Chapter Text
☆ Scissors.
Namgyu writes tiny, supposedly insignificant equations over little black lines on one of the 10 or something pages he's been handed for homework. He never bothers counting how many pages he gets. They always feel like they're never ending anyways, so the number doesn't make much of a difference besides a finish line. Just because you know how long the distance of a race is doesn't make the end closer. But if he had to guess, he would say ten.
The clock hung up high on the wall behind the desk sat in front of him ticks quietly, too faint for him to pick up through his headphones. Raging music that pounds against his eardrums mercilessly. He's most certainly gonna have hearing problems by the ripe age of 30. The hearing aids must be worth it though, because he refuses to turn it down. Trying to block everything out. The clock on his wall is menacing. Threatening. If he finds himself staring at it for too long it makes him scared. Like a fucking wimp.
He looks up at the small black arm, steadily pointing a few ticks past the number two, written in roman numerals. Of course his parents got him a clock that's written in roman numerals. He looks back down at the tilted paper placed in front of him, and can't help but want to shift it just a little so it's perfect. So he does. The light from his desk lamp is harsh on his eyes, dried out and tired. He's good at math. Well, if he wasn't good at math before, he was definitely made to be. He doesn't like math. He's not one of those gifted prodigies who hate their life because everyone expects too much of them, (gross, he's never gonna be that embarrassing.) or one of those nerds who make math their entire personality. Those people are probably gonna turn out to be pedophiles when they turn 30 anyways, and own almost all star wars merch. No offense. He's good at math, doesn't really mind doing the equations because they're usually easy, but he doesn't like being told what to do. Ever. If he wanted to do math, he would do math. But he's also bumped up a grade higher than he's supposed to be, so.. yeah. It's really fucking annoying.
He should be sleeping. For fucks sake, tomorrows Thursday, and he's still awake, with only 8 pages done. He's starting to doubt the number 10. And if he doesn't finish it today, he never will. He's just kind of like that. So if he doesn't finish it tonight, his dad's gonna find out that he didn't finish his home work, because he won't do it at all. And his dad's a major fuckin' asshole. He presses the pencil down on the paper hard, writing down the work for the next equation particularly aggressively and leaving long graphite dents in the paper. Some poor tree was cut down to make his life miserable at two in the morning. Probably 2:10 now. With his age, he's supposed to be in 9th grade, but his parents decided he was 'good enough' to bump up to the next grade early. Either that or they just want him to be perfect. That's how he acts in front of them, but still, it doesn't seem like they're grateful for it. And he wouldn't care about any of this bullshit if he didn't have tutors after school, 'extracurricular activities' to go do on weekends, and his dad. Actually, his mom's pretty shitty too. Not in the abuse typ'a way either, just.. mean.
Why does he even need to be good? Let alone perfect? They're so rich they could probably just spend a bunch of money to get him into a 'stellar academy.' Their words, not his. He wants to be dumb and live off of daddy's pocket money. How come he has to try so hard, when they wipe their asses with 500 bucks? He wants to rip the paper to shreds and forget about it. It isn't the paper's fault, nor the tree that made it, but it would be nice to destroy something for once. Though he's learnt his lesson from the scarred cigarette burn marks on his wrist. Just as he's about to throw the smallest tantrum the worlds ever seen, like a cat knocking over a chap stick, he hears a loud thump. Like, actually loud and concerningly close to where he sits. He pulls his chunky headphones off and turns so fast he must have whiplash, looking to his left.
His wide open window sits in the center of his dark blue wall. The curtains are pitch black and light. They dance in the gentle breeze coming from his window, and a person stands dead center in front of his window, making a silhouette across the carpet out of moonlight. Namgyu squints. It's too dark in his room to really make it out, but its undeniably a person. It's literally two in the morning, seriously? He tilts the desk lamp to shine it towards the man, and he doesn't look much older than Namgyu. Like, maybe the same age. The boy, clearly not a man yet, holds his hands up to cover his eyes against the bright light and stumbles backwards a few steps. He has shaggy black hair, and he's dressed head to toe in heavy black clothes. He also wears big combat books that probably already smeared mud over Namgyu's carpet. Nice..
The boy stares at him blankly like a deer in headlights. Not quite scared, just.. mildly surprised. Namgyu stares back at the boy, confused and already irritated from everything going on. "Can I help you?"
He asks, barely even a question, with how monotone and sarcastic his voice came out. The boy jumps, eyes wide and shocked, as if he didn't expect Namgyu to speak. What, was he supposed to just sit there and watch him? "What's your name, kid?
The boy stammers, voice light and nervous. "Uh.. um.. Su-bong?"
Namgyu snorts out a laugh. "Why the hell did you answer that? You're just cool with me knowing your identity?" The robber- well, Su-bong, seems to ease a little as Namgyu laughs. At him. Not sure what exactly was comforting about anything he just said. Su-bong laughs nervously, rubbing the nape of his neck. "What, are you homeless or somethin'?" Namgyu asks, grabbing his glasses that perch on a fancy, expensive velvet stand on his desk, and has to hold his way-too-long hair out of his face to push them onto his nose.
Su-bong stammers. "No, I'm not homeless.. I've got buddies and we all need money, so.."
Namgyu almost pities him. Almost. I mean, he decided on his own fruition to come and try and rob Namgyu, so he can't really be all that sympathetic. More so second hand embarrassment. He also just hates everybody. Namgyu snuffs and stands from his chair, legs wobbly from sitting down for hours on end. He steps lightly towards his coat hanger stood next to his room's door, and searches through one of his jacket pocket for his wallet. He must look like Mary Poppins looking through her purse, because it takes him 4 pockets and a fuckin' dream to find that wallet. Like, seriously. And turns out it was just in the first one he searched anyway, he just didn't feel it. He squeezes the ends of the wallet closer together to widen it, and tugs out a couple bills. He then tosses it onto his desk, hearing it knock a few other things out of place. He then walks close to Su-bong and grabs his hand, which is roughed up and covered in little cuts. Su-bong winces quietly at the sudden movement. What a fuckin' pussy. He places two hundred dollars in his hand, then gently closes his fingers over it. He looks down at Su-bong, definitely at least an inch taller than him.
"How old are you, dude?" Namgyu asks, pinching Su-bong's cheek. Su-bong stares in awe of the cash for a moment before looking up at Namgyu, unable to see his face clearly through jet black hair that drapes over his face like a pair of curtains.
"Fi-fifteen." He mumbles like a little kid trying to present something in front of the class. Namgyu can't stop himself. It's mean, really, but he laughs right in Su-bong's face. Thankfully, the (somehow) older doesn't look too offended. Just big curious eyes.
"You look 13, man, and you're older than me. What's up with that? Late bloomer?" He keeps laughing, and Su-bong joins in nervously, again. I mean, to be fair, he can't exactly get angry when he was just given 200 dollars. It was completely out of pity, but money's money. "Alright, get out of here. If you wanna rob me again go downstairs, my dad has the real money." He waves his hand at Su-bong in a shooing motion, and the boy kind of just stands there for a moment, then his brain seems to start working again. What's with these pauses? Did this weirdo fall in love with him or something?
"Oh okay, Thanks." For someone with such a punk haircut, he really is just a loser. Namgyu watches him climb backwards out through the window, shakily and precariously, but he stops before he climbs down the makeshift ladder he put together. It looks like it could fall any second.
"Um.. what's your name?" Namgyu scoffs, a little offended. "None of your business." Su-bong stares at him. Not hurt, mad, or well.. anything of the sort at what Namgyu said, just.. expectant. Soft. It kind of freaks him out.
"F-Fine.. Namgyu." He mumbles, furrowing his eyebrows.
"'Namsu?' Okay. I'll probably come back!" His mood flips 180, a big grin on his face with a couple teeth shorter than the others, and starts climbing down the fucked up ladder. What the boy said only clicks when he's already halfway down.
"Namsu..? How the fuck.." He mutters to himself, annoyance and confusion mixing in his tone. He sighs and decides he doesn't care, because why should he, and he sits back down his chair and pulls his headphones back over his ears. Whatever the hell just happened made him lose his train of thought for the equation he was on previously, and made him have to completely start over. Thanks, Su-bong. Loser.
☆ Dye.
Thanos stares at his phone for like 20 minutes, scrolling through TikTok and probably pissing Se-mi the fuck off. They sit in a booth in this cold, tiny ice cream place that Se-mi discovered a couple weeks ago, and now refuses to go one week without at least going once. Or twice. It was bad one week. She went, like, every day. Yikes, girl. His phone is then lifted out of his hands by an unseen force, and he watches it hover out of his hands with absolute bewilderment. For a mere moment, he could've sworn Jesus came down himself and took his phone away from him. Thought he was about to get a lecture on the dangers of technology or having too much screen time from THE son of God himself or some shit, but no. It's record timing, actually. Takes him only ..8 seconds to realize that Jesus is still up in heaven. (If that dude's even up there.)
"Bro, what the-" He grumbles, reaching out to grab his phone back from Se-mi, and she pulls it closer to herself, pressed against her chest. "Dude, give me my phone back." He stands up, calves pressed against the bottom front of the booth seat, which is probably disgustingly dirty and covered in gum. He goes to snatch it back out of her hand again, and nearly knocks over the tray that holds the condiments. Why that's even there? Unsure. Nobody puts ketchup and vinegar on ice cream. Though.. Thanos will be trying that next time he gets ice cream. She adjusts and tucks her hands behind her back and holds the phone tight between her back and the booth backrest.
"Not 'till you learn how to hold a conversation for five minutes with your friend. Which, by the way, you're lucky to have. Because nobody else puts up with your bullshit the way I do." She goes on as she places the phone face-down on the table and pushes it next to the wall that the booth is shoved against, in quick swooping distance in case Thanos goes and tries and take it back again. Thanos slumps into his seat, pouting. All he hears is a very annoying chipmunk as she talks. If she auditioned to be a voice actor in a new Alvin and the chipmunks movie, she would definitely get the role.
He mumbles under his breath, "Not friends for much longer, bi-atch." He learns from the best. (Worst, fuck that ho) She laughs right in his face. Why do people dig laughing in his face so much?
"Yeah right. If I ever left you, you wouldn't be able to survive a day on your own. You're like a parasite." She waves her hand around, grinning. Though it fades when she watches Thanos' shoulders slump a little more. Because somehow they weren't slumped enough, what a big baby. He stares at the table like a kid finding out they don't have chicken nuggets on the menu in a new restaurant. Pretty accurate, too, because Thanos would probably still order that even at his big age. She sighs, her voice twinged with a bit of annoyance. He can't blame her, but it doesn't make him feel much better. "He's not coming back."
Thanos scoffs out a laugh. "Pfft. Obviously. I wasn't thinking about him at all." "You clearly were." She sighs again, with even more drama, as if she didn't just a few seconds ago. She leans her cheek into her hand and fiddles with her earrings, and taps her chipped black nails on the table with her other hand rhythmically. Middle finger and ring finger nails cut shorter. Fuckin' scissor sister. Biggest mistake of his life was when he thought he had a chance with this raging lesbian, but now he knows. Oh, he knows. "It's depressing to see you still moping after two years."
"I'm not moping, bro. I don't give a fuck 'bout him. He can go die or whatever,," He rests his free arm on the table, slamming it down a little harder than necessary and narrowing his eyes. He doesn't wanna be challenged on this. He's over it, and he knows that. No questions asked. Se-mi's eyes then travel to Thanos' other hand, and her face squinches up in barely hidden amusement. He raises an eyebrow, and follows her gaze to his right hand that holds his ice cream cone. Well.. used to. His bright blue, yellow and red superhero ice cream has melted all over the table into a big swirly puddle, and a few stray drops scatter across his specially designed purple and black bleach dye pants. That's 100% gonna stain. He gasps like a Victorian child if it saw the wonders of technology for the first time, (dramatically,,) and immediately starts trying to rub it off. Se-mi, of course, bursts out laughing. Again. Like it's literally not even funny. There is nothing about this that is funny.
☆
It takes about 10 napkins until the mess is mostly cleaned up. Well, he didn't count the tissues, but anywhere between 10 or 20. Probably. He was never good with numbers. He also didn't feel like holding a cone covered in sticky ice cream while he ate it either, so he just ended up tossing it. Completely ruined his appetite, honestly. Bummer. Now, he and Se-mi walk down the sidewalk in what feels like a thousand degree weather with the way Thanos is practically fighting for his life, and Se-mi stares into her phone with a big grin on her face. Like, big. She usually has this big bitch face that she wears. He raises an eyebrow, jutting his bottom lip out. "The fuck's got you so happy?" "I'm totally gonna get into this girl's panties."
Thanos snorts, not even surprised, muttering. "Like any girl would go for you." He's swiftly punched in the arm, and he whines in pain. It was funny. It was literally so funny then she had to go ruin it like that. Unbelievable. He was obviously joking bruh. "Okay fine then, look."
Thanos abruptly stops walking, because he knows damn well if he tries to read while walking he'll for sure get hit by an oncoming semi-truck. He squints. It's hard to read when the sun is making it damn near impossible, but he gets most of it. And 'most' of it is just Se-mi absolutely creaming her panties for this girl. Like, yeah right. The way Se-mi texts this bitch, you'd think her pussy is made of diamonds. Like goddamn girl, get a grip.
"Yeah.. whatever you wanna believe, man." He mumbles, handing her the phone back and clapping his hand on her shoulder once like some dad. They continue walking down the sidewalk, and Se-mi gets instantly glued to her phone once more. Seriously dangerous, bro. "Who is this señorita, anyway? Can I meet her?"
Se-mi scrunches her face in disgust. "I think she would stop talking to me if She knew I were friends with a cretin like you. Also, don't be mad." Her face grows a little uncomfortable, eyes snapping up towards Thanos. "Oh no. Who is it?" He genuinely grows a little worried. Like, is this chick a serial killer? He wouldn't doubt it.
"Mi-na-" She barely even gets half the name out before Thanos stops immediately in his step, again, and stares at her with the most offense and shock he could possibly muster. "Se-mi." He starts, and doesn't even get to finish.
"She's nice, okay! Just because you're a shitty boyfriend doesn't mean you get to blame it on her!!" She defends rapidly, and Thanos gasps. He slaps a hand onto his chest, eyes wide. "Wow. Okay. So you're dating my ex and throwing me shade? I see how it is." He crosses his arms like a toddler that didn't get the toy he wanted, and stomps as he speed walks away from Se-mi.
She does a little trot to catch up. "You're a dick." "How am I a dick??" Thanos' voice grows shrill.
"She's a nice girl, let me have fun! I've heard her looks are as good as her pussy." She giggles and rubs her hands together. Fuckin' creep. The world wouldn't be able to handle her if she was a guy. She would already have a warrant out for her, definitely. She pauses for a moment to turn away. "Not that you would know if it's good or not." She cackles to herself like an evil witch.
Thanos shoves her off the sidewalk, relishing in the way she stumbles. She laughs with her arms wrapped around her stomach, and Thanos fumes. Though it's hard for him to shove down the small smile on his face. He eventually gives up and laughs with her. Not for as long, though. She doesn't stop laughing for a while. Like, a long time. Because apparently Thanos' misfortune is the funniest thing in the world, (fuckin' bitch), but he eventually just decides to ignore it. She's hopeless.
☆
Just a block away from Thanos' apartment, he and Se-mi stand at a cross walk, waiting for the little sign to tell them they can cross. They've been waiting for, like, 2 whole ass minutes. Stupid as hell, since when did the city revoke the rights of pedestrians? He's seriously about to just jaywalk, this dumb sign can't stop him. He sighs impatiently, but at least something makes the situation a little less boring.
He hears a loud, long honk, and a skinny man stumbles away from a car in surprise, standing on the edge of the painted cross walk. A shrill voice is heard yelling. "Jackass, Watch where you're driving!"
His stomach drops to his ass, and he swears he can feel every hair on his body raise. No way. No fuckin' way. He grows incredibly uncomfortable. "Se-mi." He mumbles, his voice a lot more serious than it was moments before. She doesn't pry her gaze from her phone. "Se-mi, seriously, look." He squeezes her shoulder and shakes it, and she grunts in annoyance but eventually follows where Thanos is exaggeratedly pointing.
The same recognition glimmers in her sharp eyes. Long, neat raven hair, pale freckled skin, and sharp, dark eyes with that soft iris. Plus, he's also at least little drunk, clearly. "Thanos, the crosswalk." Se-mi's voice makes his heart leap into his throat. The cars have stopped a little bit ago, and the crosswalk timer is almost done. About 8 seconds left to cross.
"Yeah.." He hums, and they quickly make their way across. He can't seem to pry his head away from the corner of a building where the boy dissapeared as he keeps walking, and Se-mi grabs his arm loosely.
"It wasn't him. Just a coincidence." It almost sounds like she's lying for Thanos' benefit, and it pisses him off.
Thanos bristles, growing defensive. "I know that. Just.. wanted you to see the drama too."
"You're hopeless." Se-mi murmurs. He already knows that, he doesn't need someone else to tell him.
☆ Bleach.
Cicadas sing obnoxiously outside his window, which isn't even open, but he can still hear them blaringly loud. It feels like they're only singing to piss him specifically off. Not that his window fully closes anyway, it's halfway broken. His limbs are weak yet heavy at the same time and they carry a lingering buzz underneath his skin. He stares blankly at the wall, like he's already dead. Wouldn't that be nice? His head is pounding, and a ray of sunlight paints a strip of orange-yellow light over his jaw. If he shifts even a little, it'll land over his eyes and make everything ultimately worse. The sheets over his bed aren't soft. They're pretty rough, actually. Shitty. And if he doesn't move every 30 seconds or so, it feels like there are bugs crawling on his skin, trying to burrow inside him. Which, there very well could be. This place is shitty enough that his landlord wouldn't do anything about it anyway. He spends most of his time moping about his divorce with his wife and takes it out on other people. It was literally 20 or so years ago. Nobody cares. The fucks wrong with everybody.
He pushes himself up into a sit, his hands trembling furiously. He isn't even doing anything, but they still refuse to still. His head screams in protest, and all he can do is ignore it. It's not like he has the money for painkillers, let alone something to soothe the tremble in his hands. He raises his hands to the sides of his head, and he shuts his eyes loosely so it doesn't make the pain worse. Doesn't help. He trails his nails through his hair in a way of soothing himself, but it soon just ends in him tugging on his hair until he winces softly. He wants heroin. He always wants heroin. Not even heroin, just.. something. Anything besides alcohol, because clearly it only serves to make him suffer more. He's had enough of that this past little while to fill a small river, for sure. Still, he buys loads more of it whenever he has the money for it. He used to be able to get drugs no problem. He knows whose fault that is. He knows who ruined everything.
He swings his weak legs off the bed, and pushes himself to a stand. His thoughts are loud, and they've always been loud. He used to have a way to quiet them. He used to have everything. He walks out his bedroom, hand planted on the doorframe to steady himself. His face is scrunched, plastered with the weight of problems that he routinely blames on anything but himself. He's pathetic. Really pathetic.
He hates the feel of his raven hair against his sweaty neck, hates the grime under his nails that never seem to leave, the lump in his throat that hasn't left in two years, but at least his hair isn't all that bad. It's something to hold onto. Something that wont leave unless he makes it. (And also if he gets alopecia and cancer.. but if that happens he'll probably kill himself first before it can take him anyway.) So at least there's one thing he can control in his life. But still, he can't stand to look at it in the mirror. It's embarrassing, and it makes his eyes burn. It's never been as soft as it was before he bleached the ends of it. Two years ago.
He tucks it behind his ears as he walks down the hallway, and into the kitchen. He swings open the half-broken door, and he has about 10 mustard and ketchup packages all the way at the back of the fridge. Actually, he can't really tell if it's 10 or not. He should really wear his glasses all the time, but he hates the way it makes him look like a nerd. He's not a nerd. And he's also not about to count fucking condiment packs, so it doesn't matter anyway. Fuck off. He isn't gonna use them, either, because he's got no food to use them on. But he does have a year and a half old jar of pickles. He doesn't even like pickles?? He likes olives. The things withdrawal does to a person.. yikes. Not like he's much better now.
He groans to himself, as if that'll make him feel any better. He hasn't had much food for a few days, but he barely eats on the regular anyway. Though, right now, he's hungry, and wants to eat. Unfortunate that is has to be right now. But no wonder he's so weak, not eating usually does that to someone.. He slams the door shut harder than he needs to. Any day that door's gonna break. But at least he can destroy his surroundings whenever he likes now. Consequences can go fuck themselves, he'll blame it on mold or something. 'Deterioration over time.'
He tugs open the freezer door, and it's the same sob story. Just a bunch of ice, and one very freezer burned SpongeBob popsicle. Somehow, something so simple makes his body stiffen with disgust at the heavy emotions it brings. Two goddamn years ago. He'll dig into that some other day. A day that he's desperate enough. He could eat the ice, but he should probably actually eat something that will fill his stomach. Though that does sound pretty nice..
His job at the club is barely keeping him afloat, but thankfully he should have enough for groceries. He shuts the freezer door. If he knew how he was gonna live in the future when he was younger, he's sure he would've cut his wrists out of pity and disgust for the Namgyu now. Yeah, he would hate himself if he knew. Not like that's all that far from the truth now, though.
☆
Namgyu eventually leaves his apartment. The one place he hates more than his stuffy, smelly, messy, shitty.. he could go on,, apartment. Outside. He squints as sun hits his eyes, and he feels the heat radiate on the back of his black shirt, and his black hair. And.. black pants. Probably could've worn something better, but he really doesn't care right now. He never cares about anything. Ever. The heat makes his ears hot and headache worse. This sucks.
His stomach grumbles, angry for being starved for this long. It's been started for about two years. It has every right to be angry at him. Everybody does. And if he doesn't eat fairly soon, he knows he'll puke, so he walks pretty quickly to the nearest convenience store. Yes, convenience store. Fuck grocery stores, they're overpriced for no good reason. He knows.
By the time he's finally there, after 15 minutes that felt like 2 hours in a desert, it isn't even that cold inside. Aren't they, like, always cold? Why isn't this one cold? He was expecting to be hit with immediate relief, but guess not. That somehow sours his mood even more. He walks by the person behind the counter as he steps in, and is incredibly jealous of the fan they have perched behind them. And also the fact they're clearly on some sort of drug. Looks like heroin. Fuuuck.. heroin. He could beg for some, but he's not prepared for the withdrawal that comes after he runs out. And he always runs out eventually. Inevitable. Everything does.
He snags two waters, couple sausages, about 3 ramens and an ice cream. The only flavour they had was superhero. Gross as hell, but when he saw it, he just knew he had to have it. He can still treat himself, okay? Damn. Despite the fact he doesn't deserve it. He drops the items on top of the counter. The man scans them with wobbly hands and blinks with one eye at a time. When the total comes up, it reads 20.58. He looks down at the crumpled 20 dollar bill he brought. It has a couple doodles on it. He had about 10 dollars more, but he left it at the apartment. Of course he left it at the apartment.
He smiles crookedly and hands the man the money, hoping he might be able to pull one over on the man. I mean, really. It's 58 cents, give him a break. But the man pushes the ice cream back into his hands angrily, and points to the freezer where it came from, blabbering indistinctly. Namgyu frowns at the man. Like, a VERY angry frown. He was really looking forward to that ice cream. He probably could've, like, cut it into fours and had one each day to make it last.
"Junkie asshole.." He mumbles under his breath and makes sure it's just loud enough that the man most likely heard it as he drags his feet to go toss it back into the freezer, practically throwing it down. He is not happy. Not like he was in the first place, but this is like, the last straw. Maybe when he gets back he'll run a bath and cut himself. The bath just makes it more dramatic, and he's too much of a pussy to kill himself. Though he's getting closer to just doing it every day of his shitty life. Self pity. He then circles back to the counter and bags his stuff up with the bag that the man almost dropped at his feet. This may be the flimsiest bag ever. Fuck this convenience store, he's never coming back.
Once he has his stuff and change, he turns around to exit, and makes sure to flip the guy off before he leaves. Not like he's conscious enough to care. Must be nice. The heat immediately hits him like a train going 58 miles per hour. Did the sun just fall out of the sky to greet him personally? It might not have been very cold in the convenience store, but still colder than whatever heatwave this is. But nonetheless, he starts the trek back home. (Not before taking a picture of the convenience store sign to make sure he avoids it from this point on. And maybe a bad yelp review. Actually, definitely a bad yelp review.)
Another 10 minutes pass and he approaches a crosswalk, his bag hitting against his leg rhythmically. He hates it. Like, it's making his mood so much worse. Something so simple. Makes his shoulders tense with genuine fury every time the items clatter inside the bag when it hits an object. But, something catches his gaze. Something bold. A very bad decision. His eyes widen and he doesn't stop walking, staring at bright purple hair across the street. His heart seems to stop in his chest, and he almost feels nauseous. Time slows for a moment, and he can feel every blood vessel and nerve in his body. But his heart quickly starts back up like a defibrillator when a car stops mere inches away from him, honking loudly. He just jaywalked, like, blatantly. And didn't even notice. Still, it can't possibly be his fault.
"Jackass, Watch where you're driving!" He yells, his voice shrill and angry. The driver flips him off, and he makes sure to walk extra slow past the car. But the moment he's back on the sidewalk, he quickens his pace into a speed walk as he rounds a corner to an alleyway. It's a short cut. He's sure one day he'll probably get murdered in this alleyway just because he's a little lazy, but he probably wouldn't care. Unless he like, happened to see a cat on the street that day. Then he might wanna live. He kicks about 5 needles as he walks by, and his heart pounds in sync with his headache that still lingers like the pulse after a burn. It can't be him. He shakes his head, deciding on that. It wasn't. He repeats it to himself another 8 or so times before he finally gets home.
☆
Namgyu soon arrives in his gross ass apartment, head spinning from the shaky elevator ride up to his floor. He kicks off his shoes and shuts the door with the heel of his foot, walking on his toes to the kitchen. He tosses the bag of groceries onto the counter, and quickly notices a hole inside the bottom of the bag. Okay, well at least he didn't lose- shit. He lost a ramen. He stares at the bag for what feels like at least two minutes. Just staring. Then his hands snake up to cup over his face, and he leans his elbows on the counter. His fingers jitter and shake. It's not that big of a deal, and he doesn't care. It's one ramen, he still has more food. He squeezes his eyes shut as he feels them gloss over. He doesn't care.
Something so simple. He shouldn't care about something so simple. He sinks to his knees in the kitchen, hugging his arms around himself. But he knows it isn't the stupid ass ramen he dropped somewhere in the streets. It isn't even his favorite flavor. But sort of a butterfly effect. It's everything. It's always everything. He squeezes the fabric wrapped around his lean torso, nose scrunched up as tears hit his knees. He thumps his pounding head against the counter, covered in old stains from food that he cooked. His raven hair drapes down, and he wants to rip it all out. The crying isn't helping his headache. He used to have everything. Everything used to be nice.