everything's the same
everything's the same
1125 words | pg-15
soloist + soloist ; boa & seung-gi
everything's the same. (except it isn't. it isn't at all.) / college!au.
✎ I have so many one-shots I'm dying to finish but I just can't. Bloody mind-block. / + originally written for a different pairing/fandom, edited so I could post something on my journal and not have it be incomplete and set to private. also, boa/seung-gi feels; all day, everyday. ps: fuck you, lj. why do you hate spaces between paragraphs? just, fuck you.
Everything's the same as it always is.
She's seated on the table a couple feet away from his piano, a cup of coffee in one hand as her eyes scanned over the script she had to memorize for next month's show. He's scribbling out a song on his notebook in his messiest scrawl - one of those perfect songs that make you grin proudly whenever you think about it - and lightly pressing his fingers against the black and white keys that happily aid him for the first time that day.
Aside from the sound of tentative and curious notes being played and filling the silence every other minute, the room is clouded by an air of comfortable silence that they've both grown accustomed to over the years. Occasionally, she'll glance up and notice his lips form words that are never sounded, but she's doesn't utter a word, instead opting for raising a curious eyebrow and returning to her work, knowing that she'll hear the result of his mute mumblings at the end of their session.
Everything's the same. (Except, it isn't. It isn't at all.)
She hasn't touched her coffee and none of the damn words in the stupid script were engraving themselves into her mind like they should have been because his moving lips are bloody distracting. He realized halfway through his masterpiece that whatever love interest he's writing about has a striking resemble to the girl seated in front of him, but he can't stop himself from writing more.
He doesn't sing for her when the clock reads five pm and when he's in the kitchen looking for something to get his mind off of his dilemma, her empty coffee cup isn't in his trash can like is should have been at five-thirty.
But everything's still the same. (They'll force themselves to believe it and pray that somehow, it'll be true again.)
*
He walks up behind her, shoving his hands in his pockets as he leaned his head down to rest his chin against her shoulder, tilting his head to the side slightly. Her shoulders tense up the moment his breath hits her skin.
"You look as radiant as a supernova."
Her brows furrowed but she didn't look up, continuing to idly turn the skull ring that's on her finger. He pulls his head back before the urge to kiss her becomes too much to bare and that's when she decides to respond.
"Your breath smells terrible," she starts off, for clarification purposes, because that's the only reason her spine seemed to tingle when his breath tickled her ear. Purely out of disgust. "I have a feeling your 'charm' is going down the crapper, hopefully with the rest of whatever it is you ate for lunch."
"I'm giving you words of encouragement for your show tonight, and you're insulting my minty fresh breath? Rude." She can hear the amused smile on his lips, and it sickens her because he's not supposed to be this comfortable around her. He's never supposed to get so damn close to her because she terrifies him. And he definitely isn't supposed to be enjoying it as much as he is and just, fuck. Fuck.
She walks away after uttering a "Changmin beat you to it," that leaves a terribly bitter taste upon her tongue.
He showers Taeyeon with smiles and hugs and compliments, congratulating her on a job well done when the cast and company gather to celebrate their successful show after the final bows had been made and the curtain had fallen. They're like this pretty little picture that most are admiring from different corners of the room, some whispering out theories and rumors centering around 'facts' like how perfectly they compliment each other and how great it would be for everyone if they just got together already.
She thinks it's bullshit.
But she's fine with it, completely fine with it, because everything's still the same, everything's the way it's supposed to be. Him and Taeyeon have been pretty since she enrolled a couple months back, and Taeyeon always infuriated her because her personality was so painfully off-putting, but she suffered through her company because Seunggi was a good judge of character and maybe she just couldn't see what was so great about Taeyeon under all those layers and layers of optimism.
She curses internally at Changmin's hands for the rest of the night though, for making her doubt this, because Changmin's hands don't feel the way they should holding onto her waist and their fingers don't interlock like they effortlessly used to; it's too clammy and loose and wrong for her liking and Changmin doesn't even seem to notice and fuck.
Fuck.
*
It takes her a couple of weeks to realize that she hasn't been over to his place for far too long, and that Taeyeon seems to be forever attached to his arm-or at least, more attached than usual. It's a twisted contrast to her and Changmin, because as of late she's been placing a gaping hole between the two of them for reasons she realizes but refuses to fully acknowledge and understand. She hates it.
She remembered when she liked sarcastic and mysterious over sweet and caring and lame jokes accompanied by a voice made of honeysuckle singing along to the calming sounds of an old piano.
She overhears from Tiffany that Seung-gi's in some kind of song writing funk nowadays, and she kind of feels sorry for him, before she considers the fact that it might be her fault.
"She likes your company," he said of his piano once. "It's hard to get anything solid out of her when you aren't around."
The thought makes her stomach churn.
It makes her sick. Taeyeon makes her sick. But most importantly, he makes her sick. He knows she'd find comfort and a crazy sense of happiness in the fact that he's kind of making himself sick too. Because he's an idiot when his brain's a jumbled mess of nothing but the letter B, dark jeans and streaked strands of hair.
But she says nothing to change it all, and he stops trying whatever it was he was subconsciously planning to do and say and sing to her and they both pull the final card out of their decks and play oblivious to the fact that this isn't at all the way things are supposed to be.
They've sort of perfected the lying-to-one's-self game, doing it so much when it came to each other, it really was only a matter of time until they believed it. But they never did. The storm in their mind's never calm, and everything was wrong and loud and broken.
And suddenly, everything's different. (In the worst possible way.)