it was a split decision, one made out of a sudden compelling haste, his hands stopping the closing of the elevator doors. he hears himself calling after him, “i wouldn’t mind it.” he’s managed to surprise his own self, by this point. he knows the drunken man will most probably forget this even occurred, but taeoh couldn’t blurting it out. “hearing more, i mean. of your song.”
the stranger's voice is steady enough that siwan hears it as a melody, and that awful elevator sound is some kind of grand finale that disappoints him more than he knows. something bloats inside of him -- the sad realization that this interaction, whatever it is, whatever it carries, is coming to a close.
it's impossibly nostalgic, and as he steps out of the warm haze of the elevator he remembers how cold the night is, how cold his fingers are.
he stands in the hallway for only a second, turns when called, and for a split second the swell of violins returns, that orchestra in the back of his mind that arrives to score every moment he deems as magic. this paradise in an elevator, scenic as it is strange, creeps up slowly on that list. he watches as the doors begin to close and swallow his angelic apparition.
"i'll let you listen sometime," he says, but the elevator doors have closed. the night, too, has closed in a sense. everything after their encounter feels hollow; everything after that is an echo of something else, like the day has left its shell behind and he walks around in its corpse.
this is where sunlight splashed, he thinks of a shadow. this is where music once played, he thinks of a quiet corner.
the mentality persists for days, even when his memory grows thin, elusive as he tries to recall details. and when he slips into the elevator after a failed night, wet with someone's spilled drink, angry beyond reconciliation, there is nothing left to remind him that him and taeoh next to him had risen to heaven together. a fleeting glimpse of paradise.
he slips off his shirt with a grunt, figures he's close enough to home to do away with his shoes, too. his socks follow, and as the door closes, he points to the glowing elevator buttons.
"can you fucking get number four for me? thanks." he sounds entitled as he undoes his belt and starts to slip out of his jeans, too.
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