— ᵏᶤᶰᵍ ᵒᶠ ᶰᵒᵗʰᶤᶰᵍ

            it’s not that he has anything against the rain. if anything, easy fucking loves the rain. the way it brings forth a new start, the way it cleanses and refreshes. he loves the rain, really. but on the one day he decides not to check the weather, and of course, he doesn’t have a ride, it’s to no one’s surprise that the skies decide to truly open up and POUR. the metro stop isn’t even that far from his house, a block or so away, but he’s barely gone a minute and he’s soaked. he knows the smart thing would be to stop, to wait it out, but he’s already w e t, isn’t he? he might as well get home faster than sit in his own waterlogged state. so with his feet joining the sound of raindrops hitting pavement, even as he runs, he’s silent beneath the endless shower. 

               it’s when he’s almost home that he spots him. tuckered against the side of a building and clutching at his own frame, the way he’s bent over, the way the lights of the corner store illuminate his features —— he’s clearly not okay.   ❛   fuck, fuck —— c’mon you asshole.   ❜   even as a part of him says to fuck it and get home, to get dry, the harsh mumbling beneath his own breath is what forces him to run over. hands out before him, placating, in hopes that he doesn’t appear as a threat, he knows it’s not his place, but fuck, the closer he gets, the worse they’re starting to look.   ❛   hey, you okay? hey —— can you hear me?   ❜ 

( – @sourcndy

『✘』 Checking his face again in his phone camera, Hanbin prods at his lower lip and the slow-forming bruise on the side of his cheek. Facial strikes are ones he does his best to avoid the most, but the guy he fought tonight was fast. Thankfully, a few good hits to the guy’s legs had him out of commission, but the damage was done. Even with the dim lighting of the evening, the injuries were impossible not to notice– and unless he somehow snagged some of his mother’s makeup without her seeing, it would be more than visible in the morning.

It’s what lands him in front of the only other person he can think of going to’s front door, bag slung over his shoulder and phone out. He’s been debating on texting the elder boy for a good ten minutes, putting it off by checking his injuries time and time again until he couldn’t prolong it anymore.

In the end it’s the wind beating against his back that has him knocking, taking a step back while he tries to form some sort of plausible excuse as to why Ezekiel needs to let him crash here for a day or two.

            regardless of how many people tend to get on his case for never sleeping, it’s really not... as bad as they make it out to be. with his schedule being sporadic at best, it’s really not that he doesn’t sleep so much as he sleeps in small quantities. he finds rest where he can, because he’s really not trying to pass out anytime soon, and if that means it only happens within the twilight hours, or at times when his body is truly pushed to the breaking point —— then so be it. he’s promised his life to the arts, and that means much, much more to him than a full night’s rest. 

            of course, he always does his best to ignore the fatiguing of his body, but even easy can tell when too much is too much. and as the lines of paint begin to entangle before his very eyes and without the prompting of his brush, limbs nearly creaking and his eyes burning from how hard he’s focusing them, well —— maybe the need for a break has come. 

            pushing back from his canvas as paint stained fingers ran absentmindedly through his hair, his stomach’s attempt to burn through its own lining was proof that yeah, he needs to eat. then again, a person needs to actually do groceries to fill cupboards and a fridge, didn’t they? something that easy obviously hasn’t done in.... however long. well, fuck that, he's fucking starving, and cup ramyun would have to do. he doesn’t particularly love or hate the food, but it is what it is —— food, and beggars can’t be choosers in a case like his. so with the boiling water poured and his chopsticks left sitting atop the plastic lid to guarantee prime time cooking, the last thing he expects is the knock at his door.   ❛   who th’fuck’s there?   ❜   calling out as he shuffles over to the front door, there's no hesitation in how he pulls it open, the curse that awaits any of his nosy friends dying on his tongue at the sight of...   ❛   oh. s’you.   ❜   taking in the spattering of colour on the younger’s face, the smirk that overcomes him is downright teasing even through his exhaustion.   ❛   shit —— you get your ass kicked again, kid?   ❜

            over the course of their friendship ( the lengthy and tiresome one its been ) they’ve long since come to the unspoken agreement that as shitty as they are at their own self care, it’s no excuse as to why they should slack when it came to the other. after all, easy could go for days on only a handful of trail mix and the fumes of his paints as sustenance, but that didn’t mean that conner was allowed to do the same with his studies. as it was, what they had was a true friendship built off of a hypocritical support system that featured one too many afternoons spent, more or less napping or swearing up a storm over unfinished assignments and shitting on the teachers that gave them in the first place. they were at a good place. of mutually beneficial standing where conner barged in at any given moment of the day based on the whims of when he felt it was best to break easy out of his bubble of creations, and easy, like he was now, deciding that conner had receded far enough into his textbooks that he deserved at least a few hours to breathe some fresh air.   ❛   look, i’m just sayin’. you’re not gonna bomb any tests just cause you spend one night out of ten to take a fuckin’ break. anymore, and you’re gonna become one with those textbooks... and that’s comin’ from me, ya nerd.   ❜

﹙  dance cypher w/ @sourcndy​. ﹚

                   《 ※ 》     HOURS HAD GONE BY and the familiar jingle from his cellular device still hadn’t gone off. It wasn’t like Sangcheol noticed it anyway, at least not until he finally decides to pry chestnut irises away from his computer screen. Not until he extends both arms into the air, palms pointed upwards towards the ceiling and fingers tightly woven between one another. Huh. Peering down at his mobile phone, he finally realizes that it had been a few hours and there wasn’t a familiar name blinking on his screen. Probably caught up again.  So he gathers up his usb and tablet, shove it all in his messenger bag and sends himself off to Ezekiel’s place. It’s most likely he didn’t eat either, so might as well grab food while he’s at it. 

An hour passes and he’s finally at the front door of the other male’s home. The scent of dolsut bibimbap tickles his nose and he’s salivating. Followed by the low roar of his stomach. God, he must have been hungry. Fingers fumble to punch in the correct combination to the keypad. A groan of frustration leaves him the first time he messes up, but the second time, it clicks and he nudges the door open with his shoulder. Immediately, chocolate irises fall upon the familiar figure and Cheol’s lips curl upwards into a cheerful grin.

❝ Ez! I’m here! You need food! Let’s eat! ❞

            it’s not that he tries to lose track of time the way he tends to, but more so like time itself runs away from him. slipping through his fingers and leading him across a trail of ignorance and feigned invincibility like a dog with a bone, it’s ridiculously tenacious in its ways, and near impossible to come back from it. as if reeling away from the pull of his creations is to betray his uttermost being ; or as if breathing when he could be giving is a disservice to his very self. his works demand every second of him —— of his time, and yet, here he is, unbearably human in his ways.

            even when it means working himself to the bone. or that it means days upon days spent, slaving over an endless creation, or striving to make for himself a visual perfection? he does it. he has to. and yet... and yet, as his brush DOES leave the canvas, and a familiar voice invades his untouched bubble of days —— he.... pulls away. ( stupidly, unfailingly human. )   ❛   how th’fuck did you get in here?   ❜   eyes bleary as they take in the sight of sangcheol, and what must be his offering of the day, even as his stomach grumbles, and his hands subconsciously begin to reach towards whatever’s the owner of such a delicious fucking aroma, it takes a moment for him to remember.   ❛   oh right, you’ve got the lock, dont’cha... what d’you want now, can’t you tell m’busy?   ❜   his voice went from accusing to suspicious, as if his empty stomach didn’t call to be filled, or his head wasn’t pounding after how many hours spent locked away. he couldn’t have sangcheol believing he was reliant on him, after all.

            for someone who tries so hard to stay aloof, he really does do a shit job at showing it. after all, what screams detachment and not giving a fuck like dropping in unannounced ; arms heavy and b u r n i n g under the weight of the bags he carried. ( and since when did fried chicken and a few groceries even weigh so fucking much? it’s a whole damn workout for him —— and shit, if the the punk isn’t grateful, he’s gonna beat his ass. )  not that he cares, because he fucking doesn’t. not about whether the kid’s been eating, or if he appreciates his efforts. but it’s also not like he even needs a hit ; the pill bottle hidden behind his bathroom mirror still clinking when shaken, still half full from lack of use. it’s not that he cares, but then again, why else is he there? foot kicking loudly and without a care against the wood of jiwook’s door as he compared the pros and cons of putting down his load. he’d have to pick them all up again, yeah, but the kid was taking a really long fucking time.   ❛   hey dumbass ! open th’fuckin door already.   ❜