God, the stench of alcohol was too much. He could feel a whole pint of vomit stirring up in the pits of his stomach. He gulped immediately to keep it down and low, inside of him instead of outside — somewhere like the floor beneath his feet. He had some new kicks he wasn’t willing to ruin. ”Thanks…?” He can’t help but to snort at his words. His own nose is shoved into his arms for a moment — he remembers he’s wearing that cologne he bought yesterday.
"And you smell like erm… a field of…" He wonders how he can put this in a more poetic way. He finds that he doesn’t have that kind of ability, even as a lyricist. "Well… a field of gruesome alcoholic beverages… and I’ll pass living there." The man’s body is completely flush against him now. He’s pretty heavy for his type of figure — he wonders if it’s muscles. He can feel his warm breath right up against his ear. He absolutely despises company parties.
His eyes are directed then to the bottle trapped between the man’s thighs. And Chanyeol’s off laughing again — the man had humor, he had to give him that much. “I’ll pass that drink too… or anything between your legs for that matter.”
Abelard’s watching the other with seemingly earnest eyes (he has a way of naturally looking like a wounded animal) (he tends to think of it as not such a good thing) (to appear so outwardly broken, I mean) (feeble), the golden flecks littering his iris sparkling when they hit the lights a certain kinda way. You can barely tell, though. His bangs are too out-of-hand.
Gruesome alcoholic beverages. The orphan’s lips teeter into a smile—into a knowing look. ”Not much of a drinker, are y’?” He’s coiling his arm back into himself now, straightening his posture. “Don’t start, ‘kay? Drinking’s like falling in love. It’s a blast until you’re left feeling like absolute trash. Sooner or later it makes you out to be a mess. A fool. Crumbled bits of decayed matter…” Eyebrows furrowed. Shaking head as if to dismiss the words that so clumsily spew from the depths of his throat. “Something like that.”
Here’s where, out of no where, it’s dawned upon him that it would be probably the greatest fucking idea!!! to hands-free pick up the bottle. Clearly, his focus isn’t quite as nimble as he once thought it was (like five seconds into the past where alcohol wasn’t shed all over his jeans, for example) He’s gasping—in trauma at both the stark contrast in temperate and the fact that he’s wasted a perfectly good drink. The bottle rolls under the sofa.
"Shit—" In English, it is. Accented with something foreign. He’s up and out of his seat, worried gaze boring into the other as if he’s his answer-filled-mum. "What do we do?" Notice how he says we as if his label-mate’s an actual part of this situation now.
I’ve been told that my voice is absolutely horrendous by a certain keyboardist and that I type too slow. To be completely, regrettably honest with you, I’m feeling nervous. The last time I published an original piece on the internet was sometime back in ‘06 and I have no recollection of where it could be. Should one of you happen upon discovering it, it would be in my best interest for you to not notify me about it. Or anyone else for that matter. In fact, rather than clicking “play”, take your finger and carefully insert it into your bum. That way, everyone wins. We’re all happy.
Warm regards, Abelard.
☞ Have a listen to “Lua” here!
asked by dokayden:
What's up, the name's Kayden. (` he bowed his head slightly in a form of politeness before he reached out his hand ) And you must be?
He’s caught marveling over the way lively gold embers reduce themselves to nothing more than a dull, sullen grey with a simple inhale and flick of his finger. His eyes are all bleary with fascination, clouded even—are they——bloodshot? Of course they are. Of course he’s high. He’s always smoking something. Drinking something. Fucking himself over!!! The approach of a stranger doesn’t seem to catch him off guard, much. He’s just going to talk to them as if they’ve been at his side all along.
"Kayden. You a foreigner, too?" A brief pause for an attempt to collect his thoughts. "—’m Abel." He’ll take the other’s significantly smaller, more dainty hand into his own now, bony fingers tucking around the boy’s palm fondly. A shake or two. Release. He can’t remember the last time someone actually offered him a handshake for a greeting.
"What made you wanna come over here? H—m? Were y’ naturally drawn to me?”
— Replying to (Δ)
“Yeah, well. We do—so learn about it.” Slurred words tumble from dry lips with his signature shoulder-shaking laugh. The poor boy’s become so weak the past couple of months that laughter is like a stab in the heart. Laughing is so, so painful. Alcohol has a way of numbing that, though. He’s an addict, he’s terrible but the numbing is—oh, it’s so sweet. It’s so—alleviating. Why do you think he’s always piss drunk??
The freckled boy’s practically laying on the other male now, too-long gone to care in the slightest; to give a fraction of a fuck! He’s got a bottle of Hite in his hand (which he’s nursed so tenderly—it’s near empty), condensation tinkering down the shaft and staining his corduroys. The other arm remains coiled around the other, giving his shoulder an awkward pat. Or two. Or three. It’s following the beat of the song so obnoxiously infiltrating their young brains.
“You’re warm. ‘n smell like…uh, a field of…sweet-smelling things. I’d like to live there.” Now he’s just speaking pure nonsense, capturing the bottle between his knobby knees to free up his hand. From there, bony digits twist through his own disheveled nest of brown curls, raking his bangs back only to have them return to their duty of almost completely sheathing his eyes. “You want the rest of this?” He’s referring to his drink. The one between his legs.
"i’m not entirely sure about that boy or his little friend. i’m not sure i’ll ever figure him out. he’s like a rubix cube you’ve just solved. you say, oh, yes! i’ve finally got it! cheers to that! and then someone comes along and shuffles it all up again. again, and again. [laughter] i think i’m going to need to reconsider my profession." — dr. andrew.
——————- ☞ a quirky eighteen year old living with a powerful, selfish entity.
——————- ☞ an avid jigsaw builder && framer.
——————- ☞ goggles-on-head wearer.
——————- ☞ known to say things that aren’t socially “normal”.
——————- ☞ tall.
——————- ☞ someone you can fuck over && take advantage of.
——————- ☞ going to help you speak with the dead. he’s not fond of nose bleeds.
——————- ☞ very fashionable.
——— ☞ original character // indie roleplay. based off of the video game, “beyond two souls”.
She honestly has no idea why she frequents this bar. The drinks are okay at best, the regulars were sleazeballs who constantly hit on her, and their open mic nights could easily drive anyone to the brink of insanity. Then again, this was the closest place that had not been affect by smoking laws. She was certain that as soon as they completely banned smoking indoors, her visits would become far less frequent. But, there were some perks to this place. Like the bartender who could pull some nice conversations or the other who always gave her a free drink or two.
One thing she enjoyed doing was people watching. There was always a small handful for eye candy purposes, like the chick a few seats down and the guy next to her, Then there were the people who were drunk off their rockers. Also fun to watch when they were about to do some stupid things, especially if the designated driver was doing their best to stop them. The regular drinkers and people who already knocked out from consuming way too much alcohol weren’t exactly all that entertaining.
The man to her right caught her eye, even if he seemed to fit the latter, more uneventful pool of patrons. She swore she knew him from somewhere, possibly STC since this wasn’t that far from the company building. Yin could easily remember people as long as they worked with her at least once, or you were a subject to her hazing. Thus he had to be a newbie or had less than a year under his belt. It dawns upon her a minute later. Abel.. something. There was definitely another syllable in there. Best to check. She reaches over a gives him a light poke on his side. “Abel, right?”
He has his fingers loosely coiled around a glass of Bourbon, nearly untouched—the ice cubes having melted already. A chilled layer of condensation coats the glass as well as his palm, but he barely notices. He doesn’t quite have the energy to bring the beverage to his lips and admittedly, he knows it’s not going to end well if he does. For now, he’ll simply hold it. Provide it with some sense of false hope.
The counter top might actually be a good spot for a nap, he thinks. Or maybe, half-thinks as he’s already letting his consciousness slip away into a state of slumber. The previously gut-wrenching sound of the stranger with the mic has faded into white noise and it’s actually become oddly relaxing. Yeah, he’s completely relaxed and on the brink of sleep—until a finger prods at his side, that is.
It has his body flinching, shifting away a fraction. Thank god he didn’t knock his drink over (the counter’s sticky enough) or even fall off his stool (he doesn’t need attention drawn to him). He keeps his gaze trained upon the empty space before him as he raises his glass to pay the French Bourbon Dynasty his respects. It hurts his throat. Mid-swig, fatigue ridden eyes wander to his left and from beneath his messy nest of hair, his eyebrows raise. The female’s bloody gorgeous. This, of course, has him sitting up straight, maybe trying to look a little less dead.
“…That’s right—” His voice falters—cracks. He hasn’t spoken in a while. To fix that, he’ll clear his throat. “Abelard Richter.” Now he’s just testing her, seeing if she’ll repeat it just like that. It’s always interesting to see how non-English speakers pronounce his name.
”You’re…” Shades of amber narrow, calloused thumb idly traces the rim of his glass. ”…’m sorry, I can’t seem to recall where I’ve seen your face before.”
kvvnjix replied to your post: x
"I’m Jiyong, from Z.diac," he chuckled softly. "You’re kinda new to STC right?"
”L—eo, right?” He’s fairly confident with that guess. ‘Guy looks like he’d be a leo.
”Sort of, yeah, well—compared to a lot of people here. My band was signed in early January of this year and I still don’t know anybody. It’s my own fault. I’m terrible.” He’ll shake his head now, traces of a smile still strewn across chapped lips.
Jimin doesn’t mean to linger—doesn’t mean to slim his eyes into a stare and just stand there, gawking—but, this guy has a really nice guitar. Really nice; much better than his old Stella Harmony that hasn’t seen any good days for probably quite a few years now. (It’s ancient—used to be his dad’s before the man passed it onto his elder brother, who left it in pretty bad shape.) (But Jimin is too attached to the thing to ever even think about giving the instrument up.) And, the boy can’t help but to notice that this guy has pretty nice fingers—long, bony ones that almost seem crafted just for playing guitar.
Which irritates him, just a bit. Jimin has little fingers.
Now, he’s generally not the type to go out of his way and engage in conversation. No, he’s much too soft-spoken—and admittedly, skeleton-quaveringly shy. However, he found himself not able to ignore this little craving of conversation. “Hey,” he says, his eyes still trained onto the other’s guitar—his own fingers are curled into his guitar case. Which is more than half his size, gawkily hanging onto his back.
With confidence he wasn’t aware he possessed, Jimin steals a seat on the same exact sofa as the other—but can it really be considered stealing? After all, this man doesn’t own the couch.
Clearing his throat (the only real sign that he’s feeling just a tad bit out of place, like the single lock of inky hair peeking out from underneath his hat), he curls his legs up, twisting them crisscross-apple-sauce style. “So, what are you playing?” He lets his chin rest in a palm, letting the elbow dig into his thigh.
Focus adhered to the unique tone of the stranger’s voice. Curiosity quick to ignite dim eyes. A subtle flick of his head and curly, tangled bangs cease (and desist) their job of swallowing him with their shadows. Now that he’s openly soaking up the presence of the stranger, they can maybe see the array of freckles littering the bridge of the orphan’s nose. According to that guitar case in their grasp, he’s discovered yet another guitarist at the company. Neat.
This kid looks fairly young. He hasn’t seen him around before. Must be a trainee.
—Who am I kidding? Abel hardly recognizes anyone in their company aside from his band mates. He’s generally too distracted by the little things around him—be it a potted ivy on the window sill in the office or the peculiar texture of the hand soap in the men’s room. What a boob.
”It’s—incredibly out of tune, I know.” He murmurs with that awkwardly hoarse voice of his. He’ll then make an attempt to solve this issue by carefully tweaking the pegs with rough thumbs, giving each corresponding string a test strum. But tuning a guitar isn’t the easiest thing to do without a tuner, so he’ll leave it be until he gets home. Whenever that is.
Then he’ll scooch over because it looks like he’s going to have some company for the evening and, in perfect English (though it does have some sort of weird accent attached to it—no one knows where that came from), he’ll answer with the song title.
”Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd. ‘Ever heard of it? It’s’a classic.” A pause for him to laugh a shoulder-shaking laugh, eyes forming wrinkles. Laughter adds about ten years to his face. What a shame. ”Or maybe my awful singing ruined it. Sorry.”
Guitar-boy sits with his legs all folded up neatly next to him. Sure is tiny! If Abel tried that, his knobby knees would take up the whole sofa.