UGH! / SOPE & VMIN.

TWENTY ONE, EVERYTHING'S ALRIGHT, JUST HOLD ON TIGHT.

[ soundtrack 4 this chap is angel by beabadoobee ^__^ ]

EVERYTHING'S ALRIGHT,
JUST HOLD ON TIGHT.

RAIN IS HAMMERING down with a vengeance upon the roofs of london as park jimin paints, once again in his underwear, a dressing gown falling off his shoulders and one of his many soul records accompanying the rain. he's completely spent; he can't sleep, hasn't eaten much, surviving on cigarettes and coffee, hasn't been properly alive since he got that tattoo.

he ignores every call that makes his phone rattle in its hold, ignores the whole outside world in favour of drugs and paint. and fuck, he can only paint one person, a reoccurring figure of bronzed skin and miniskirts and black mullets and honey toned moans, long fingers and pretty eyes and pink lips, and fuck, he doesn't know what he's doing. his sketchbook, discarded on the floor, shows taehyung's beautiful smile; his canvas in front of him has the boy's naked chest and beautiful face depicted in watercolour, and jimin is fucking terrified of what these things could mean.

infatuation and admiration and sincerity are all concepts he's terrified of - he can't deal with his feelings, he's never honest, never truly himself, always this fucking image, this mask, that he puts on to convince the world he's some confident sexy artist. sincerity is scary and jimin's dealing with that, dealing with his feelings because he does, in fact, have feelings - feelings for kim taehyung. feelings he hasn't felt in a good while, not since he fled manchester with a new tattoo and a dream for the bright lights big city, the true secrets of the concrete jungle called london obscured to him. he never expected to fall in love again.

he stubs out the fifth cigarette of the hour and looks at his canvas with an ocean crashing in his poor heart, and he's so sober, out of larger and weed and every other vice, locked away from the world for a good few days, and he knows that someone tried to contact him multiple times from the same public phone box, and he's got a sinking feeling it's the same black haired beauty that's pirouetting around his hazy mind. fuck. jimin abandons his canvas, throws it to the floor, and goes to change the record. the smiths' meat is murder, that'll do. morrissey's a suitably maudlin, moaning & miserable cunt to soundtrack this.

he looks desolately out of the window and runs a hand through the mess on his head, looks at his new tattoo on his ribcage, done completely on impulse, he doesn't even know what it means. jimin's not sure what a lot of things mean, not here in the big city. the housing estate back in manchester was easy. manchester was easy, manchester was hanging out with the lads down the chippy and drinking shit larger and white lightning vodka from the offie¹ until you puked your guts out, and getting your cigarette stained heart ripped out by a gobby punk girl at seventeen but you'd laugh about it with the boys later. manchester was... manchester was a simpler time. jimin can't help but want it back; want the shitty sixties wallpaper of his mum and grandma's shared house, wants the pink wafer and squashed fly² biscuits from that antique queen coronation tin, wants his grandma singing along to that fucking marilyn monroe record, wants charlie chaplin on the tv and audrey hepburn photos on the walls, wants to be a kid again. twenty one is confusing and bad and there are a few choice things he'd say to his younger self if he could.

"what a fuckin' mess this is, hm mate?" he says to himself, watching the cars scurry by like ants on the streets below. he watches and watches, and his observant eyes catch on a shiny chrome purple bike, and his heart goes skip, hop, jump and loope-de-loope within his ribcage because he knows those damn motorcycle goggles and that caramel skin obscured by a leather jacket, and oh dear oh lordy oh mother of god, kim taehyung is parking down by the entrance to the apartment building.

jimin works fast. quick, quick, get yourself together, pull on a pair of patched-up jeans and a sex pistols t-shirt, hide the sketchbook, where where where okay under the sofa, kick the canvas in half and shove it in the bin, put the coffee pot on and try and act like you've got it all together cause it's three in the afternoon and you're not supposed to be a mess! put on at least a half-arsed façade for the boy, c'mon!