VMINKOOK / THE ART OF BEEKEEPING

30

— PART THIRTY.

Percussion. It drowns out the dormant spells of emotion that wither within the corners of the music room. Pads of fingers ripple against the skin of a drum; his skin is comprised of music — it's beetle black and sky blue, a song of great travesty that weighs down his shoulders and blushes across his flesh.

"Jeongguk's not here."

The room is soundproof, Taehyung's noticed, knows the familiar echo of distilled melodies, trickling down the walls, unable to escape the dull oasis of ceaseless sound. The fortissimo coda is only abated by the spewed syllables of that name, the name which concludes any sentiment of sound and draws silencing curtains over a room.

"I see that." Taehyung replies calmly, eyes pointed and curious of the relentless pattern of hungry fingertips, lapping up every vibration of sound that leaks from the drum-kit.

"So you should leave." His back straightens, Hoseok's does, his own eyes critical and foreboding, a serpentine venom issuing from his corneas and, consequently, retracting all the confident zest from Taehyung's stance. His arms cross together, teeth tug at a lip-ring, streams of electric blue burst through the river of black hair upon his head, looking majestically metallic in the glimmer of autumnal sunlight. He's all metal — aerodynamic lines of a guitar shaping his body, with galvanism radiating through his punk-rock bloodstream, and marijuana hanging off his breath.

Usually, Taehyung would take his exit immediately, not wanting to converse with unpleased conversationalists, but, on this occasion, his mind was positively bustling, "are you busy?"

"No, I just don't have any interest in talking to you."

"Why's that?" A faux burn of credence disperses throughout Taehyung, and his heart aches with it as it sinks into his tongue and passively leaves through the expelling of confident words. He has a grave intention and he's sick of playing safe with dirty players.

Hoseok's face contorts into an expression which could neither be interpreted as a smile or a frown, but, rather, a particular state of intermission. His eyes flicker with something extremely uncustomary and Taehyung's positively fumbling at it, "I don't really like chatting with those I pity."

"Pity?" Taehyung questions — not so much at the concept of the word or why it's being used to describe him, but more so at the way it's drawled out; the way it's spilt into the room in such a disgusted manner, as if the word itself were something to be shunned.

"Mm." Hoseok confirms, taking a step toward Taehyung, ignoring the giggles coming from the courtyard just beyond the window, ignoring the tension of the sun against the frost of the day, in favour of applying his own sheen of frost to his tongue, "I pity you."

Taehyung can think of a great many reasons as to why someone would pity him: he was a poor, lanky, gay loser, for one thing. He had no friends, that was another. His mother was dead, was a great one. But, he knew exactly what Hoseok's pity was aimed at, so it was only for clarity's sake that he asked, "why?"

"You're like a helpless little lamb, caught up in the conquest of ugly wolves."

Helpless. A few months ago, Taehyung would've drowned amongst such a term; he would've fallen into its definition and sunk beneath it, allowing it to consume him. Now he doesn't believe it. No, for some odd reason, now he feels it doesn't quite fit him and he's not frightened of it anymore, doesn't even allow it to sink in, just let's it settle in the room.

"They've done it to so many and it's pretty pathetic. But you're different, you're not pathetic.. you're.." his body stills, a few inches from the blond, his eyes now of the ability to reach into Taehyung's soul and conjure up a fitting word, "you're disappointing."