#002.5

“…do not forget your face. I could never. Hm, I have heard those words before– where exactly, I am not too sure, I must admit. But aren’t they beautiful in their own way? Words that everyone has their own interpretation of, depending on how they view life and literature. What might be yours, I am curious to hear.”

his eyes travel down, gaze starting at the top of the other’s head all the way down to his shoes. his lips stay in a thin line, roll of his eyes giving away how uninterested he is. words have never been his forte, opting for one word answers, nods, and the occasional string of ramble. 

“thanks.” 

he speaks through gritted teeth and tight lips that are almost as ashen as the rest of his face. he grabs the bucket more out of security than practicality, hugging it against him like a nighttime plushy. 

he has half a mind to take it up with whoever first described nausea as a ball of lead in your stomach. on the contrary, his stomach feels like air, empty and famished, but food had definitely not been the solution. no, food had left him heaving into the nearest trash can in the subway station. kyungsoo had somehow managed to get him home without any additional upheavals (literally), and now he’s sitting atop a pile of his clothes with a crappy bucket as his security blanket.

ten breaths. 

he had allowed himself a total of ten breaths in the flower shop, but it’s hard to talk and hold your breath at the same time. each word is a wasted sip of air he could be saving to get him through his ten breath limit. if he limits his breathing, he limits his allergies.

it’s not like he’s severely allergic or anything, but a quick trip to a flower shop just doesn’t seem worth the annoyance. in fact, he would have completely skipped the flower shop entirely, but his new client insisted on fresh flowers, so many flowers. he had tried talking some sense around the deranged idea (who wants fresh flowers in a boutique when they’re just beginning? talk about overspending), but financial advise is not part of his job description. 

so pointing to flowers and motioning with his hands is the path he chooses. coming off as a mute is better than itchy eyes and a runny nose. then again, the lack of oxygen is starting to make him feel woozy. he can feel his face turn hot, his lungs cave in his chest, and when the florist points out that he’s flushed, he loses his control. 

Send 💭 for one thought my muse has had about yours // accepting

Send 💭 for one thought my muse has had about yours // accepting

Send 💭 for one thought my muse has had about yours // accepting

between the six shots of tequila and and several beers, fire friday is living up to its potential. the dimly lit bathroom reverberates with strong bass coming from speakers that are probably way too loud for human eardrums, but it’s hard to tell whether the boom, boom, boom is coming from the music or from his heart. both seem to be pounding. 

it’s no surprise that kyuha, who lives off of psychological highs via endorphins, finds ways to take the evening that much further. someone makes a side comment about the girls on the small stages looking like mini-king kongs trying to climb the empire state building, only pillars are not meant to be stripper poles and cage dancers are usually sloppy at best–not that this club has any cages, but the girls have taken it upon themselves to give a good show (for free, he might add, but technically they’re paid in plenty of attention). 

“i know, they look like this,” he chokes out through laughs, climbing onto the counter. he stomps around, arms swinging and hips following like he’s reenacting a gorilla trying to yike by itself. one wrong step has his foot slamming down on one of the sink’s handles. it snaps clean off. he goes toppling down onto the floor, long and slow groan as he pulls himself up. a stream of water his him square in the chest, and he stares at the spurting sink for a beat too long.

“wow, you really flooded the bathroom.”

he gives the stranger a blank look and steps to the side, situation sinking in enough for him to finally move out of the splash zone (sink, not urinals–he clarifies this in his mind and tries not to laugh). his hand pats his soaked shirt, glad he can’t hear the squelch over the booming music.