undercover .
you’re a teasing little twister and / they’re dancers in the dark, oh --
@ihjaebum
it takes four tries to unlock his phone, six to dial the number, two to make sense of the words that clutter his throat -- to sort through them, as though sentences were broken puzzles he has to piece together to let jaebum know -- in a liquid slur -- that he needs to be rescued. he pours his voice into the phone with care, but his aim falters and words spill between the folds of his clothing; a wash of laughter follows.
seven steps pull him away from the party, and in eight he finds a small patch of grass to rest against. posture collapses and sprawls his limbs out on the ground; a hand lifts; a finger points, tries to prick constellations into the washed out night sky.
he’s still sober enough to count what he hopes are minutes; seconds that swell too long; moments that pass too slow and sit between him and safety. a glamorous rescue -- he’s drunk enough to fashion himself as an icon of luxury. he’d been raised that way, after all, and the habits are hard to shake; hard to imagine anything but hushed whispers and smooth skin and the voices that feel like silk in his ears. the expensive cars, the fabrics -- textures cool under his skin.
and he wants to cry, wants to laugh, but only waits. energy still strains against the seams, waiting to be let out -- it makes him restless, even when tired. forces him to stand, to let his feet move to a distant dance, lost to his memory but engraved into his bones as a singular thought fills his head: home.
