UGH! / SOPE & VMIN.

EIGHTEEN, EMOTIONAL RESCUE.

[ pls listen to boys don't cry by the cure and lust for life by iggy pop while reading! ]

EMOTIONAL RESCUE.

     THE STAGNANT SMELL of weed smoke and spilled beer is really starting to get to hoseok. there's four days till the band's gig at punk rocky ( thankfully angel's mate did manage to bag them a spot ), and he really can't stand the sight of his shithole apartment. he never minded it before, but he's not been sober for this long since he was sixteen, so maybe that's... awakened something in him.

irritably, hoseok casts aside reggie ( his guitar ) and gets up off his bed, going to throw open his window with a huff, allowing the relatively fresher air to flow in with the london sounds. shirtless, he roots around in his messy wardrobe for something decent to wear out to the pub. he'll be fucked if not being able to stand the sight of his apartment meant he'd tidy up, no siree, 'cause if hoseok can't stand the heat, he's the type to get outta the kitchen, won't put out the fire. he's fucking well out of weed and he hasn't drank for two days, due to seokjin busting his bollocks over band practice ( he's written two or three more songs, what more does the man fucking want? ), and he needs to fucking lose it.

this shabby end of london is the neighbourhood for cats like him, for the benders, bummers and fags, and he struts through with that tight blue jean smile and a tight white t-shirts and everything too tight and revealing. he passes a cop car and they yell at him, call him a fag, and he blows them a kiss and runs until he's in the comforting arms of the club tropicana cocktail bar and social club, run by a friend of a friend of a friend of seokjin's, a rich old queen who saw the moon landing and went to woodstock and threw a brick or two at the stonewall riots, knew harvey milk personally, but now he's retired himself to running a safe space for gays and straights.

"oi oi henry," hoseok grins at henry behind the bar, the weathered man smiling at him. "give us a rum and coke on the rocks, will ya love?"

it's pretty full at this time of day, despite the semi-dreary spring weather, and hoseok takes his rum outside and sits spread eagle on a chair, running a hand through his hair. one in the afternoon and he's sat here, the top 40 starting on the radio with you spin me round by dead or alive and it's a banger of a tune, got hoseok's head moving, watching two girls dance happily to the music beneath the flickering neon sign henry got all the way from new york.

club tropicana is the kind of place you come if you don't want a dank, pissy pub or a full to the brim all day club. you come here for sugary cocktails and ice clinking against your teeth. henry's a retired hippy and he doesn't have the patience for young people grinding up on each other in his bar. he segregates himself after too many bad incidents with straight people, a 'gays only' sign on the window, which has made him lose windows to bricks before. he doesn't care.

sighing, hoseok catches the eye of some kid, probably nineteen, with elton john glasses too big for his face and corkscrew curls in a crazy mess around his face. he's in this dress, floral, a '60s hippie thing with red and blue flowers, ending above the knees, and he's pretty cute. hoseok winks at him; he blushes, a smoking cigarettes between his teeth. hoseok nods his head at the chair beside him, smiling; it's all code nowadays, innit, how you communicate with others like you. hoseok's got down to a tee.

"alright?" florals asks, a shiny smile on his face, his accent a light gloucester lilt. hoseok smiles.

"alright. what's your name, love?" hoseok asks, dangling the glass of rum from his ringed fingers.

"i'm alexander. people just call me xan." xan offers a flash of teeth, crossing his legs, a pair of shiny army grade boots on his feet. he's a proper boy in dress, all hairy legs and knobbly knuckles, a shadow of stubble on his chin.