“...And he had the audacity to fucking pretend, like he had no fucking idea why the fuck I got so fucking livid––” Two pillars of smoke, billowing and intimidating, elegantly exit his flared nostrils and disperse into the night sky as his pointing finger impatiently taps at the remaining nub of nicotine in his grasp. He dominates the conversation far too easily, rants about goodness-knows-what to the stranger fascinated by the magnetic fury in his eyes. It shouldn’t be charming when he runs a hand through his limp blond hair, but it is. It has a certain je ne sais quoi after 3 drinks under the pale yellow street light. Hyunki is simply partaking in his bi-monthly ritual, the one that takes place after he receives feedback from another harshly marked assignment. The ritual varies from occasion to occasion, but the routine is fundamentally the same:
Our time bomb, already intoxicated beyond belief, struts into a club.
He dances until his feet hurt and he accepts every free drink he can land his clammy hands on.
When his overly optimistic bouncing fills him with self-loathing, he exits to make use of the rollie he'd shoved into his left boot before leaving his humble abode.
A stranger with a light inevitably follows him, and tries to touch him.
He rambles to them about the hardships of a child prodigy disillusioned with life, even though he knows they’re not listening, and he smokes until his hands stop shaking.
Then, he leaves them without a kiss, and walks to the next aesthetically pleasing club, ready to rinse and repeat another 5 more times.
Club hopping, just like the majority of activities in his pitiful existence, is a Solitary activity. A useful tool to (dis)prove his independence, irregardless of whether it contributes to his catastrophic downward spiralling. It does him little good to hear a familiar voice echoing down the street, but he can’t help but saunter forward to engage with the night time entertainment. Like a moth to a flame, he gravitates towards disorder and disarray.
It’s more than he could have bargained for: his slightly tipsy ex (we use the word lightly) versus a barefooted, glitter-donned drunkard laying down on the sidewalk. Hyunki flicks the cigarette butt between his finger-pads aside and takes out his phone to capture the comedic sight before anyone can object.
“Ah, fuck, wait a minute, fucking hell. I have, I have the perfect fucking joke for this. Okay, this one’s directed towards the fairy of the night––” He cackles happily, harphazardly spraying his newly found audience with a shower of spit. Yes, he was extensively wary at the casual disruption to his perfected routine, but drama, any live action drama, makes him salivate at the mouth. His reservations are long forgotten. With a dismissive hand and harsh words (“Eunhak, calm your fucking tits, I know he’s got your wallet. So what? Are you mourning ₩20,000 and a shitty chip and pin credit card? Fuck off.”) he silences his bumbling ex and smiles slyly as he looks down at the child in his midst.
“Fuck, I’ll tell you what, if you get this right you can keep it. What’s the difference between the G-Spot and a bottle of Jinro?”
