UGH! / SOPE & VMIN.

THIRTEEN, THORN IN HIS SIDE.

THORN IN HIS SIDE.

     BITTER MORNING BREATH and the stale remnants of cigarette smoke are the first thing that jeongguk registers as his eyes open up, gunk in the corners making him feel gross, something like a baby hangover blossoming in the left side of his skull. he's on his bed — thank god, he's in his own flat —, and he winces as shouting can be heard from the italian family downstairs, rubbing at his head.

jeongguk's two-room, "open plan" flat is tidier than you'd expect ( that's the gypsy in him ), with a place for everything and everything in its place, despite the half finished cups of coffee stagnating in certain places and a few items of clothing thrown on the floor. he stumbles off the mattress he boldly calls a bed, shirtless and with his baggy trousers hanging off him, scratching below the tattoo of a bumblebee on his back.

"fuck me," he yawns, dragging out the words, arms stretching and bones clicking. "fuckin' 'ell, right, fuck, coffee... fags..."

he fumbles around in last night's jeans, gross and sweaty from the hot atmosphere in menswear, and finds a packet of cigs, putting one between his teeth. he lights the gas, lights his cig, and puts the coffee pot on. still feels like he's dying, but the cigarette smoke helps. he pushes open the small window, looking out at the streets he supposes he calls home.

bit of a change from orange and pink caravans, he thinks, remembering how he and his brother would share the second caravan his parents owned, with a room each and their own vcr telly, guarded by a fierce pitbull that would roll over and beg for belly rubs only for jeongguk and jeongin. it wasn't much, he knows that, but the caravan park was home.

well, at least for a while.

running his fingers through his hair, he throws the cig out of the window and goes to grab a shirt, putting on a record while he's at it. the smiths start to play, morrissey's smooth voice rolling over jeongguk like a wave. he yawns again, sitting on the floor beside his record player, one knee up, head tilted backwards. his head's throbbing lightly; it's getting annoying.

a loud knock at the door makes jeongguk wince, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. "what?!" he yells, wondering who the fuck it is at this hour of the morning.

"jeon, lovie, i've not got me keys!" a lilted irish accent dances its way through the wood, and jeongguk sighs, rolling his eyes. he goes and unlocks the door, revealing one angel ewan, dressed all in black, with more chains than a death row prisoner and a shirt so tight you don't need to imagine anything, his black curls spilling over his face as he grins jauntily at jeongguk. his roommate smells heavily like indian spices, and one look at the tin foil takeaway containers in his hands has jeongguk's stomach growling.

"alright?" angel grins, pushing his way inside, all blinding teeth and legs as long as anything. "got ya some curry from haroon down the street. how was the gig?"

"brill, yeah, fuckin' mint," jeongguk locks the door and goes to pour the coffee, scratching his greasy head. "where were ya?"

"out wi' hann 'n the lads, weren't i? told yous i was ganninout¹." angel sits cross-legged on the floor, prying off his two inch brothel stomper shoes, wiggling his toes under his fishnets.

"why 're you talking like a fucking geordie², mate, fucks sake. embrace your irish roots," jeongguk sits opposite him, passing him the cup of sweet coffee. angel shrugs, starting to open up the takeaway, and jeongguk's too hungry to argue with anything. "oh lord — you got the right one, right?"

"tikka masala, 'course, yeah mate." angel says, and jeongguk just dives into the curry, his cigarette burning away in the ashtray and long forgotten. he uses his fingers and the delicious buttery naan bread rather than a knife and fork, the chicken bursting with flavour and spice, the rice hot and salty and just heaven to a starving hungover boy.