teens are predictable, yoongi thinks around five o’clock as his phone buzzes text after text,
or maybe i’m the predictable one, he thinks around seven o’clock, when he’s drafting a lukewarm reply with his left hand, his right hand busy zipping up his fly as the girl on his computer continues to pant with legs spread,
he thinks nothing at nine o’clock, hands nursing a can of beer in a karaoke room with a gaggle of girls at the head, bickering over the microphone as song lyrics project distortedly over their bodies, and a few guys who have decided they’re too good (too embarrassed) for this and have long hidden themselves in the dingy back corners. it’s only the first round and there’s still a whole night ahead of them—
yoongi is reaching for grapes from a glass bowl at eleven o’clock. the floor is sticky and so are his fingers; he rolls a punctured grape back and forth between his thumb and index fingers. the drinks flow from the next table to his and he gladly accepts the shot glass proffered to him with a low bow of the head as electronic overtures rock through the club,
until it’s one in the morning at some two-story cheongdam-dong bar, and in his punch-drunk haze, yoongi finally notices their party’s gotten much bigger since the beginning of the evening. most have huddled into small groups. he finds himself in the middle of a conversation with four others, all third years with the exception of one of the girls, who tells him she’s a second year. sunmi, she says. legs crossed, hands resting on pretty white knees, and maybe she’d be sitting even straighter were it not for the fact that she is very visibly inebriated. but then, so is he.
fifteen minutes into this conversation and yoongi’s had quite enough of it—what does he know about upcoming fall-winter collections—even though the second year seems to be having a grand time telling everyone here what pieces she plans on picking up come september. he decides to leave while he can, and he smiles long and slow,
“sounds like way too much effort for this lazy fucker,” yoongi’s smile stays perfectly still and he points to himself, gesturing in circular motions around the pattern on his shirt: hibiscus flowers bloom on juniper green. “if you’ll excuse me, i gotta find one of my friends—i think he’s downstairs…” and he saunters off, then down, down. it’s a harmless lie; the friend yoongi came with left shortly after vomiting at the dance club from eleven o’clock.
it’s straight to the ground level bar instead and suntory hakushu neat, please. his eyes drift shut and he swivels absently in his stool, distantly hoping that maybe the next encounter he has will prove to be a more fruitful one. but there’s a tap on his shoulder as he finishes the last few drops, and yoongi turns around to see the second year girl—he’s already forgotten her name—looking down at him with cheeks burning red.
“hi,” he briefly considers guessing her name. “welcome.” he says instead. “you’re pretty drunk.” he adds, for good measure.
