Continuum

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Seokjin shut off the screen of his smartphone and placed it back in its pocket. He had better things to do, anyway. The other idiots could argue over the mysterious message sender. He was going to spend his day off of the difficult schedules their managers put them through in other ways. He bought a few bebi kasutera at a street vendor (noticing that the vendor glanced at the bracelets on Seokjin's wrists and his well-groomed hair and magically the price went up for the food) and walked through the streets of his city, trying to pretend he was just a normal twenty-something-year-old.

Of course, that would be a lot easier without the sounds of high-pitched giggling following his every step. Part of him wanted to snap at the girls, asking them if they had anything better to do. (More than likely, they didn't.) On the other hand, they thought he was attractive. Maybe he should just take it as a compliment, he thought as he stuffed another pastry in his mouth. He was on a paved street in a residential park, and when there was a slight breeze, the petals from the trees would float softly through the air, occasionally getting caught in his hair. Considering the color similarities between the two things, he didn't have the heart to pull them out. It was oddly calming.

As if the Universe had decided that he had come to peace with one thing, the phone in his pocket began buzzing and played the one-of-a-kind "DO NOT ANSWER THIS CALL!" ringtone.

Seokjin's eyes rolled so much he saw black. He chewed slowly before sighing, working up his nerve, and answering the call with an annoyingly chipper "Moshi moshi!"

"Really," the male voice on the other end of the line drawled. "Save it for someone that likes you."

"Could say the same to you." Yup, these two weren't fond of each other. In fact, this particular manager was Seokjin's least favorite of all time (with, of course, the exception of the one that would hit the youngest boys' wrists bloody with a ruler after they made a mistake on stage. But they didn't call that one a manager, they mostly called that one "the motherfucker"). (Ain't nobody hurts one of Seokjin's boys and gets away with it.)

"And you wonder why people don't like you. Anyway, bosslady called. A few business people showed up. Problem is, they don't really speak the same language as us. She wants to borrow Jeongguk and Joon."

Seokjin raised one eyebrow and lightly tugged on a lock of dyed pink hair. "Is that so? And why couldn't she have told me this herself?"

There was a frustrated growl. "Because she's busy and you're like this! Why are you always like this?!"

The boy let out an indignant laugh, drawing the attention of a few passerby. "Only to you, sweetheart." He spat the final word out, drizzled with as much sugar as he could manage. "Maybe I'll stop the day you stop treating my boys like objects."

There was a beat of silence. Then, a low whistle, and Seokjin felt his blood boil. "But Seokjinnie," the manager said. "You are objects. You agreed to be objects the day you all signed that contract."

The line went dead, but Seokjin didn't take the phone away from his ear. Instead, he just listened to the dial tone and the voices in his head that made him realize, that the man wasn't wrong. All they were was merchandise. Pretty faces and pretty voices to fill the minds of youths that were looking to distract themselves from the god-awful world with anything shiny.

When the mechanical voice on the telephone told him to "try your call again," he finally put the phone back into his pocket. With his other hand, he raked through his hair, pulling out the flower petals from the trees. When he was sure he had gotten them all, he raised his hand to his chest and observed the petals in his palm. There were seven petals, he counted. A gust of wind blew through the park, and the petals flew away from his hand. He watched them as they swirled through the air in frenetic madness, eventually separating from the group and falling to the ground.

Maybe he should go home.