#yohan.

the   interruption   comes   hand   -   in   -   hand   with   a   targeted   lack   of   surprise.   they're   down   to   the   latter   hours   of   the   evening,   when   most   of   his   patients   are   drugs   to   the   gills   and   limp   against   their   stiff   sheets.   he's   reaping   the   benefits   of   a   long   shift   (   that   is,   the   abundance   of   open   offices   and   humorous   selection   of   dead   -   eyed   interns   )   when   the   awkward   scuffle   of   shoes   against   linoleum   scratches   at   his   ears.   somehow,   he   knows   from   that   alone.   it's   a   knowledge   born   of   history   and   repetition   ;   magnetic   ends,   the   two   of   them.   he   does   his   due   diligence   of   closing   out   of   the   confidential   screens   before   turning   the   chair   towards   the   door,   just   before   that   familiar   frame   steps   into   the   doorway.   it   pulls   at   his   lips,   but   he   doesn't   know   which   it   is   ⸺   a   frown   or   a   smile.   he's   exhausted   either   way.   finds   himself   slouching   in   his   seat,   almost   instinct,   and   lacing   his   fingers   together   atop   his   stomach.   he   lifts   his   eyebrows   halfheartedly.           ‘     our   mayor   does   workplace   visits   now   ?   or   am   i   special   to   you,   mr.   nam   ?     ’

we bonded over the course of nature of being the only producers in ong at that time, which does feel like a hundred years ago and i do think it’s a hundred years ago because he was still fucked up (( not that he is not, he was just more at that time )) and i was very, very (( emphasis on very )) lonely. we smoked every day, we made music, we talked shit, we even made a group together which was a total failure because none of us had the stability to keep anything in life, what was proven often. i just think we had the energy to understand and stand by each other at that time, and that if we didn’t things might have not turned out as great as they did. i have a beautiful family and he has a great life, we worked our asses for it and it’s wonderful to see he become the man that i knew he could be through his midnight high as fuck hours. we are bonded for life, i love the past we had and i love even more the future. he never forgets my birthday too, credit for that! love you bro, you deserve every little good thing that’s on your life right now. and please just stop being such a dick, accept that music is just in you and let it be! we own very good tracks to the world, especially to thirties.

@grimoircs

old habits die hard. especially for seo yohan. it had already been hard to give her up the first time, hundreds of unfinished songs nestled in the depths of his computer concrete proof of that. and even as time passed, the ache, the wanting always lingered, never leaving completely. he never did know how to let things go. it took a while to get him where he had been before that fated radio appearance, a huge mistake on the company’s part, and now ... 

well, now he’s back at square one. 

history repeating itself by way of text messages sent her way sporadically, ‘accidental’ run-ins around the company and a small brush of fingers, attempts to sneak a meeting between them in the middle of the night. but circumstances are different these days. less free time, much less coinciding, and more difficulties in running around uncaught by cameras. and so as a result, they’ve seen each other maybe three brief times since the first night. each time seemingly shorter than the last.

now, yohan’s near bursting. a distracted mess, useless at their dance practice for what he’d personally consider their most tiring choreography yet. making mistakes left and right until his members have mercy on (or, rather, get annoyed at) him and call it quits for the day. leaving him to lie on the floor both exhausted and frustrated, one knee bent up and an arm resting on his warm, sweaty forehead. he could fall asleep here, he thinks, eyes closing for a moment like he might try to. he breathes deep, trying to slow it and his heart down, when he hears the door click open, slow. 

the darkness before the sunrise seems especially dark @grimoircs / han & jowi at a hotel in jeju

a thirty-minute (second-to-ending) setlist tells almost nothing of the time put into getting there. about the relentless practice, the hours upon hours spent into making the songs, the wasted time in the clouds, traveling from one country to the next to the next and then back home, only to fly once more to an island that simultaneously feels more like home but also not exactly. and still, yohan always looks forward to those thirty-minutes. or even to those four minutes during promotions. or to those exhausting, yet exhilarating, two and a half hours straight in various arenas around the world. every time he steps on stage, he’s reminded of why. 

why he’s sacrificed a million things for just this one. 

but then, comes her name in the setlist. not as cherry bomb!, but aj. just aj, solo. then, comes the hotel. then, comes the overwhelming knowledge that she’s just one floor below him. knowledge he can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries to with a bottle of wine and his laptop open in front of him with a potential solo song he still can’t get quite right. frustration bubbles and bubbles. he hates every drum track he lays down, every hi-hat, everything. the wine bottle is empty now. he knows what’s going to happen next. his headphones come off and a grey beanie comes on, tugged on low enough to hide the ashy blonde beneath. he looks in the mirror right before the door, considers for a second swapping his white low cut tee to something more presentable, but what’s the point? there is none, so, he leaves. 

a less-than-a-minute elevator ride down tells nothing of the hours he just spent trying to resist. and still, in some twisted, maybe masochistic way, yohan looks forward to this. wants this. needs this. knocks softly on her door with a rhythm too familiar. pitches his voice quiet, but loud enough for her to hear him speak her name slow, melodically, “ahn jowi, let me in.” and when she does, he grins, lips curving slowly. every time he steps into her room, he wonders why he sacrificed this. 

but, she doesn’t have to know that. 

yohan   had   sought   salvation   in   worse   places   than   a   dive   bar.   the   stench   didn't   sting   his   nose   anymore,   though   it'd   never   been   his   vice   of   choice   —   he'd   mopped   puke   out   of   confession   booths   and   measured   alcohol   in   cadavers   too   often   to   be   enticed   or   bewildered   by   it.   his   appearance   tonight   wasn't   even   his   choice.   it'd   been   gyeongjun's   recommendation,   petal   -   soft   and   disarming   enough   to   ease   the   sting   of   his   pity.   for   a   kind   man   addicted   to   minding   the   business   that   paid   him,   he'd   looked   at   yohan   —   if   only   for   a   moment   —   like   something   rotting   from   the   inside   -   out   and   wholly   blind   to   it.   as   if   yohan   couldn't   take   a   marker   and   sketch   out   the   site   and   source   of   the   malignancy.

the   date   was   nice,   either   way.   yohan   had   all   but   been   pushed   out   of   sliding   glass   doors   by   the   coworkers   too   eager   to   see   him   put   himself   out   there!   and   turned   his   phone   off   before   he   got   in   the   car.   if   ...   anyone   asked   after   his   radio   silence,   then   they   could   get   a   response   in   the   morning.   he'd   sat   at   the   bar   beside   a   woman   with   features   soft   and   hair   dyed   a   familiar   brown.   he   looked   in   her   eyes,   because   they   were   bright   and   full   of   life   and   joy,   and   when   she   put   her   lips   on   him,   he   tried   to   focus   on   her   eyes   and   not   the   color   of   her   hair.   a   failing   endeavor,   but   a   noble   one,   anyway.

so   maybe   this   was   punishment   for   that.   for   being   in   a   place   he   wasn't   even   fond   of,   for   turning   his   phone   off   instead   of   just   saying   he   had   a   date,   for   associating   such   a   skilled   touch   with   large   hands   that   he'd   never   know.   he   stared   down   the   alley,   his   gaze   stuck   on   the   familiar   shape   of   a   human   body.   a   living   one,   if   the   way   it   tried   to   pick   itself   up   was   any   indication.   he   closed   his   eyes   and   willed   himself   to   walk   away.   it   wasn't   his   business.   he   had   no   idea   what'd   transpired   with   the   person   and   he   had   no   desire   to   get   wrapped   up   in   any   business   messier   than   his   own.   he   was   off   the   clock   —   he'd   done   worse   things   than   let   someone   die.   none   of   it   called   to   him.

and   yet,   his   feet   turned   and   led   him   down   the   darkened   alley,   the   stench   of   trash   and   alcohol   guiding   him   steadily   closer.