(꩜ᯅ ꩜｡)

You tilted your head back until a sharp crack echoed through the quiet room, followed by a low, satisfied groan slipping out of your mouth.

“Ugh, fuck.” You whispered below your breath. That stretch felt like heaven. A physical relief spreading across your body. It was the kind you have long forgotten after being chained and locked up inside your art studio by your unfinished art assignments.

The decision to become an art major has long been made since you were a teenager. It was a hobby you’re inclined to pick up so you can cope and relieve some stress from whatever fuckery life keeps putting you through. Reflecting on the condition of your shrimped back… you’d rather chase Michael Myers on your own just for somebody to end your misery.

Fading sunlight has soiled throughout your art studio windows, then painted your nook in a gleaming gold.

You’re not a big fan of it though— the sun and its stupid light. How it’s always too much; squinting your eyes just to see clearly when you’re in its presence, hiding in a shade when its warmth touches your skin.

After putting your final finishing touches, you snapped back into reality and looked around. It finally dimmed into dusk without you realizing it. That timely burial of the sun reminded you that it’s time to step out of your art cave and go touch some grass. And in your little world, it means heading to a local underground gig to lose yourself in the chaos of never-ending metal riffs and a mosh pit filled with people who know talent.

While putting back your sacred choice of weapons (your paintbrushes) to their place, you noticed the dark charcoal dust and dried paint clinging to your skin like a stubborn adhesive. And when you looked closer, an annoyed cuss came out of you. Black powder has successfully worked its way beneath your nails.

Looks like it’s time to buy some nail polish just so you don’t have to witness this abomination whenever you finish working with paints and charcoals.

Your hand reached for the nearby cigarette and lighter.

Watching the flame spread over the end of the stick between your hands, you couldn’t resist taking a long drag— your lungs were waiting to be filled.

You let out a long sigh and began peeling off your art clothes until you were left in just your red lace panties. You’re not really the type to be bothered wearing a bra inside. Especially when days after days of your life are spent heavily hunched over plates, your cruel art professor demanding impossible deadlines? If letting your girls out is a damn sin, then you’ll gladly be a sinner. You know that this is the only mercy and payment the world could offer to you.

Well, it’s either that, or a night fucking someone senseless, would probably do the trick just as well.

“I swear to fucking god, I need to get laid,” you muttered, half to yourself and half to whoever’s down to do it.

The whole studio then started to get filled with too much smoke, which made you finally stand up and open the windows. The sudden cold breeze touching your skin made you slightly shiver. Crossing your free arm to your body to bring some heat.

It had been a while… two months maybe— since your last hook-up. Your previous fuck buddy had finally settled down, leaving you with art, deadlines, and your fingers that had seen better days. Well, you had hookups with a friend before, but since both of you are in the same art program, getting some action is really off the table. He’s definitely too tired from squishing creative juice as well to even think about doing you.

You raked your fingers through your hair, frustration starting to settle in. This rut had lasted longer than any art block you’d ever had, which was saying something. Something that defies how you view yourself.

You turned toward the mirror. Could it be how you look?

Your makeup still looked decent, your piercings gleamed under the dying light, and your breasts sat perfectly together with your nipple piercing. You looked good— intimidating, like how most people said. Maybe it was the way you dressed, or maybe how rarely you smiled. Either way, you didn’t mind. It only added to the image.

You guess you being the reason is off the list, cause you look fucking amazing. Men definitely would kiss the floor you’d walk on— which they usually do.

You finally took your final drag before pinching it down to your ashtray.

The piece in front of you was the fourth one you’ve finished this week. And despite the exhaustion from churning out pieces just to satisfy your sadistic professor, this one felt right the most. It looked like you.

The thematic topic given by your instructor is about finding beauty in things usually seen as disturbing and unpleasant. When you receive the instructions, your artistic instincts go feral. This thematic topic is your forte. You knew exactly what you wanted to capture in your piece: a performer’s soul mid-show, lying down suggestively. The way they let the music swallow them whole— their back arching, hair sticking all over their exposed skin, hands gripping the mic, which was unplugged, as if it could save them from the high of performing what they’re passionate about.

Their head was tilted back as far as it goes, light washing over their face until it vanished into brightness, leaving the mouth erased. Unfinished. Every stroke was raw and imperfect, yet deliberate. Those imperfections were what made your art yours: personal, human, vulgar.

From the easel you turned into some makeshift hanger out of laziness, you grabbed your Linkin Park tee and some cool bottoms. You watched yourself wear it in the mirror. It was full of smudges, but it was clear enough to guide you where to tightline your eyes with practiced precision. Satisfied, you grabbed your sketchbook, slipped your drawing tools inside your bag. You put on your headphones and played She Burned Me Down by Type O Negative.

The night air hit you immediately as soon as you entered the society once again, cool and sharp, sending shivers down your spine. Your pace started to pick up a bit, enduring the chill instead of running back down to your studio. While you’re on your way, you remembered to check KnotLips’ program for tonight. That was the gig venue you’re comfortable calling your second home since it’s inherently a nearby vacation site for your metalhead ass.

Scrolling through your phone, you checked their socials for tonight’s lineup: Madmans Esprit, METHOD, and Lanalogue. Then your eyes caught something in the small text below.

[ “Special guest: Xdinary Heroes” ]

You scoffed.

“Who the fuck names their band Xdinary Heroes?”

It sounded like they all huddled in somebody’s living room, word generator on hand, and a fucking dream. Are they aiming for Edgar Allan Poe level of deep and profound, or that Gabbie Hannah woah song?

You bit back a grin.

You went to the search bar, typed their band name, and clicked their profile. Curiosity wasn’t new to you. Especially when it came to mocking these kinds of rock-wannabe posers. With their stupid name. With their forced uwu-faces.

You believe they are not built for this scene.

And you’re right, like always, their feed was exactly what you expected: the over-edited gig photo, fanservice shots of their hands all over their instrument, and the overly filtered photos of their faces that they’re all washed out. It was too clean for a band claiming to be in a “raw” and “underground” band. The last thing the underground scene needed was another group of pretty boys trying to look rockstar enough.

You squinted at the caption below one of the posts.

“Ordinary is a crime.”

#XdinaryHeroes #WeAreAllHeroes

You are actually gagged. 

“Oh my fucking days,” you cackled..

‘You ARE the ordinary’, you thought while your laugh echoed through the streets.

People around you started glancing your way, but you couldn’t care less. You did not even pay any mind to the group of five men staring at you the whole time.

“Who’s behind this? An eleven-year-old poet on a Jungkook mafia fanfic self-insert binge?”

Your shoulders shook as you scrolled further, trying and continuously failing to contain your laughter.

Then one photo made you pause.

You blinked and leaned closer.

The bassist…

It was a live shot mid-performance— his head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, veins visible along his neck with strands of blonde hair on the side.

You unconsciously gulped.

This deserves to be that photographer’s signature shot. The way the lighting illuminated the sharpness of his features. And the way his nose stands tall, that could motivate Doja Cat to release another level of the Planet Her album. Your eyes followed the visual flow of the photo. And when your gaze went lower, it got stuck. It lingered on the sculpted long column of this guy’s throat.

That Adam’s apple is staring back at you.

You closed your eyes. “Adam, thank you for swallowing that fucking apple.”

God, what is wrong with you? Just earlier, you were shitting on them, then now you’re thirsting for one of the members from a recent band you despise.

“Well, maybe the photographer just deserves a raise,” you said, pretending that was the reason as your thumb tapped the save button.

Just to be exactly clear, there was no meaning behind that. It was purely for reference. Artistic inspiration. Composition study. Lighting analysis. Anything but “the bassist is hot”.

Artists recognize art. Artists recognize talent. Artists recognize… insane anatomy.

And as one, you’ll admit, artists like you won’t get tired of drawing this guy.

You turned off your phone and shook your head, muttering, “Weirdo.

When you reached KnotLips, you walked over to sit on your usual spot, the corner of the bartender’s side. Inside, everything was colored by the LED lights, a completely different place in comparison to the world outside. A world wherein it seems like life has taken its heart away. Even the people walking felt like an NPC, no other movements other than their feet moving forward.

Your eyes moved to the stage when the buzz echoed in the place from their amplifier, a band was preparing their instruments for tonight’s performance. The people tonight were wearing their band tees and enjoying each other’s company. They’re still scattered in the middle, but everyone knows when to leave space for an upcoming mosh pit when the performance starts. Looking at this place, this is where you believe life is real. It’s a place where passionate people in the scene showcase everything they got, and they have these people to experience it.

For you, though, you’re not an observer; you’re a capturer. So you placed your bag on the table and took out your sketchbook and some pencils.

“Look who’s back,” you slightly smiled at the bartender when you looked up, her black hair in a messy bun. She’s drying off her hands and placing 3 glasses in front of her, preparing an order. “How are your art pieces, darling?”

“Thank God I finished them first before they get me.”

She laughed at your reply while pouring drinks. “Is there anything you’d like to have some good time with?”

“Guinness. Tall glass.” You then took out your phone and paused the song currently playing. The headphones were left on your ear, a habit you’ve been practicing whenever you go to these gigs ever since you experienced your first tinnitus. It was absolutely hell that you couldn’t listen to any music for months. You do not wish for it to happen to you again, but you do wish it for those who infuriate you.

Tapping on your Instagram, you went to your saved posts and started drawing the bassist. You started with a few guide shapes and slowly built on that. Every stroke you’ve made carefully captures the bassist’s emotion during the performance. And when you finally worked your way back through the neck, you went a bit wild with it. Already in the final process, heavily detailed with cross-hatches, while the other parts are just outlines.

For the whole duration of the first band’s performance, all you did was carry out what you just escaped from. Drawing like there’s no tomorrow. You nibble on your bottom lip as you try to capture how the loose, checkered long sleeve was hanging on his broad shoulders, leading down the tension of his veined hands against the string.

The bartender’s place then had gotten too crowded for comfort after the last song from the first band. You could only sit there. Half-trapped between somebody’s guitar case and a guy who clearly didn’t believe in the power of deodorant. You looked down at your sketchbook and compared the reference on your phone.

“Huh?”

It doesn’t look right. The bassist’s Adam’s apple looked even sharper under the stage lights. You zoomed in to his neck, analyzing closely. You tilted your head, your eyes inches away french kissing your phone.

Maybe you overdid the shadow in your sketching.

“You know,” a voice appeared behind you, light and curious, “most people come here to watch bands, not… zoom in on someone’s neck.”

“Shit—.”

Your shoulders jumped at the sudden closeness, eyes widening. You turned and were ready to curse him off. A tall figure stood there, the light behind him burning too bright to see his face. You can’t see him, but, oh god, you already hated him. The nerve to stand that near to you?

“Too close. Can you move?” You snapped at him.

There was a pause. His body stiffened, before his mouth let out an airy and sharp “… Oh.” You caught it, the hint of surprise and amusement in his voice.

But you didn’t wait for more.

“I said move.”

Another pause, then a light, awkward chuckle echoed over the music. “You’re scary,” he mumbled, leaning back just enough to give you space.

Your mouth twitched at his side comment. You couldn’t see a smirk on his face, but you know it’s there, and you definitely want to punch it off of him.

You crossed your arms, keeping your glare fixed on him, trying to instill that you clearly dislike his existence.

Then something hit you. Like an uppercut from Muhammad Ali that will send you to a coma. The creeping sense of dread started pooling in your stomach.

You just got caught zooming in on someone’s neck… like a total creep.

A neck. Zoomed in. With intense eye contact with it. A neck… zoomed in… with intense eye contact with it. Your other hand jorking it feels like a missing puzzle piece to complete this random guy’s experience at this point.

You straightened your spine. Forcing your glare to deepen. To look meaner. Like it could make him forget he ever saw something. Man… you’re ready to piss off Muhammad Ali in his prime to get violently knocked out.

“What do you want?” You forced out a question before even deciding if it was worth asking. The way you asked it came out a little harsher than you should.

His face was still hidden in the harsh party light, but you caught it. The slightest stiffening in his posture when you spoke. The playful confidence that quickly got under your skin seemed to fade a little. It was replaced by a pause. Like he’s weighing how to approach someone who’d just call him out to speak up.

“I didn’t mean to scare you or anything. I just— uh, saw my face. Or, more like my throat, actually. Zoomed in and everything.”

You raised a brow at him. You hear him. Loud and clear, even through the noise drowning the room. But your brain hasn’t caught up yet. You refuse to let it. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

But… fuck.

If this day couldn’t get any worse.

You squinted your eyes at his face. Trying to confirm if it’s the same person, like a two-step verification. Then it went lower.

You stared. Then blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Jesus Christ.

It’s the fucking throat.

He reached the back of his neck, scratching lightly. His eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. Trying to escape the feeling of confronting a stranger.

“It’s, uh, kind of weird, honestly.”

Your breath started to hitch. You need to punch something. Maybe the table. Or, definitely, yourself first. You want it to be strong enough to eliminate yourself, consequently taking your whole bloodline with you.

Wait.

Another good idea.

What about him instead? Just a jab on his throat specifically. Like, enough to take him out so then he won’t be able to talk about this to anyone, but not the kind you’ll get detained for years.

“I’m sketching.” You blurted, throwing your sketchbook in front of him.

He held onto the side of your sketchbook and bent over, looking closely. You sighed, at ease. Thank heavens you’re smart to come up with that excuse that fast.

You watched his slow movement as he stood straight, towering over you once more. The light traces his outline.

“That looks really amazing.”

His voice was calm this time, no awkwardness. It’s just steady. It made you pause. Is this guy genuinely in awe after seeing someone zooming in at his throat before even having a context? You couldn’t clearly see his face, but you noticed a subtle smile on his mouth.

“You should be an artist.”

You blinked, scanning the blur of him just to be sure if he really meant it. It was unusual for you to receive this kind of comment.

Being an unorthodox painter whose style is labeled lewd and borderline pornographic by others, “artist” would be the last thing they’ll brand you as. It’s a recurring event already. Hearing your blockmates name you as the call girl artist. You don’t really care. You just roll your eyes and go on about your day. But it was nice to hear something new once in a while.

“Thanks,” you said, “I am actually an artist.” You bowed slightly before turning your back on him, ending the conversation. That was nice of him, yeah, but there’s nothing else to talk about, so you carried on with your activity.

But when people had finally left the bartender, he slid into the seat beside you like he’d been invited. He wasn’t. Clearly, he wasn’t. You thought people would leave once you turned your back on them. But nope. This guy cannot read the room.

Your legs brushed for a brief moment when he sat down, then your shoulder. He squinted at the page you’re outlining like some art critic who couldn’t resist deprecating everything.

You tried to ignore it, dragging your pencil for another line along the curve of his neck, but the closer he got, the more you realized how near he was.

“I actually thought you were a creep.” He softly laughed.

“Yeah, can’t imagine that…”

He suddenly chuckled. It was so low that you almost did not catch it.

Your eyes stole a glance at him and caught a tiny silver glint on his slitted eyebrow now. A flash of surprise crossed your eyes. It is an eyebrow piercing you somehow missed when you’re trolling on their photos.

And, you wouldn’t lie, it suits him.

“Cool piercing,” you said flatly. The compliment came out just the right blend: a pump of lack of enthusiasm and an extra shot of dryness. Perfectly served by your highness.

“You think? Thanks,” he said, absentmindedly running a hand through his blonde hair with a shy smile.

Up close, with the light finally reaching his face, you can clearly see how he looks. His features were sharp in a soft, unfair kind of way… his dark eyes carried this glint of warmth that radiated in his whole aura, a nose that had absolutely no right to be that straight, and lips curved into a lazy grin. His blonde hair fell slightly over his forehead, and the neon lights from the venue traced the edges of his jawline perfectly— the kind of jawline that is only a clay away from driving a sculptor into a hyper fixation spiral to make twenty versions of it.

His eyes flicked to you. “Is that how you flirt with people?” he asked randomly.

“What? By giving a dry ass comment?” You raised your brow.

“No,” he shook his head. “I mean… like that.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve never met anyone who looks at me that… intensely.”

“Don’t think of it too deeply. It’s anatomy stuff you won’t understand.” You clarified.

He stared at you again, a small cheeky smile forming at the side of his mouth. “I don’t mind it, though.”

“Mind what?”

“You looking at me like that. Your eyes are pretty. ” He said it casually— too casually.

You snorted. “Is that how you flirt with people?”

He perked up, blatantly mocking your tone, “What? By giving a dry ass comment?”

The smirk he added at the end made it obvious he was copying you. A silent chuckle escaped from your mouth while rolling your eyes at him. You can’t believe you just got a taste of your own sarcastic comment. He looks like he has won the Miss Universe title by how triumphant he looks after pulling it off.

Silence finally settled between you two, giving you a chance to finally concentrate. But since your peace is not in his nature, he has to open his mouth again. You don’t even know what set him off, but apparently every neuron in his brain insists on linking with yours.

“Whoa, hey—that’s my shoulder! And my arms? Why do they look—ohhh shading. Okay. You’re good at this. But my fingers? They’re not that slender… wait. Can you look at my hands? Just to, y’know, double-check before you make me look hot hot?”

Is this dude ever going to shut up?

You tilted your sketchbook from your lap away from him, hoping he’d get the hint. He didn’t. God, of course, he wouldn’t. It’s not that he can’t read the room… he doesn’t read the room.

And guess what? All it did was make him move closer to you than before. Too close, you could feel your shoulders brushing. Too close, you could feel the heat radiating off his skin as he tilted his head again to see better.

You’re starting to feel overstimulated by the unwelcomed propinquity.

You stopped mid-stroke, irritation bubbling up inside. You had had enough of him.

“Have you ever heard of personal spa—”

You turned to him, ready to scold.

But he was right there. Just inches away. Close enough for your breath to bounce right back at you. His eyes met yours, wide and soft, as if he had no idea what kind of proximity violation he just committed.

“…ce,” you finished, your voice dropping.

He blinked once, his lips twitching into that boyish half-smile, and sent his eyebrow all the way up. “Space?”

“Yes,” you said quickly, leaning back a little. “Personal space. It’s a real concept. You should look into it sometime.”

“Oh. Got it.” He nodded, pretending to understand but clearly not giving you what you want. “Did you know, I also have a friend who’s an artist. You might know him.” He said, quickly changing the topic.

You squinted at his little TMI. How scarce does he think artists are?

“What made you think I would even know him?” Your lips pressed into a thin line. “Also, I’m not your friend.”

“We could be.”

“Find someone else.”

“But I want it to be you.”

You paused your action and breathing. Is this guy messing or flirting with you? You shoot him a glance, deciphering his expression. But he got you first. His big expectant eyes locked with yours, waiting for your approval to be each other’s “bestie”. A smile so innocent that it feels like you have to dive inside his brain to get his real intention.

“You’re still in my space.” You replied, avoiding his eyes. “Do you not have bandmates to annoy?”

He simpered at how you tried to change the topic this time, nose scrunching up in that annoying way he does. “But I’m watching.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Watching what? My patience running thin?”

His expression didn’t falter, no longer surprised by your bluntness. He’s only anticipating more of it now. He leaned back slowly, still grinning, waiting for what you’d do next. You didn’t give him another reaction, though. You only kept your pen moving, sketching lines over and over without looking up at him again.

“You draw really fast, by the way.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, your whole attention on your paper placed on top of the bar table. “I enjoy it more than talking to a stranger all over my personal space.”

The corner of his cheeky smirk twitched just slightly, but he said nothing, letting the silence hang. You didn’t need him to. You prefer it this way. This is where you thrive. And, unfortunately for you, this guy knew he would wither in it.

“Sorry,” he apologized, while not sounding even remotely sorry at the same time. “You’re right. No one should interrupt an artist while work is in progress.”

You sighed, leaned in, and grabbed his shoulder—not too hard, just enough to make him blink in surprise. “Come here,” you muttered.

He tilted his head, amused, and obediently leaned closer until you could feel his breath near your cheek. “Yeah?”

You reached for his ear, fingers brushing lightly against his hair. “You,” you said, low and dry, “are the interruption.”

For a beat, he just looked at you, smile widening like he thought you were being cute instead of threatening. Which, unfortunately, made it even worse for you and your patience.

“Well, correction, madame,” he said, tapping on your sketchbook, “I am the subject.” He leaned his elbow on the counter, casual and smug.

You immediately pulled your sketchbook from your lap, hiding it away from his optical range. “Temporary subject at that. You just have an interesting neck. Stop getting too full of yourself.”

He laughed. “That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“It wasn’t even a compliment.”

“Still sounds like one.”

Your eyes looked up in exasperation and tried to focus on your sketch instead, pressing the pencil against the page like you could erase his existence through sheer concentration. But no matter how hard you bit your lip or furrowed your brows, your hand just wouldn’t cooperate. He was still watching—eyes darting between your face and the paper. You could feel it. And you absolutely hated that.

“Stop watching me before I skewer those.” you muttered, not lifting your eyes from the paper.

“You know, I’m just curious…”

“Keep it to yourself.” You took a slow sip of your stout, sending a glare over the rim of the glass.

“Do you always draw people this intensely?” he asked anyway, ignoring the glare you batted.

“Gosh. Why are you still talking?”

“Sorry. Should I pose instead?” he teased, clearly not sorry. “Looks like you’re more interested in my body.”

His lower lip pushed out into an exaggerated pout, trying to appear pitiful. He then pressed a hand over his chest as if you had wounded him so deeply.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Of course, he had to say that.

“Please don’t.”

His mouth turned back into a grin. Much wider than before. Then he casually reached beneath the stool you were sitting on and turned it so you were facing him.

“I could tilt my head back again just for you. I’ll do anything you want, you know—”

“Don’t even—”

“—for accuracy.”

He tugged the neckline of his 5SOS sleeveless shirt downwards, exposing his collarbones. “Is this what you wanted? Like this?” Adam’s apple bobbed as he laughed, and you could feel your soul leave your body for a second.

You mentally fought yourself not to look at it. What is this? His mating call? Because, you hate to admit it, but it’s kind of working. Especially with your current condition, of course. Which is a lack of fucking and a dick inside deficiency. You can feel your face turning hot.

Genetics is really such a randomizer, because why would they give this annoying motherfucker a body you won’t mind having a one-night stand with, then a personality you’d rather sit through a 24-hour Hugh Jackman concert— sober, no bathroom breaks.

If this man only knows how to shut up…

“Stop whoring yourself up, damn.” You set your pencil down and glared. “Do you enjoy making people uncomfortable?”

He tilted his head, pretending innocence, though that stupid cheeky smirk didn’t budge. “Well, it’s not like you didn’t just stare at my throat for, like, two minutes when we just met… even after staring at a picture of it.”

Your eye twitched.

“Stop exaggerating to feed your ego—it was barely a second.”

“Still stared, though.”

You opened your mouth for a comeback but came up empty.

He leaned on his palm, not breaking the gaze between you two. His eyebrow was borderline touching his hairline, wearing that stupid mocking grin.

“You want to say something, hmm?”

You don’t want him to feel good with your silence, so you just muttered, “I made your Adam’s apple bigger so you have something to feel good about, by the way.”

“Wait— really? I thought it was the same.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” You rolled your eyes.

“Dead serious,” he replied, eyes sparkling like his neck was his family’s pride and joy. “It actually gets me more compliments than my solos.”

You squinted at him. “You are terrifyingly confident for someone who agreed to name their band Xdinary Heroes—”

“It’s you!”

He gasped dramatically. “You’re that girl who doesn’t like our name on the streets.”

You shut your eyes tightly. Why does this dude witness everything? You were not even surveilled to this level back during your high school examinations.“You overheard that?” You groaned.

“It’s really not hard to catch when someone laughs at their phone like she’s giving her best Heath Ledger impression.”

“Why would y’all even name it like it’s waiting to be ridiculed?”

“It’s meaningful to us, though…” he replied, looking down. “Our drummer got really pissed, too, by the way.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Not my fault, your band name sounds like what my friends and I would’ve called ourselves before, like, we hit grade school.”

He laughed, the sound overpowering the band in the background. “Better than something like…” He reached out and lightly tugged at your Linkin Park top, just enough to read the print. “Definitely better than the band who forgot their apostrophe back in middle school.”

Your brows shot up. You might’ve forgotten how close he got—almost brushing your collarbone—if you weren’t busy being offended. Because this came from someone wearing a 5SOS tee.

“Well, that apostrophe-less band is the foundation of global teenage rage and emotional depth,” you said, crossing your arms. “Then yours are— what? A band whose name and listenable songs are both seasonal as fuck?”

He threw his head back and cackled at your reply. “You probably have said more than once that you could write pages of essays about Somewhere I Belong alone.”

“Yeah, right. Like the way you believed She Looks So Perfect was ‘so peak’ it changed your life,” you deadpanned.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“You’re fun.”

“And you’re loud.”

“You speak in daggers, though.”

“We’re just honest around here.” You picked up your phone and checked if you had any messages.

“So…” he started, testing the waters if you’d bite him for speaking once more. You glanced at him, waiting.

“You into rock?”

You gave him a funny look. “You’re seriously asking that in a metal gig?” You giggled.

“Was that… a laugh?” He sneered.

You snorted before you could stop yourself, eyes rolling the second it slipped out. “No.”

“Pretty sure it was,” he said, sneering like it was his mission to annoy you into confession.

“Get your eyes checked.”

“But I heard it too.”

“Then get a psychiatric evaluation.”

He tittered at your reply. Another upturn was happening again at the corner of his mouth. You also noticed that whenever someone waved at him, he would smile and greet them back. Showing off that “effortless charm” like it was coded into his automation. And somehow, seems like pivoting back to you after is part of it, his wide eyes glistening whenever it returns to you. Like the noise and lights and crowd meant nothing compared to whatever weird back-and-forth was happening here.

You hated that. Or… you told yourself you did.

Then, like it was nothing, he gestured toward your empty glass. “Can I get you another one? Looks like you drink strong beer, no foam type.”

You raised a brow. “What are you, a bartender now?”

He shrugged, grinning. “Nah. Just observant.”

“Okay, Mr. Observant, if you really observed, Guinness is foam.” You smirked when he blinked, caught off guard. “And what? You also ‘observe’ random girls staring at your neck?”

“Only when they’re cute.” He didn’t even hesitate to let those words spill out of his mouth.

“Excuse me? Cute?” You blinked. It was a complete wonder how this man could pick that word after meeting you— piercings, dark makeup, and that whole caliginous getup.

He tilted his head, his head only filled with confusion and, apparently, air.

“What?”

“Are you seriously calling me cute?”

“Well… yeah? You are.” He blinked, completely puzzled.

“You have got to be kidding me.” You let out a short, incredulous laugh while shaking your head. “Cute? Really? You saw this and chose something to describe cats?”

“Just like you said— we’re just honest around here,” he argued.

You pinched the bridge of your nose again. “You’re unreal.”

He chuckled softly, leaning his chin on his hand. “I get that a lot.”

“Never a compliment when it’s used on you.” You flipped through your sketchbook, pretending to focus.

“And,” you gave him a side eye, “don’t you have a band to prepare for?”

“We’re not up yet,” he replied. “Our synthesizer’s probably out flirting with the sound tech again.”

“Great. A band filled with Romeos.” You sighed. “Reconsider your band name and change it to Xdinary Hoes or something.”

He laughed under his breath. “Nah, I’m just being friendly. People just… think I’m flirting when I’m talking.”

“Right. Because calling strangers cute and buying them drinks is completely platonic.”

“Hold on— that’s flirting?”

“Yeah… like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“That’s exactly how men act when they want to get laid.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, though.”

Your hand stopped moving mid-movement. Eyes squinted at him, lips pressed into a thin line. “So… you didn’t actually mean I’m cute?”

“No—” he blurted. “You’re definitely cute. I just didn’t mean it, you know… flirty-flirty.”

The bartender slid another glass toward you. You stared at it.

Talk about timing…

“Courtship of sunshine boy,” the bartender said, with her smile reaching both her ears, winking at you, before walking off. Your mouth slightly parted by the teasing.

You turned to him. “Did you seriously—”

He raised his hands like he was innocent. “Art commission payment.”

You reached for your wallet anyway. Being indebted to anybody is not your thing. You don’t need their kindness. And for you, it’s much worse if it’s out of pity.

His hand reached for yours. The back of your hand warmed immediately when his palm rested on it, stopping your motion.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“Just don’t draw me ugly.”

“Remove the damn hands.” You raised your brow. “And no promises.”

“Guess I’ll just dedicate a song to you then.” He mock-sighs.

You blink. “You what?”

“Just kidding,” he says with a playful lift of his lips.

That answer and face did not reassure you at all.

You stare at him, trying to decide if he’s just messing with you or if he’s actually serious. At this point, you don’t need to choose; he surely means both.

“You’d like it though. The setlist.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice, not wanting others to hear. “We’ve got one that’s practically screaming your taste.”

“What would you know about my taste?”

“Hey, I’m trying to get your approval here.”

“Yep, and it’s showing. Painfully.”

He laughs again—loud, genuine, and a little too carefree like the people dancing on the mosh pit right now. You turned away, sipping on your drink. “Go warm up or something.”

“Soon,” he said, “but I’m having a good conversation.”

“With me?”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t give a reply, but he smiled like it was the most obvious thing you’ve ever said that night. Which is ironic because he seems completely clueless with your direct, snarky comments earlier.

“I feel like you’d listen to my playlist.” His head is tilting, attentively watching every microexpression you’ll make. How your furrowed eyebrows tighten. Or how your tongue swiftly licks your lips after sipping your stout. And your mouth forming an amused grimace following his assumption…

You still didn’t like it. But you could only avoid his gaze.

“I sure would,” you shrugged, “but only when I’m visiting the rage room.”

His face got all scrunched up. You wondered if the brain up there finally started to activate.

“Are you saying that because it’ll make you mad or it’s mad good?”

“What do you think?”

“That it’s mad good.”

You scoffed. “Having ego doesn’t mean being delusional.”

“It is mad good though… I have some Killswitch Engage here. Deftones? Type O Negative? Beyond Creation?”

You paused.

Maybe he still could be salvaged.

“Hmm.”

“Do you approve?” He asked, hope in his eyes.

You gave him a light nod, which made him clench his fist in triumph.

That random emote made you let out a small huff.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I still think your band’s a bunch of posers.”

He smiled. “Then maybe I’ll make you eat your words.”

“Try me.”

“Gladly.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but the stage lights shifted. The crowd roared as the MC’s voice echoed through the venue, anticipating the next band’s performance.

He stood up. “That’s us.”

You crossed your legs and leaned back, trying not to show your interest. “Break a string, then.”

“What?” His voice almost got muffled by how loud the cheers were for the next act.

You sighed. You do not want to say it multiple times until he finally decides to move closer, so your body moves on its own.

“I said—” you hooked your hand at the back of his neck without thinking, pulling him in until your breath touched his ear. “Break a fucking string.”

He laughed under his breath.

It’s low and shows how entertained he was. Then he tilted his head, mouth brushing dangerously close to your skin.

“Draw me again while I’m performing, ” he said, his mouth dangerously close, which made you immediately regret leaning in first. “If it’s good, I’ll save you our band tee.”

You didn’t even get to roll your eyes before he pulled away.

His smile was crooked, and his eyes held yours for a beat longer than necessary, not bothering how his bandmates called on him just to stay here for a bit longer.

Your eyes hold onto his.

The way those eyes stare at you feels… familiar. Which was weird because it feels like it came from the distant future. Like how one day, it would look back at you, carrying a grief you inadvertently carved into it.

He then turned and disappeared into the noise of the venue.

The feedback from the speakers cuts through the air as the lights dim and the crowd starts moving closer to the stage. You blinked as he walked away, the crowd parting for him to let him through. How they did it subtly gave you a postulation that he wasn’t just some guy, but someone everyone somehow recognized.

He stood tall on the center of the stage, then wore his bass in one smooth motion, that same easy grin still plastered on his face.

“I hate this fucking guy,” you mumbled.

But frankly, you hate it more that you actually can’t wait to be proven wrong.

The stage lights started to dim, then a smoke suddenly hissed from the side vents. Someone shouted into the mic, testing it.

You took your pencil and turned your sketchbook to a blank page. A part of you was wondering why you’re preparing to take a request from someone, especially if it came from a guy who enjoys getting under your skin.

The bass suddenly hits, making you stop and turn.

It wasn’t subtle at all. The people started rumbling ever since it growled. Your brow furrowed. A certain ring it made somehow drew distinction from the other instruments, leading the song.

And there he was.

Your muse tonight.

His fingers then dragged itself along the neck of his bass. It was slow— sensual even.

He’s wearing his same pesty face default that’s plaguing your good time earlier, but now more clearly. The blue and red strobe lights are directly shining over him now that you can see more intricate details of him. His long hair was damp from the heat, jaws flexing slightly as he focused on his bass. His body is moving naturally with the rhythm, like he truly knew what he was doing.

You leaned on your other elbow, trying to look unimpressed — like this was nothing new. That is a lie though. As much as you hate being wrong, you know that what you’re witnessing before your eyes right now is a rise in the making.

Your hands grabbed the glass and took another sip, drowning the pride stuck on your throat. It’s unusual for some, but you take some pride in your opinions on certain things, especially those you’re passionate about. Despite that, a small smile was forming on your lips. You’re enjoying your time.

His hands got your attention. You’re following the manners of its slenderness on the strings. They’re sliding along the strings effortlessly and smoothly. The gaze slowly followed his figure to his neck that exposes how his Adam’s apple are bopping up and down. After singing his part, he throws his head back, and then— tongue out.

You coughed. The shiny thing taking you by surprise.

You see that. You saw that.

There’s silver on it catching the stage lights. Too familiar.

On his tongue…

“What the… fuck?”

Is that a— ?

You blinked. What else could you do? You’re too mesmerized to see this guy with a tongue piercing.

Your chest thumped a sudden beat like it was the drummer’s fault. Where’s your bag? The sketchbook? And the 6B pencils? You rummaged through your bag, chasing that inspiration-high. It was so so clear. The image you wanted to draw.

So you start. Without a single hesitation.

Your brain is still not working properly though. It’s buffering. All it’s processing is that damn piercing on him.

Fully rendered. 8K Resolution.

You closed your eyes. Apologizing to your ancestors, meticulously, for the side-effects of your so-called sexual deficiency that cannot be tamed by any self labor in bed.

It’s odd seeing yourself like this; you’re like a virgin who’s excited for her first time. Because seeing piercings on people wasn’t new to you, like— hell, your whole body was covered in them that it’s basically a shrine. Most of the people you hang around with had them too. At this point, self-expression was normal, while conformists were the “weirdos”.

But this guy… a tongue piercing? On someone who acts like he’d apologize to a cashier if the fries were slightly soggy? He got an amorous profile and framework too, of course, but you have no right to be honest right now after apologizing to the ancient grandmas-and-pas.

You tried to focus. You really did. So you supervised yourself: drag the pencil, eyes on the damn sketch. Just finish the damn drawing.

You cursed him silently under your breath, but it’s blaring inside you. Your mind should not be this invested at all. He was just a subject afterall. A body to be replicated by your hands. And his piercing is part of that subject.

When their third song was almost over, a girl beside you screamed something that sounded like “Jooyeon!”

You took a deep breath, and stole a glance at the stage, adding background details. But then he looked up.

He’s looking straight at you. Your hands stop moving as he stares back at you while his head is carelessly tilted back, and his lips are pulled back into a grin.

Then, unsurprisingly, he had to ruin it by talking.

“Alright. For our last song for tonight: this next one’s for anyone, or someone, who called us posers tonight.”

You nearly choked.

The crowd booed, screaming their disagreement. He laughed while you could only glare at the stage.

“Little shit.”

The drummer then immediately counted off with his drumsticks. Tak, tak, tak.

The next song bombarded each corner the soundwaves could reach. It was completely different from their previous song. The kind that you like. You could physically feel the heaviness of each note, each rhythm, each scream. The crowd jumped, wilding on the mosh pit they saved for themselves.

You held your pencil and sketchbook tightly, eyes furrowed and sighed in defeat.

At this point, you’re only doing the deal for their band tee, especially not after that diss. Gotta keep the self respect at top, you know? And while you’re busy rushing the unfinished parts like your crammed assignments, the phone inside your bag vibrates.

♪Moments by MOIO

A contact was ringing you. Your fingers declined the phone call and checked the messages. The white light flashed your face and made you peer lightly.

After reading the message, you immediately packed up. Without looking back, you swung the door open and left.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Jooyeon swept a hand through his hair. The attempt was unsuccessful though. Most of the light strands were stuck to his cheeks and neck. No matter how hard he tries, it’ll just end up pushing only a few. He squinted his eyes through the heat, chest rising up and down heavily. His head was tilted all the way back, calming himself since the potent shot of adrenaline still visible in each sweat dripping down on him.

Their final song just ended, a light echo still playing through the speakers. Everyone was dead silent. But as soon as the final frequency ended, the crowd practically exploded. Looking down, people were jumping and chanting “XDIZ” over and over again. His eyes were wide and bright, genuinely surprised at how loud they were. 

There’s a part of him that softens inside, because based on how alive the whole place felt– yeah, he guess they did pretty great. 

Maybe he did too.

He walked towards the back of the stage and picked up the final tee inside their box. At the rear, he scanned the whole place, then finally glanced at the part where you should be. Where you’re leaning against the bar like before.

But… there’s nothing. 

A frown was forming on his forehead. You’d been right there— scribbling furiously in your sketchbook like you’re murdering somebody, a pair of eyes that seems like they have noticed things most people missed and memorized every crease on him— and now… just gone? Like you went poof after he dedicated a song. 

His hand gripped on the tee, the grin he’d worn all night started to falter. 

“Where did she go?” he muttered under his breath.

The eyes started to wander everywhere. Left corner? Right corner? Adjacent corner? No matter how carefully he scanned and searched, it was like you rapidly vanished from a single snap. You weren’t hiding. He’d easily recognize you. He knows it. 

But there’s no you.

His feet started moving, leading him to the bartender. He flashed that bright smile once again and greeted her over the chaos in the background. “Have you seen the one with the sketchbook? At the corner? All piercings and frowns.” 

The bartender raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Was it the one that glares at you like she got your funeral planned out?” 

Jooyeon laughed. It came out soft and nervous while scratching the back of his neck. 

“Yeah… that’s her.” He brightened a little, both shoulders lifts into an optimistic shrug. ‘But she’ll warm up eventually. People usually do.”

He added a small giggle. “I mean… I try to be nice. That counts for something, right?” He asked; not bragging, just hopeful. 

The bartender’s smile softened, replying that you suddenly packed up and left after checking your phone. It was not unusual for you to disappear though, at least on the KnotLips.

A smile surfaces on his face, a little disappointed. “Ah, I see. Thank you. Have a good night.”

Jooyeon gave one last scan of the crowd. There was a hint of hope he’ll catch you, but that won't happen though.

He turned toward the spot where you’d been sitting earlier and noticed a slip of sketch paper weighed down by a few bills. Wandering over, he picked it up.

It was your sketch of him.

After seeing what you made, a mischievous grin was plastered across his face. It was not cocky at all, just his dorky little pride he can’t hide because it came from you. You, the sole person he’s fully convinced despises his whole being. He believed he should take a little pride in that. He deserves it.

He traced the outlines of a sketch of him with his thumb, then stopped when he noticed where your message was scribbled.

Not bad for a poser. Don’t ever come back here.

A warm laugh slipped out of him as he read it.

Well… guess too bad for you— he likes you around.

𓇢𓆸𓍯𓂃🖌 an. Thank you for trying the whole thing! I hope it was worth your time. It took me too long to fully commit in finishing this chapter since I'm too anxious it'll disappoint buttt I had fun writing the banters. For the next chapter, it'll be a little faster-paced. I just like to take the first chapter slowly. A little fun fact too, last night, when I saw Joo crying at their recent concert, it reminded me of the hurt/comfort scene I had in mind that I'm stokeedddd, about so I was like "fuck it" and started to lock in.