August
August is a bitter month. It’s filled to the brim with sentimentality. It’s the end of humid heat waves that bring on thick and unrelenting complaints, fans swirling, buzzes of vicious Mosquitos. Those nights under the foggy haze of cigarettes smokes, the embers represent falling stars. August is a warm month, those traced with sincerity and permission to the life of those who lack the determination and are stomached with pride. It’s a time to sprawl out in apartments with thoughts that invade corners of minds.
August is a bitter month.
---
It was late August, the quiet hum of a refrigerator, the soft buzz of a whirling fan. Random shouts of don’t go too far, and come back in time for lunch, ring through the empty streets of suburban downtown. The indents of pencil left to carve out formulas and new equations. The new thoughts of cosine laws, used and paired with the conservation of angular momentum, with the increased in number inertia, and what was it? Ah—the De Boglie’s theorem.
Kyungsoo was en route of a breakthrough. Something that could possibly shine for all the tournaments and World Cup series, a simple kick and—
“Hyung, are you finished yet?”
Jongin’s voice cuts through the slack of humid desperation and thick anxiety. It was hard, sharp, and there was a hint of utter immaturity laced deep within.
Kyungsoo slapped his pencil down. The frayed edges that turn into smooth equations, left to mark the lines of blue and white. The led placed atop numerous amounts of numbers, letters, thoughts all jot down in hopes of reaching the goal. A simple curve kick that lands straight between the net of success and determination. He must be hungry, Kyungsoo assumes.
“Hyung?”
Jongin grasps the ball midair, he’d been twirling it up and down for the past ten minutes. His body sprayed along the pale wooden floors of Kyungsoo’s studio apartment, north of Gangnam. Kyungsoo takes a moment to let his eyes wander the others legs. It’s those legs that are skillfully sinful. Those capable of handling a ball like an artist handles his brush. A swift step over, pull back, slack a little, hook it right, and , defender. Roulette, c’mon Jongin you can do this. Double lunge, Rabona, kick, score.
“Hyung.” Jongin stands up to follow Kyungsoo to the kitchen, some place he forbid Jongin from entering. But since when was Jongin the type to listen and obey?
Getting on crouched knees, a smile spreads across his lips, a steely and mischievous grin. He waits, holding his breath. Counting the seconds, listening for the minutes.
“Jongin, do you wan—“
“Boo.”
“!”
Tupperwares of kimchi and boxes of noodles crash through the silence. Kyungsoo mutters a few profanities, something he’s picked up from Jongin, before retrieving the dropped items.
“I told you to stay out of my kitchen.”
He spares a glance at the younger. Only to be met with a wide and sincere grin, unusually common during this time of day. There’s usually the tinge of irritation present, the heat and constant excessive whining about not being able to do during the day.
“You’re cute when you’re scared.”
Jongin shrugs off Kyungsoo’s scoff with a light smirk gracing his lips. His admonishing stare burrowing holes into his head, but that’s something Jongin can live with. It’s all he’s ever lived with.
[A/N]: writing from my phone. A little kaisoo for anyone whose putting up with my hiatus. Currently computer-less and depressed.
Comments