Haeun sat in front of the TV doing homework and also watching some kind of musical documentary about a K-pop group she was into.

“Haven’t you ever heard of Astro?” she asked.

“I mostly listen to trot,” he said patiently.

“Have you ever heard of Cha Eunwoo?”

Seonghoon considered. “Name’s familiar. Is he a soccer player on a foreign team?”

“Uncle,” Haeun protested. “He’s only the most popular and handsome actor in Korea, and one of the best-looking idols. His idol group his Astro.”

“Unless he sings trot,” Seonghoon began.

Haeun straightened up. “He actually does! In this concert. One of his teammates won on a trot show, but he’s doing his military service now, so for this concert Eunwoo did a cover of his song.” She pointed to the screen. “There he is! That’s Cha Eunwoo!”

Seonghoon blinked at the television, confused.

There were five young men on the screen at the moment.

“Which one is he?”

“Uncle, Cha Eunwoo’s face is on the label of your soju bottle.” Haeun pointed.

Seonghoon looked at the green bottle on the side table that he’d been sipping from all evening. Indeed, a smooth-faced young man was on the label. “Oh. Is that who that is? I usually focus on what’s inside the bottle.”

Haeun rolled her eyes. “Uncle, don’t you care about anything fun?”

“I care about shoes. Shoes are fun,” Seonghoon said.

Haeun just shook her head and got back to her homework.

Seonghoon resumed his game.

And then he heard a familiar voice.

He lifted his head sharply, and — stared.

At Park Minhyuk.

Who was on the television screen, showing off a pair of shoes, the shoes Seonghoon had made, talking about how they were his favorite but had been discontinued, so he’d had new ones made, because good shoes were important and helped him dance well.

Seonghoon cleared his throat. “Who’s that?”

Haeun said, without looking up, “That’s not Cha Eunwoo. That’s Rocky.” Then she twisted around. “His real name is Park Minhyuk. He’s from Jinju. There are several popular idols from Jinju now, like Seonghwa and San from Ateez.”

Seonghoon said, faintly, “He has a bit of an accent still.”

Haeun nodded and turned back to the screen, humming happily. “He’s such an amazing dancer. Just watch and see. You’ll be super impressed. He studied ballet when he was little, and tap dance too.” She added, almost to herself, “Cousin Bitna liked him a lot.”

Seonghoon leaned forward and watched Minhyuk perform, watched him dance. He was no authority on what made a good or bad idol performance, or really even good or bad dancing beyond what was pleasing to the eye, despite Bitna’s best efforts in trying to educate him about good dancing.

Still, Minhyuk was a pleasure to watch, all clean lines and smooth turns, light on his feet, making everything effortless even though Seonghoon well knew from the state of Minhyuk’s shoes and their replacement rate that he danced hard. On top of dancing well, Minhyuk had a lovely singing voice, strong and clear, with good range.

Haeun said, “Rocky isn’t actually in Astro anymore. He left the group. And then one of them passed away. Rocky had his solo debut last month, though. He’s making music again. We’re all really glad to see him doing well and doing what he loves, even if he’s not with the team anymore.”

She spoke of him with such fondness, as if he were a family friend, even though she’d probably never met him in real life.

Seonghoon said, “Losing someone is hard. I’m glad he’s healing.”

Haeun cast Seonghoon a sympathetic look, and she even climbed up on the sofa to sit beside him.

“You want to see which song was Cousin Bitna’s favorite?”

Bitna had never talked to Seonghoon much about her favorite celebrities, sharing with her mother instead.
Seonghoon supposed he could share this with her now.

Haeun used the remote to open up the menu to navigate to another section of the DVD. “This is always their concert encore. It’s called Call Out.”

*

The next time Park Minhyuk came into the shoe shop, he had dark hair, and a taller figure was trailing along behind him. Something about the shape of the taller boy’s face was familiar.

“Hyung, what is this place?”

“It’s a shoe shop,” Minhyuk said patiently.

“Why are we in a shoe shop?” He had faint traces of a southern accent too.

“To get the best dancing shoes ever.”

When Minhyuk and the other boy stood side-by-side at the desk, Seonghoon could see that they were brothers.

“Welcome back,” Seonghoon said. “Do you need a new pair of dancing shoes already?”

Minhyuk said, “Can you make a pair for my younger brother?”

Seonghoon nodded. “Yes I can. You brought the old pair?”

Minhyuk reached into his bag for a familiar battered shoe box. It was taped around the edges now. “Always. Two weeks?”

“Two weeks.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m always glad to make good dancing shoes for a fine dancer.” Seonghoon glanced over his shoulder at the pointe shoes, then smiled at Minhyuk.

He had new shoes to focus on, but the old shoes would never be forgotten.