☆ ☆ ☆ — [ft. xjiseop]
He doesn't really eat a lot. He'd much rather treat himself to a drink of the alcoholic variety or even a drag on the ol' cancer stick. A joint if he's feeling scandalous. But his mother's noticed how skinny he's been getting and she's worried about his health. Says he needs more meat on his bones. If only the poor woman had a clue. So here he is, his bony ass perched upon one of the leather booth-seats of his company's cafeteria. He's weaving his chopsticks between pasta noodles—a German dish made by his mother—watching them slither between narrow gaps and settle back into the container. More importantly, he's watching how his hands shake as he does it. It's subtle—maybe only noticeable if you lean in real close, perhaps narrow your eyes a lil' bit. It's usually worse than this, but the orphan's trying his best to keep his jitters under control. He dislikes being asked about it by strangers. I'm an addict going through withdrawals is never a good first impression. The place is nearly empty. Most of his label-mates are busy with schedules at this hour and luckily for him, Toy Train doesn't have schedules to attend. Being an indie group, they're pretty free-spirited, boundless—which he prefers. His heart aches for the trainees who have to take on dance practice, vocal practice, acting, and languages all in one day. And a lot of them do. That's it—he can't eat this. There's a boy at the end of his table. He'll ask him if he wants his food. Tell him that he hasn't touched it.
