Graceful and seemingly fragile hands are unzipping the side outline of the guitar case; it is then Akira throws the protective fabric aside to the back and behind the head of the passenger’s. A soft rustling sound is made as the item gets slung carelessly to the edge of the cushioned seat. He looks at the rearview mirror with a teasing sneer on his face. The boy comes in contact with his bare guitar as he shifts himself straight up, his torso pressed firmly on the soft surface of car’s recliner as he clears his throat to speak up. Akira is letting out a wince before a little cry escapes his lips in the stead of starting a conversation because the fret board hits Minjae’s arm when he swings the instrument in position at his lap and he’s giggling for the umpteenth time, it’s been an hour since the start of the ride and Akira has been nothing but a shining ray of – sunlight? Not quite, he is too keen in brightness for a gloomy day such as today, with the sky heavily painted in dark gray clouds, it’s enough to guess rainfall is a prominent forecast to happen by the time they land at their desired stop, but that doesn’t falter the cheeky grin on his face when he apologies, bowing slightly. Fuel to the fire is what he is. The fret board sticks out like a sore thumb, long neck reaching to Minjae’s shoulder, the tuner bumping against the other every time he swings it a bit. It happens when Akira is trying to pluck a certain high interval. Other than that dilemma, the younger male’s pads lick the strings in elegant movements. Rough fingertips slanted in red angry lines as he slides then around the long, pristine wood. Akira stops playing halfway through the third guitar solos he’s playing when the soothing ride halts into a stop and the vehicle stays immobile for a long moment. Akira didn’t seem to notice this at first, but he’s looking over at Minjae, then at the window, until his head is facing ahead, eyes catching the red light bright and alive unlike the other two unlit traffic lights aligned.
“Oh, hey, time for a cigar break.” Akira comments. Playing an electric guitar without an amplifier is not as entertaining as to hear the actual notes of it in full blast. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what was more thrilling on most nights when he’s rehearsing with band mates; the bleeding on his fingers when the numbness wasn’t enough, or the numbness on his ears when the ringing velocity of such loud music was too much for his senses. Akira kneels on the seat his haunch was at seconds ago, facing behind to hug on the headrest, reaching and grabbing for the fabric and trying his best to make the case fit back snugly on his precious Gibson but he fails so terribly to put it back in and he ends up throwing it on the empty backseat together with the crumpled black cloth case, muttering profanities. “Ah, my fingers hurt a lot. Ah, hyung.” Akira is whining when he turns around to sit back properly on his place, a thumb rubbing on each fingers that was pressing on the steel strings just minutes ago, face contorted in a displeased cringe before he opens the glove compartment, digging Minjae’s items to find the pack he oh so sneakily hid in there before he’s looking over the driver surreptitiously, eyes doused with life.
The bags weren’t just under the boy’s eyes, the black abyss takes over in full circles around the lashes, making the younger’s stare look unmistakably dead. As though if anyone was given the chance to make eye contact with this kid, they would see would come to look at a void of darkness instead of a soul. He looks dead most of the time, like a zombie on a first glace. Except the pretty paleness on his smooth skin and the thin sharp lines of his tall lean body is enough to trick people into thinking the sick and tired is nothing but a fashion statement teenagers trend themselves in these days. He plays with the three studs on his right ear, one hand still rummaging inside the compartment. “Hyung, where are my cigarettes?”
