He stares at the plastic bag lying atop the small table that is aligned in the center of this crowded living room area. The sight has him stop on his tracks and check the apartment's lock for signs of breaking in; everything seems clear. Regardless, he'd not bought anything in a plastic bag before leaving. A frown settles between his brows as he heads inside.
Pushing a few discarded clothes and bunching them up in an impromptu to-wash pile with his foot, he takes the gun from his holster, considering clicking the safety off to check in the bathroom and kitchen counter, but a force draws him immediately to the table. He'd always been easily distracted.
You're still alive, eh, kid? That makes this old man happy. I like what you did to the place -- post-apocalypitc casual, I'm guessing? Suits your style. Come have a beer or 50 when you can, you know where to find me.
Happy supposed birthday, Mawang. Have a blast.
Sucking on the smooth flesh of his lip, Taemin lets his eyes linger on the note, reading it over and over until he can read it out in his mind with a perfect imitation of Jungkwang's voice. The realization of how much he'd missed the elder hits him across the face with a sting.
He takes a look at the bag's contents once nostalgia loosens its grip on him. He remembers when they celebrated Taemin's fifteenth birthday after the boy had confessed with empty eyes he didn't know the date in which he as born. "They lost the data," he's explained, rolling up thick white pills of paradise into plastic wrapping paper near Jungkwang on a bedroom's floor. "I was registered on July 18, so that's why I commemorate my birthday today. Supposed birthday, I mean." He'd noticed something about the man's face change, a flicker of darkness smoothing over calm features, an odd expression his young self couldn't put a finger on. Later on, that particular July 18 found him abuzz on his first high, vibrating with the electricity over a fine sheet of midsummer snow, because that was how they showed affection.
He doesn't need to unfold the folded baking paper sheet to know there will be yellowed dust enclosed by the frail material, maybe enough grams for three or four 8 balls, if Jungkwang was feeling generous enough. The Mawang the elder knows had always been fond of cocaine since his first high. Two packs of watermelon-flavored gun were thrown in, bringing a wider smile to Taemin's already brightened face.
Finally, his fingers tenderly brush over the last item with utmost care, a rather spent issue of One Piece dating to a while back, its colorful cover staring back at him as warmth tickled his chest, rousing a soft chuckle. Ahjusshi. He was so crazy about these when he was younger, Jungkwang used to award his successful missions with brand new issues.
Agile little bugs, memories are, crawling up your brain at the slightest sign of opportunity. As he shuffled through the pages of the manga, he skipped to the couch, lying up across the threabare cover to start his reading, he figures he doesn't mind. He lets the fragrances and sights and fragments of conversation rush through his conscience, allowing himself to take a walk down memory lane, piecing together passages of past events, like corny 90s movies he'd seen long ago and of which he could only remember best moments.
In the end, he is thankful he has these kinds of memories to mull over. That makes if for a happy supposed birthday indeed.
He'd look cooler with a cigarette tucked between his lips, smoke fogging his eyes.
What do they say about cigarettes again? Bad for your health or something. He remembers the never ending lectures they all had gotten back in the orphanage when one of the kids was found with a pack stuffed into his shorts. Trachea, lungs, cancer kills millions every year, something about dying on a hospital bed with a tube jammed into your throat. He scoffs to himself, blinking as the mirror reproduce the expression. If they wanted a more efficient result in keeping kids away from cigs, they should mention the stench. A minor wince pulls at his upper lip at the always fresh memory of keeping conversations with smokers -- years flew by and he still struggled to keep his bile down when that stale smell flies up to his nose.
Tossing his hair back and watching it slither back towards his face, he fixes his gun in the makeshift holster inside his jeans and slips into his shoes. So much for trying to work on his looks, for once.
