#fle.

still bent too, but over a desk. jc is all paper and ink and the scribbles of a few lines or words across his hands and arms. that’s kc’s work though. because jc won’t let him touch the papers sprawled across the table. they work together. they work well together. but with each person doing what they need to do and eventually mix it up. or bring it together into one final product. 

they may work well together, but jc’s selfish in owning his space and kc wants to invade every little part of everything. so they manage around it and when kc gets enough of enough of jc’s way of handling all the papers on the table, he takes a pen and inks across his brother’s skin. arms, fingers, back of hands. whatever’s available, if his legs were bare, they’d be ink drawn on them too. 

he’s sure he’s felt the end of that pen on his cheek at some point. what a spectacle he will be giving to anyone who catches sight of this. it brings a smile to him from time to time when he feels it. when he sees it, because he’s not always aware it’s happening. not until a break for some water, or a sip of the coffee sitting somewhere, maybe behind. never next to kc. 

He closed his eyes and leaned back, taking a deep breath.

“I might have exaggerated a little, but my point stands. Right now I want to crawl in my bed an sleep for 12 hours. Oh, scratch that. I might just fall asleep right here. If I do, do you mind tucking me in, setting an alarm clock to 8 am, switching my phone to silent mode, closing the curtains, getting a glass of water with two ice cubes and placing it on the night stand, and changing me into my pajamas?” He smirked and opened one eye. “Thank you.”

A hum, “Stupid question of mine, but it was begging to be asked, you’ll excuse it though.” Amused by words and actions as he listens and watches. Amused by words and actions as he places them within his own world. Situations here he may have felt the same way as Kihyun describes. But JC seems to feel it everywhere, in every hour and day. Mornings may feel as if they’ve healed the exhaustion of a week worth of wrinkled papers, but--it’s the afternoon and the bags heavy under his eyes that remind him that mornings was met only two hours after a late night. 

Faceless, until a man sits himself at the bar and addresses her, that is.  

“Hm.” Her brow pulls, amusement in the darks of her eyes, the last drink still warming her from the inside out.  He looks as if he’s just getting started- she’s hardly drunk, anyways.  Buzzed.  Maybe.  The floor pulsates with each beat, and she beckons the bartender over for two more.  

“An empty cup,” glass lifting to meet his expectantly, “is just another excuse to drink more.”

Do you dare? ( @aduros )

Took you for someone else. He thinks but doesn’t say. Ringed fingers are tapping the counter and he’s leaning on an elbow as his gaze falls on the glass she holds. 

“Excuses aren’t meant to be good or bad, but there are made to make it look as if there’s more good than bad, so does the emptiness really need to be filled if it is just an excuse for something else?” Comes the ramble after a quiet few seconds. “Why need an excuse at all, drink if you wish to, say you do and drink more because you wish to.”

If there was a control and a wall between the man and his words, maybe, maybe he wouldn’t always just let them spill before they can be stopped. But why stop at all? He raises his glass and clinks hers, but puts it down on the counter with a small shake of his head, longing might run within but it is not to always be stilled. 

You don’t always get what you want. 

and he’s buzzed. floating within the warm area that rests between completely intoxicated and uncomfortably sober. as he floats, he wonders if this is even worth it.

whatever’s inside this building better be worth it.

(there’s not enough liquor in his veins to take up the empty and hollow space of sobriety. there’s not enough to completely fog up his mind, totally cloud his judgement. but there’s enough for him to go along with what’s happening.)

he needs another beer.

“you’re gonna pick a lock and you don’t even know how,” muttered words form through exhaled smoke as fingers fiddle with the cigarette between them. eventually, he becomes tired of simply watching - feels all too sensitive to the amount of time that passes - and crouches beside another soul. cigarette between his lips, one hand held out in expectancy, and then he speaks muffled words.

“gimme it. not even doin’ it right.”

“make way, make way for hayden bond.” there’s already so much nonchalance that slips in between everything jc does. but it’s harder to control his lax attitude when there’s the mix of a bit more than just his own mind and the way the world revolves around it. it’s not spinning, he’s had enough from the days in the country side. at an age so young it would be considered a delinquent act had it happened in the city. when you’ve known the strong taste of alcohol from a place that doesn’t need to even buy it because they have their own sources, it’s hard to even consider the bottled soju in the cherished soul of seoul to be alcohol.

it’s watered, has the same taste. but the sting is not the same. his parents did mention that if not for them, their kids might be coming back for, at the very least it’d be to find their own mind within the burn of the taste of their liquor. homemade, homemade is always better. 

“but how am i supposed to know how if i never try?” it’s a genuine question. but there’s never anything that is not genuine about what jc says or does. it was the dilemma when they landed on this side of the country. people around them seemed to be in it for so much more than the authenticity of their actions or words. it was hard to pinpoint who was true and who was simply painted the colours they wished you to warm up to. 

jc’s crouch falls, he sits on the ground and presses his back to the wall next to the door. his fingers let go of the hair pin, as useless as it is in his hold, is the way kc’s guitar also felt like. it feels a bit amusing, when he tells people he cannot do anything except singing and they think he’s lying. but there are proofs everywhere. in the quake of the drum when he wants to take siyoung’s role, in the distorted sound the bass makes when jinkyung is not around and he knows it’s his only chance to so much as chance a glance at her diamond. his fingers always stumble on the keys when taeil’s keyboard find their way through the experience. 

but most of all, kc’s guitar is the hardest to handle. the weight, the material, the strings. they seem to want to cut through jc’s fingerprints. it’s why he’s never hesitant when he fails and they ask for the task. so here he is, dropping the pin in hayden’s palm and waiting, as usual. 

this was the blissful ignorance of the life led by someone so chronically nervous: the line separating who’s intimidating and who isn’t blurred to nothingness. but yubin wears it like the blissful ignorance of someone who simply is. (for years now, she has learnt to get away with it.) “how have you been?”

mundane inquiries, for a mundane world, where mundane souls, go about mundanely. a mundane boy and a mundane girl, sit by the table and let the mundane inquiries flow. jc’s got a smile pulled from the strings of words aligned in his mind and how it made him tap his finger atop of the surface of the table, he chanted it within, but it’s showing that his mind was distant for a millisecond. not absolutely torn apart, because it relates to no and to yubin facing him. he’s facing her, gaze on and he always faces without a flinch, watching people try to seek a safe zone to put their eyes on can get fascinating. 

Tanner shakes ash into the street drain, pushes at the dirty puddle with the tip of his boot and watches as mud sloshes away. He loves the rain, but in the city, down all those alleyways and dead ends, it never cleans the dirt. Pushes it around a little bit. Eventually it settles in damp clumps once everything is dry, looking just as disgusting as before.

It reminds him of himself.

JC does too, a little bit. But not when he talks like this. Tanner rarely talks like this. When he does, he’s usually barely lucid and feeling with his heart and mouth instead of his head. And that’s when songs are conceived. That’s how he gets to the “raw emotion” that critics so often praise him on.

“Keep talking. I’m listening.”

And he is. He doesn’t always understand, but there’s a quality to the things JC says that Tanner appreciates. Tanner takes another drag, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the rusted metal railing. “Is this supposed to be a science lesson? I was never good at science, you know. Chemistry I can do– or well, I can blow shit up.”

It’s dark, the sky nearly cleared so that they can see all of the stars in it. “Grab my wallet. Let’s walk.”

A hand is quickly passed through his hair,  dark contrast through his fingers. They linger for a bit, as if unable to leave the silk of it. Or simply because JC is thinking, while a sound leaves him--a chuckle it may be. Lighthearted as it is, his eyes half closed as they are and his eyebrows are up for the wallet suggestion. “Trusting me with your money?” 

Walking is never going to be something to be denied or to refuse. Legs as they move, eyes as they scan, they appease what he considers his soul. We all have one, don’t we? A soul in Tanner that somehow matches and yet mismatches his own. Is it in the way the smoke carries him around that JC found similar? Or simply in the way that things seem to be as simple when Tanner is playing, the way JC feels but when Tanner speaks it’s as if the man himself can pull back from the puppetry of his art. 

It’s something JC often times wondered if he’d ever be able to. He’s unable to break apart who he is, from who music makes him to to be. The songs, they’re in everything and where they touch it’s because they’ve lived there long enough to have made a home out of him. He’s simply the bit of smoke that rises through the foyer and tells of a home that is well taken care of, warmly kept, warmly lit.

yo to the few tumblr followers i have, check this shit out doe. We through another 300 person party. Cops shut this one down a lil early but it was still ratchet.

music by the one and only BENZINO

NEW HATS AND LEFTOVER SHIRTS DROP SATURDAY WHODI

Badio answering fan questions.

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