METRONOME. － k.hs + s.hs

s̶e̶v̶e̶n̶

It had come, the day he had so longed for for years, the chance to redeem his past failed attempts and prove to everyone who doubted and even himself, that he was simply born for music. He was born to sing, be on stage, write words which would hold hostage the ears of his listeners. He was made for this, he knew it for certain, and yet, when his debut album was released that afternoon, he instantly turned off his phone's internet and went into hibernation within his apartment, locking the world out, afraid of possible impending disaster.

What if his songs weren't as good as he thought? Perhaps the melodies could have been better, the chords could have been more distinct in that one part, he could have sung that specific verse differently.

Of course, it was all too late to have such thoughts now and they were merely corrosive, eating away at the remains of his sanity. The nerves made him pace from one room to the next, flip from one TV channel to another, prior to getting up and organising his things, making himself a bowl of cereal and then abandoning it, until hours ticked by and he still had no clue how his work was being received by the public.

Night had come and settled, and he found himself out on his balcony, a lit cigarette between his lips and his home phone in hand as he dazedly watched the cars driving below.

The brisk breeze nipped at his skin and strongly contrasted with the heat in his lungs, his body clad in mere grey joggers and a black hoodie, along with mismatched socks on his feet.

Though he desperately wanted to know whether he had failed once more at achieving success, he also feared failure too strongly to go anywhere near his mobile, so he clutched the bulkier, wireless telephone as if it were his only anchor and debated on whether he should call Haesol or not.

There was no other way to describe the man's voice but as magical, soothing, because somehow, no matter how tense or stressed Hyoseob was, at the sound of the singer's meliflous reply, he'd melt into a puddle of undisturbed water, tranquil, serene, and he wasn't sure how else to describe it but as that.

As always, he caved into his desire and his thumb dialled the other's number by memory, hearing the confirmatory beep prior to it going through.

"Hyoseob?"

When Haesol answered the call, his words were hoarse, laced with drowsiness, and the younger felt a twinge of guilt within his chest, eyebrows quickly furrowing.

"Oh no, I'm sorry," he urgently apologised, keeping his tone soft so as to not bother the man on the line any further, "Did I wake you?"

There came a pause and then a sigh, concluded with a, "Would you believe me if I told you no?" to which Hyoseob gave a regretful smile.

"Not really, but I could pretend to, if you like?"

Haesol gave an amused scoff, and Hyoseob imagined him shaking his head. Moments later, some shuffling sounds and puffs of exhales could be heard through the speaker, and the brunet briefly pictured the man sitting up in his bed, hair ruffled and sleepwear wrinkled, his eyes half-closed with sleep.

"I had called and sent a message to you before, but you never replied."

The statement snapped Hyoseob out of his daze, coming to realise that whilst cutting himself off from everyone, he had cut off even Haesol, and then that twinge of guilt intensified.

"Right, I'm sorry about that. You see, I just. . ."

He wasn't sure how to finish his sentence. Admitting aloud that he was terrified of hearing any news connected to his album's release was embarrassing, and he couldn't find it in himself to confess such a thing with his own mouth.