was there a place on earth where he could feel any more misplaced than this? as a chronic homebodyâand, more importantly, someone who would sooner shove handfuls of glass down his throat than listen to country music for longer than ten minutesâthe answer was likely no. but, alas, his friends had insisted, swearing up and down that it would be fun, that heâd loosen up eventually, that it would be good for him⊠which sounded suspiciously like the sort of thing people said moments before everything went sideways. in all truth, his reluctance was entirely justifiedâgiven the last time heâd agreed to something like this had ended with a permanent scar carved into his arm, and a newfound fear of power tools ( and, admittedly, ghosts ), but that was neither here, nor there; more of a story reserved for a late-night oversharing session. unfortunately for the florist, their friends had scattered into the crowd, and they were left to fend for themself amongst the noisy scene, fingers twisting together absently as they contemplated, well, everything. in his defense, he had attempted to dress for the occasionâthe little cow ears perched atop his head counted for something, right? rather than continuing to stand there looking like a frightened woodland creature about to bolt, jonghyeon opted for a drink. the familiar face behind the counter came as a relief. âa⊠rodeo clown?â the echo was hesitant, but amused, a smile on their face, which would falter when their gaze fell upon the unsettling mime a distance away. âas long as that stays far away from me, iâll take one. please,â it gave him the creeps. no thank you! big eyes returned to the bartender, fighting against a shiver. âhow have your rodeo days been so far, wolfgang?â