the adventures of rain-dance summer
this is going to sound incredibly naive and (...blanking on the right word right now, omg) well-to-do/first-world/ignorant of me, but i've been so incredibly happy the past few months and would just like to mark this point in time. so, when i'm still jobless and a stay at home child and crying myself to sleep every night in 2013, i can look back
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As long as they stay within the snark and the insults, they’ll be fine. Still, Seunghyun wonders in just how deep a pile of shit he’s stepped in, but then, nobody ever said show business was a romping field of daisies, either.
He raises himself up one step, scoots closer until their knees are touching, and lets it be silent for a while again. Lets it be okay.
Ten minutes, and Jiyong relaxes against him; thirty, and Seunghyun finds a way back in.
Four hours, and the lyrics come filtering back. Seunghyun isn’t even surprised.
It must be some sort of trigger, because the next time Seunghyun runs out of words, he automatically pulls out his cell phone and calls Jiyong, fully sober (give or take) with the sun still out. Though, admittedly, it’s more of a reflex than anything.
“I can’t just drop everything whenever you feel like it,” Jiyong says, but Seunghyun makes no apologies, and Jiyong never says no.
They end up at a park bench with two beers and a weird silence, ignoring the passersby who raise their eyebrows at the impropriety of drinking before noon.
Maybe it’s the nakedness of the daylight, but they don’t do anything other than sit. And while public places and spotlights have never deterred him before, Seunghyun isn’t exactly sure he can bang Jiyong without the added baggage in tow as a cock-block. Plus, he figures proper protocol says they can’t exactly go back to fucking and not talking after what’s happened (just, apparently, sitting and not talking).
Somehow in the process he learns that Jiyong likes too many colors to pick one and that he stresses out too easy because he’s a perfectionist, which is why he raves.
“Or you’re kidding yourself and it’s just an excuse for you to tweak,” Seunghyun suggests, and is surprised when Jiyong shrugs and says, crooked grin everywhere on his face but his mouth, “yea, probably.”
In short it’s a fucking time-waster, but Seunghyun still stays, still goes home afterwards and writes, still doesn’t feel too bad at the end of the day like he would if he’d spent it at a bar with a bottle instead.
“You are the biggest goddamn cliché,” he tells the mirror, but doesn’t really know how (or if he wants) to do otherwise.
And this is how nothings in the night accidentally turn into something else. The worst part is Seunghyun has nobody to blame but himself, try as he might to push it onto the band, or his voicemail, or shitty genetics.
How his days go is he writes until he can’t, and then he pulls out his phone to try something else. Usually a change of scenery helps-the basement-level stacks around the corner, the rooftop on 66th street above the deli, the playground at PS-239-but sometimes it doesn’t, and those are the few times Seunghyun finds himself walking out on a fucking limb the width of a tree branch in a café at five in the morning and watch Jiyong drink something without alcohol, himself ordering real breakfast that isn’t cold pizza in the dredges of his fridge.
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