jbae.

He's tired. He feels it in his skin and it's a dull pain that's throbbing in his skull, he's exhausted. H breathes out and he wants his breath to fall steady, but his palms fall over his face and he's a sighing a little. He's not sure of why he's sitting here in front of the television's screen instead of being in his bed, safe and sound asleep. Clearly he needs sleep. But it's escaping him lately he's not sure of hwy. Insomnia is something he's been certain to have beaten but it's knocking again at his temples and his hands move to them, rubbing lightly.

But then he feels the weight beside him and it's a reminder of why he's there, sitting and not sleeping. There's movement on the screen, but there's also Jinyoung besides him, sitting there and watching what's supposed to be a movie. JB's not sure what it is about anymore. He's been coerced into this is all he knows, he should have said no, but he didn't, so he's here and it's late and he's really going to fall asleep. He's wondering if he should fight it a bit more, knows Jinyoung will either whine about how he always ends up not watching anything through but also knows that he'll maybe turn it light, joke about it, know JB's tired and just mock him for being old.

That might happen.

Whichever it is, all it manages to do is pull a soft laugh out of him while he closes his eyes, arms folding across his chest and his breath steadies. His neck cranes and JB has a mind on comfort so he drops it on the shoulder he knows is next to him, it's a light sort of comfort but it'll do. It's better than the hard touch of the couch that's going to give him the most painful muscles ache he'll ever regret having. He knows what it feels like, he's accidentally fallen asleep with his neck bent far too awkwardly on the back of the couch.

He’s not sure of what she means, but he’s guessing rumors. Because if it’s something about someone else, or him, or him with someone else, or whatever it is. If he hasn’t heard and she’s asking, it probably means that it’s been out and it either concerns him or someone he knows. Rumors. They spread and from mouth to ears, never do they stop to wander the streets. He’s turning to face her then, ready for anything because he’s heard it all in the years he’s worked. 

He takes a look at her, can’t help it, she’s asking about how she looks after all--in a sense. He has to take a good look if he wants to judge, but he’s not going to judge. He’s going to smile simply, reach for her hand--does it, turns her around as if surveying, as if considering. He’s not considering anything he's going to tell her she's perfect for it, why would he say otherwise? But he’s humming in thought. Until he stops her to face him again, “I think you look good enough for the project, out of box means you look good being yourself where other people look as if they’ve fallen out of bed by just being themselves.” 

Where do you belong?

She rarely ever smiled, but he never held it against her it must have been hard to even try. 

Because if it wasn't the right corner, it was the left one always left bruised. It’d heal but by the time the skin cleared up he would have managed to break her jaw. Cheeks colouring with the strength of his fists that never cared much for the traces it left behind.  So he smiled for her because she never did really smile. When she easily healed and patched and fortune made it that he hadn’t put new ones on her, she tried to return it, but he never expected much of them. She barely ever smiled but he always had one on his face. 

Even when she came to tuck him in, bones where flesh should be, broken words that she’d manage to get out for a story she wanted to read him. She didn’t have to but she sat and he listened,  fell asleep to her frail voice. Remembered the story as if he’d lived in them. He let her do it because it felt as if she believed in those fairy tales more than he did. She never really smiled but her words through the stories carried a gentle tone that felt like the breath of a smile against his ears. Smoothing. He’d dream of her smile. Dream of her warmth. Of her laugh. Which he never heard. She never laughed. But that day, he remembered the rose on her face not caused by his father's hands. High up where her smile was curving her cheeks, he remembered the touch of her lips against his own rosy cheeks from the blush that crept its way on his face. Bliss that was brought by her voice soft against his ear. You’re my little boy and I love you. Love you love you. She laughed against his skin, kissed it countless times and then sent him away to school. That day she gave him everything he’d dreamed of, made him leave with a heart as light as feathers, footsteps barely hitting the ground. Then run back home with promises on the tip of his tongue. Sweet like the candy his teacher gave him for being obedient the whole day. For looking more like a little boy, for participating, for showing he lived. It was odd. Being rewarded for that.  Odd and it made him happy. Hope dancing in his eyes when he pushed the door open. She was nowhere, he was everywhere. It never was noisy, their home, but this silence was not the same as the one that was often waiting for something to shatter. For pieces to break.  It was heavy with something else. Her absence at the door to greet him the way she'd do everyday when he came back home, even when she was bruised and moving was more of a chore than an exercise. 

She'd always be there, always.  

But then, 

She left he said. Because of you he said. Jaebum was a little boy, did not understand. He did not get any of his father's words until the pain hit his cheek. He felt it before he saw it and somehow instead of crying, he laughed. He had a hand against his reddening cheek, laughing, crouched at the entrance without ever noticing that the pain had brought tears to his eyes. Despite the salty taste on his tongue all he felt was the sweet taste of her kiss this morning. She left. Took a piece and quit. 

The words are slipping out and he’s looking at her with his eyebrows high, questioning. But not really questioning why she’s saying that, but question where she’s always refusing him to do it, always telling him to not do it. It’s not like it’s going to stop him, she must know it the moment she speaks of it. She must know he will grin, mischievous, that he will lean across the table where his chin was resting, eyes lowered before he heard her speak. What was he going on about? Probably something that has to do with her, must be hwy she said that. But she earns what comes next, his hands on her cheeks, his lips pressed to her forehead, a kiss that’s firm and smiling as he pulls away to tug on her ears next when he does so. 

He’s going to regret it, yet her words ring and he’s already leaning against the couch turning his eyes on her. Amused, he’s clearly amused ,wondering why she’s even uttering them out like that. As if it’s a must, as if it has to be tonight or no other night, he’s not sure, it’s how he feels it. He feels it then runs in his mind what he has to do tomorrow, it’s a friday night, but really nothing is impossible because he works on calls sometimes. He’ll be needed somewhere and he’ll have to rush.

A photoshoot here, a fansign here, a promotion to work for. A gala to attend, an unimportant night where he has to show up with products he’s being sponsored by. It’s not a good idea, he’s going to regret it. But he’s never found it in himself to refuse simple requests when they’re being asked by a girl, sitting next to him, looking like she wants it when she asks. If she wants it, he’ll let her have it, if he can give it. A night without blinking, is something he can afford to give her. So he’s slipping an arm across her shoulders tugging her close by to press his cheek against her hair and there’s a chuckle. It’s a soft sound and gone the next, but he’s going to do it before he speaks.

He was going to do it before he thought about the cons and pros.

He’s not going to laugh, he doesn’t find it funny, or laughable. But he’s going to clear the misunderstanding because if there’s one thin that’s never going to happen, it’s him belonging to someone else than himself. Or him wanting someone else to belong to him rather than themselves. There’s a fair amount of self-centered feeling in everything he does, everything he gets and everything he gives back. So he’s shaking his head at her words. 

He’s looking up from the magazine he’s holding, just skimming through while still listening to the other man talk. He’s not sure of what the topic was, but he can remember bits of it. Words to use when talking to girls, women, the female gent. Words were a way of either getting a red hand marked on your cheek or a grip that allows you to take a step further in their lives. For real, he’s had to learn this the hard way. Which is mostly made of bruises across his skin and bruised egos which ran deeper. It’s just a good thing that he’s also learned that along the way, he doesn’t really mind if it works or not, he just really minds that he’s done something. If it puts a smile on their faces, he’s happy with that. Because somewhere in this world, breathing the same air as him, he would be happy if someone is putting a smile on his mother’s face as well. 

My muse’s phone has been off for three days. What sort of text messages or voice messages does your muse leave for them? [ 3 / 3 ]