lost things (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
designations) wrote2014-06-14 02:15 pm
designations) wrote2014-06-14 02:15 pm
Entry tags:
untitled
j-hope-centric, implied!j-hope/v | pg | 1565 words
the city never sleeps, and neither does he.
for bangtanexchange.
There are the days where the weather lets fall more than it should along the rim of his umbrella. The days where blustery winds are more than enough to sweep the hair off his forehead in one fell swoop, the days where the sticky heat is more than enough to glue the back of his coat to the back of his shirt to the skin of his back, the days where the soft patter of rain coincides with the quiet clacking of soles and heels along the toughened pavement of the sidewalks, scurrying away, scattering away.
The city never sleeps, and neither does Hoseok, when the night gets too cold and too weary for him here. He could probably never get used to this, the way the cars honk listlessly below in the streets, loud enough to rouse him jerkily from the precarious sleep that he’s fallen into, the uncertain slumber that never lasts long enough to erase the eye-bags that have taken up almost-permanent dwelling in the curve beneath his tired eyes, so tired, so tired and wired and a reflection of the never-ending work that haunts even the flashes of dreamscape that his mind is allowed to have, once in a while.
The city never sleeps, and neither does Hoseok, not when there is always something that calls to his attention, not when there is always another job to be done. Not when there is always something else that requires him to drag himself out from the temporary shelter of his sheets, that requires him to slip on the mask that he’s carefully built up for himself over the years, that requires him to carefully wipe away every trace of himself on every surface of this flat he occupies, before departing.
The city never sleeps, and neither does Hoseok, for there are the days where the weather will let fall more than it should, along the rim of his umbrella and the trim of his hat, and the thread of his gloves, and the last breath that occupies the space between can never compare to the quiet dim that buzzes in after, barely seconds, seconds, seconds later.
His shoes are new, brand new and slick and polished, but the water that pushes itself up from the sewers swirls around the backs of his heels, catching the hems of his trousers, and Hoseok makes a mental reminder to get them cleaned again later. It would not do to even have the slightest indication of which streets he’s been walking late into the four a.m. twilight zone.
There are still the ones who never sleep, apart from him. Those whose veins sing with the adrenaline that caffeine lends at a price, those who cannot afford to sleep, those who wish to sleep but find that they have nowhere to, those who just do not sleep. He passes all these figures on a regular basis, but they never notice him. Nobody ever notices him. It makes him good at what he does.
He takes a quick turn into the subway, pulling down his umbrella as he does, straightening it as he dips into the station, making sure to tug his hat over his eyes, almost casually, a natural motion that never gets a wary eye. Everything about him is practiced and controlled. A stark difference from who he usually is in the times the sun blares down on him, matching the disposition that he wears for the benefit of those around him.
Midnight musicians, they make the subway a regular haunt. Hoseok has come and gone and seen so many, Hoseok has come and gone and clinked a couple of coins into hats, guitar cases, coats laid out across the pavement. Hoseok has seen the famous violinists hiding under shrouds of obscurity, lonely guitarists with only their guitars and a loop pedal for company, vocal groups of five singing to the high arches and the unending tunnels and the flash of trains that speed past like neon lights, if you shut your eyes just enough.
Hoseok has never seen him, though. The saxophonist who stands by the nearest barrier to the seventh hanging sign from the left.
Young kid. A snapback sits atop a messy mop of hair, bangs falling into his face, but he doesn’t seem to register it. The saxophone in his hands commands all attention, commands his attention, commands Hoseok’s attention too, even though he’s never been one for the brass, even though he’s got more important things at hand, matters that require his attention in full, and yet—
And yet. Hoseok slows down to listen. Hoseok passes by, paced slower than he usually is, and watches the way the kid’s fingers glide across the side of his saxophone. He knows his instrument well. His fingers move in muscle memory, move in tandem with the short and elongated breaths that he alternates. He moves in rhythm with the song that he plays, he moves like he knows the music, he knows it, and it knows him.
And the song, the song. It begins soft, like his first impression. It builds, like how Hoseok is seeing this kid, now. Building, weaving this tale of what could be, and what is. The kid plays like it’s his story to tell, and it probably is. Each curve of his wrist, each note, pulled taut from the mouth of the saxophone, ringing sad throughout the subway, escalating into something that jumps and scurries and bounces away, hasty like a hare on a race, but the slow trod that follows after is reminiscent of the slow patter of the rain outside, that echoes the one-step, two-step, three-four-five-step notes that float quietly upwards and outwards and maybe into the ears of an unsuspecting passerby who doesn’t expect to hear the waning moon cry across steel tracks and electric rails.
Hoseok stops. He glances at his watch. It reads something that reminds him to keep moving. His hand fishes around in his pocket to find a coin to flip towards the kid, but it’s then he notices that he’s not busking. He’s just—playing.
“Lonely night?” comes the kid’s voice. The kid smiles. Somewhere behind them, Hoseok’s train arrives. “Me too.”
Hoseok smiles back, tips his hat, and disappears into the train carriage. Two hours later, he returns on the same train, to the same platform, and nothing about him has changed. He’s still the same person he’d been when he’d left. Nothing has changed, because Hoseok has made it so.
And the boy is still playing, but now the moon has ceased its tears and now his song speaks of the sun waxing in the sky, climbing those light steps up into the firmaments, where it takes its rightful place and casts warmth down once more.
Hoseok opens the door to his flat, hangs his coat on the hooks on the wall, shucks his shoes to a side. He leans over the sink in the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror, and dares to look at himself, like he does, every single night he returns from a job. He’s tethered to both sides of time, the night and the day, for two different reasons. It’s astonishing how he manages to do it.
He scrubs his hands with soap and hot water until his knuckles go raw. He throws everything he’d been wearing away into the trash. He carefully cleans every trace of him being anywhere else but at home that night, and carefully cleans away himself, cleans away the night and what happens in the night.
In about three hours, Hoseok will put on a shirt and a tie, slacks and shoes, and he will carry a briefcase to work, as he has always done. He will smile at everyone, crack the worst jokes, and tease everyone, from his desk-mates to the secretaries at the help desk. He will bask in the light of the sun and comment cheerfully on the weather.
And he will pass by that same kid playing on the subway platform, who nods at him but not in recognition, but just as a friendly face passing by, and Hoseok will continue on his way, as if they night had never happened. Maybe Hoseok might even stop by, and smile. Comment on how well he plays. Ask his name, maybe. Ask how old he is. Ask if he's free, Friday evening. Ask if he prefers coffee or tea. And maybe the kid will smile, maybe the kid will answer, maybe the kid will play him a song if he asks for one. But the night? It had never happened.
To everyone else, the night never happens.
To everyone else, there is no night, in him.
But to him, the night will always be there. That night, and every other night before, and every other night to come. There will be no real laughter of the sun. The moon laments constant, ringing in his temples, buzzing in the palms of his hands, knocking away the last traces of sleep.
And if someone dares ask, in the office the next morning, “You’ve got a bit of red on your neck, there?”
Hoseok will smile, thumb it away surreptitiously, and say, “Just a little scrape.”
the city never sleeps, and neither does he.
for bangtanexchange.
There are the days where the weather lets fall more than it should along the rim of his umbrella. The days where blustery winds are more than enough to sweep the hair off his forehead in one fell swoop, the days where the sticky heat is more than enough to glue the back of his coat to the back of his shirt to the skin of his back, the days where the soft patter of rain coincides with the quiet clacking of soles and heels along the toughened pavement of the sidewalks, scurrying away, scattering away.
The city never sleeps, and neither does Hoseok, when the night gets too cold and too weary for him here. He could probably never get used to this, the way the cars honk listlessly below in the streets, loud enough to rouse him jerkily from the precarious sleep that he’s fallen into, the uncertain slumber that never lasts long enough to erase the eye-bags that have taken up almost-permanent dwelling in the curve beneath his tired eyes, so tired, so tired and wired and a reflection of the never-ending work that haunts even the flashes of dreamscape that his mind is allowed to have, once in a while.
The city never sleeps, and neither does Hoseok, not when there is always something that calls to his attention, not when there is always another job to be done. Not when there is always something else that requires him to drag himself out from the temporary shelter of his sheets, that requires him to slip on the mask that he’s carefully built up for himself over the years, that requires him to carefully wipe away every trace of himself on every surface of this flat he occupies, before departing.
The city never sleeps, and neither does Hoseok, for there are the days where the weather will let fall more than it should, along the rim of his umbrella and the trim of his hat, and the thread of his gloves, and the last breath that occupies the space between can never compare to the quiet dim that buzzes in after, barely seconds, seconds, seconds later.
His shoes are new, brand new and slick and polished, but the water that pushes itself up from the sewers swirls around the backs of his heels, catching the hems of his trousers, and Hoseok makes a mental reminder to get them cleaned again later. It would not do to even have the slightest indication of which streets he’s been walking late into the four a.m. twilight zone.
There are still the ones who never sleep, apart from him. Those whose veins sing with the adrenaline that caffeine lends at a price, those who cannot afford to sleep, those who wish to sleep but find that they have nowhere to, those who just do not sleep. He passes all these figures on a regular basis, but they never notice him. Nobody ever notices him. It makes him good at what he does.
He takes a quick turn into the subway, pulling down his umbrella as he does, straightening it as he dips into the station, making sure to tug his hat over his eyes, almost casually, a natural motion that never gets a wary eye. Everything about him is practiced and controlled. A stark difference from who he usually is in the times the sun blares down on him, matching the disposition that he wears for the benefit of those around him.
Midnight musicians, they make the subway a regular haunt. Hoseok has come and gone and seen so many, Hoseok has come and gone and clinked a couple of coins into hats, guitar cases, coats laid out across the pavement. Hoseok has seen the famous violinists hiding under shrouds of obscurity, lonely guitarists with only their guitars and a loop pedal for company, vocal groups of five singing to the high arches and the unending tunnels and the flash of trains that speed past like neon lights, if you shut your eyes just enough.
Hoseok has never seen him, though. The saxophonist who stands by the nearest barrier to the seventh hanging sign from the left.
Young kid. A snapback sits atop a messy mop of hair, bangs falling into his face, but he doesn’t seem to register it. The saxophone in his hands commands all attention, commands his attention, commands Hoseok’s attention too, even though he’s never been one for the brass, even though he’s got more important things at hand, matters that require his attention in full, and yet—
And yet. Hoseok slows down to listen. Hoseok passes by, paced slower than he usually is, and watches the way the kid’s fingers glide across the side of his saxophone. He knows his instrument well. His fingers move in muscle memory, move in tandem with the short and elongated breaths that he alternates. He moves in rhythm with the song that he plays, he moves like he knows the music, he knows it, and it knows him.
And the song, the song. It begins soft, like his first impression. It builds, like how Hoseok is seeing this kid, now. Building, weaving this tale of what could be, and what is. The kid plays like it’s his story to tell, and it probably is. Each curve of his wrist, each note, pulled taut from the mouth of the saxophone, ringing sad throughout the subway, escalating into something that jumps and scurries and bounces away, hasty like a hare on a race, but the slow trod that follows after is reminiscent of the slow patter of the rain outside, that echoes the one-step, two-step, three-four-five-step notes that float quietly upwards and outwards and maybe into the ears of an unsuspecting passerby who doesn’t expect to hear the waning moon cry across steel tracks and electric rails.
Hoseok stops. He glances at his watch. It reads something that reminds him to keep moving. His hand fishes around in his pocket to find a coin to flip towards the kid, but it’s then he notices that he’s not busking. He’s just—playing.
“Lonely night?” comes the kid’s voice. The kid smiles. Somewhere behind them, Hoseok’s train arrives. “Me too.”
Hoseok smiles back, tips his hat, and disappears into the train carriage. Two hours later, he returns on the same train, to the same platform, and nothing about him has changed. He’s still the same person he’d been when he’d left. Nothing has changed, because Hoseok has made it so.
And the boy is still playing, but now the moon has ceased its tears and now his song speaks of the sun waxing in the sky, climbing those light steps up into the firmaments, where it takes its rightful place and casts warmth down once more.
Hoseok opens the door to his flat, hangs his coat on the hooks on the wall, shucks his shoes to a side. He leans over the sink in the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror, and dares to look at himself, like he does, every single night he returns from a job. He’s tethered to both sides of time, the night and the day, for two different reasons. It’s astonishing how he manages to do it.
He scrubs his hands with soap and hot water until his knuckles go raw. He throws everything he’d been wearing away into the trash. He carefully cleans every trace of him being anywhere else but at home that night, and carefully cleans away himself, cleans away the night and what happens in the night.
In about three hours, Hoseok will put on a shirt and a tie, slacks and shoes, and he will carry a briefcase to work, as he has always done. He will smile at everyone, crack the worst jokes, and tease everyone, from his desk-mates to the secretaries at the help desk. He will bask in the light of the sun and comment cheerfully on the weather.
And he will pass by that same kid playing on the subway platform, who nods at him but not in recognition, but just as a friendly face passing by, and Hoseok will continue on his way, as if they night had never happened. Maybe Hoseok might even stop by, and smile. Comment on how well he plays. Ask his name, maybe. Ask how old he is. Ask if he's free, Friday evening. Ask if he prefers coffee or tea. And maybe the kid will smile, maybe the kid will answer, maybe the kid will play him a song if he asks for one. But the night? It had never happened.
To everyone else, the night never happens.
To everyone else, there is no night, in him.
But to him, the night will always be there. That night, and every other night before, and every other night to come. There will be no real laughter of the sun. The moon laments constant, ringing in his temples, buzzing in the palms of his hands, knocking away the last traces of sleep.
And if someone dares ask, in the office the next morning, “You’ve got a bit of red on your neck, there?”
Hoseok will smile, thumb it away surreptitiously, and say, “Just a little scrape.”