@fmdminjung
ash doesn’t like meeting new people. he has enough friends to count on a hand or two and, if given the chance, he reckons he’d be perfectly happy only talking to them for the rest of his life. as an artist and a writer, someone who has to understand the human experience to write about it, he should say there’s nothing more he likes than getting to know those who are new to him, but, over the years, ash has grown increasingly reserved in nature. being locked up in either a hospital room or his apartment for the past few weeks has made him realize life as a reclusive hermit might be for him.
he tries to tell himself it’s not as bad to have his first meeting with someone on camera if he gets to do it over a video call instead of in person, but he hasn’t quite convinced himself yet. it hasn’t really occurred to him that there’s a slim possibility he’ll be writing for someone he’s talked to before beyond the possibility of polite greetings backstage at music shows.
in the unusually currently well-lit depths of his home studio, he fiddles with his phone and his self-cam in turn to try to find an arrangement that allows him to be comfortably visible on both, but at a certain point, he’s only doing it to stall. he’s been given a time to call his partner, though, and punctuality is key for a good first impression, so he uses that to push himself into making the video call. his own face appears on the screen in front of him as the phone dials and he cringes on instinct at the sight of his face. there’s more color to it than a week before, but he sees his absence of appetite in the prominence of his cheekbones. he has no choice but to stare into his own face as he waits for an answer, a low flame of anxiety sizzling just below the surface that he concentrates to keep low enough it won’t show on his face.
