pretty boy.
@ryanid, san’s apartment, night brings insecurities.
it’s late. time foretold by the sky. shaded dark, a grey that threatens to turn black. a slow rolling cloud. it’s drizzling. san follows the raindrops as they skate down the broad balcony window. maybe he should turn the tv on instead. but he’s not in the mood. he’s just tired. from music shows, from being carted around with the rest of olympus. and recently, management pushing to get san to release content of him and taeho ‘on his own.’ which isn’t on his own, considering he hates him. but they need to mend the damage done. even if it is all taeho’s fault. it’s hard to piece together that san might’ve manipulated things into disarray, after all. it’s hard to take taeho’s word over san’s.
he leans his shoulder in against ryan’s and takes another sip from his wine glass. he has the aircon turned up high enough that he’s able to wear a hoodie. like he’s trying to pull comfort from fabric, from alcohol, from people. grasping desperately, holding it close in hopes that it might fix him. but he still feels tired. he still feels like he’s on the edge of being sick. paranoid, too. waiting for taeho to drop the hammer. san’s not naive. there are certain expectations that come from their relationship, a knowledge that taeho will get him back for it. san’s heard talk, after all, of them delaying taeho’s solo music yet again. waiting for this to blow over first.
it’s what san had wanted, to make taeho suffer too. but that doesn’t change the fact that taeho’s angry now. that he’ll want to hurt back. and taeho’s usually better at that than san is. at least when it comes to the two of them. self doubt clouds him. from his group members, sure. but milo recently too. it hadn’t been too long ago that they’d come together. slow, milo had told him. and san had let him. tired and exploratory. too giving. and then later, milo told him that he’d made him feel wrong.
san feels like a sickness sometimes. a plague. infecting those around him until they either break down or pull away, out of reach of what he’s busy spreading. he curls himself up a little tighter, knees to chest and drinks again. “do you ever want to just…” san trails off, examines words in his head. tries to pick those that will best articulate his meaning. “step out of your skin? or body, or whatever? leave it behind.” san’s not really drunk yet. he’d just drank enough that he feels capable of talking again.