corvuscanus:
"when i hit that point, i usually close the file and let it stew for a few days. come back to it with more brainpower." it's advice that's a little barbed, if only because it's pretty obvious what seoho thinks of the state of the room. he leans in closer, slides jaeyoon's phone over the table and back to him to let him have a look at the order, and props up his chin on the back of his hand. "let's hear it then."
for every reaction, there's an equal and balanced opposite reaction. and in jaeyoon's case, the trade-off for slaving away, eyes burned into the screen of his computer, becomes nothing more than the ability to just breathe. "my brain works fine without it." he mumbles back the words laden in some validity. no hunger, no sleep. it's the hyperfixation like a moth to a flame that keeps his one-tracked mind at bay. but the times of collaboration and the sheer camaraderie that inevitably forms from bouncing one idea to another becomes his crutch, forcing him to at least consider the thought of chicken.
they say starving artists are nothing more than performative show.
(maybe, he's just buying right into it).
"they have things like one-meal replacements in drinks. at least, that's what someone told me the other day." because as of lately, it's become nothing more than the repetition of bodies stumbling in-and-out of his studio space, and his out-of-body visceral reaction to giving the same faux show responses each time.
but he knows seoho's better than that. so, by the time he turns his chair back around to face him, picking up the phone at hand. one quick glance, and it's one for show by how quickly the notification from the transaction comes in a following text. in reality, he's restless and far astray from harboring any opinions on what will come in the next twenty minutes.
"i've been letting this one on the back burner for a while. but hear me out - i've got a vision. let me know what you think." there's a half lie laced with the matter-of-fact push he leads his words with: five songs at once, working in rotation - a chronic worker letting each one burn till the steam courses it empty. but he won't let seoho in on the unnecessary details of his days. instead, he presses on letting the melody take reign.
"man, i hate to throw your words back at you, but you just said you're going crazy in here." one-meal replacements. seoho's mother would have a conniption if she ever heard him so much as suggest that he hadn't had a single decent meal. it's not even that he doesn't get it - convenience is so tempting - but he'd start losing his mind too if all his calories were liquid.
jaeyoon doesn't as much as glance at all the junk seoho's thrown into his virtual cart, which is probably for the best. he swivels himself closer to the desk, claims some space of his own. the bottle of liquor gets pushed back a bit in the process, towards the edge where it's not close enough for anyone to start grabbing it like it's a water bottle.
"what's the vision?," he asks, because sometimes you get more from words than you do from whatever music filters through the speakers next. but then he shuts up, leans into the backrest and rocks to the beat. it's not even that it's bad. a little overworked, maybe, to seoho's ears, but jaeyoon has been working on it for a while now, and seoho can be a bit picky about these things sometimes. it's pretty obvious why jaeyoon's been picking over it for so long though; there's a discord somewhere, the narration breaking down. seoho reaches over for the mouse when the music fades out, plays through it again just to make sure he's not missing anything obvious. when he glances back down, the app tells him that their food is five minutes out.
"i think, maybe-- let's try it on a keyboard. the structure's all there but i don't get where you're trying to take it." probably all jaeyoon needs to get it is a bit of conversation and a break from the screen, both of which he's very happy to provide.
