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the sludge settles in the pit of his stomach. traces linger in the cracks of his skin, underneath his fingernails, behind his ears.
it’s like a bodysuit of this feeling of disgust, crawling all over. he lies in bed and the moonlight filters in through his blinds. it’s annoying but hoseok doesn’t want to turn over and tug the blinds shut so here he is, in his too warm room with moonlight in his eyes and feeling like utter shit.
coming home, it took all of his remaining brain power to not smash his case on the floor.
some days hoseok daydreams on the roof, thinking about the cracking sound his violin would make in the case. would the case break spectacularly? would his violin just turn into wood chips? would he cry or feel free?
usually, namjoon’s with him on the roof, holding his violin case, so those thoughts never go anywhere.
in the rare case they do, turning into halting action and elaborate fantasy, hoseok just reminds himself of the price tag on the violin.
///
on nights like these, hoseok’s mind wanders further, encouraging destructive thoughts and reconstructing scenarios in perfect clarity.
he imagines the look of surprise and disgust on his mother’s face if he just smashed it like a rockstar. play the last note with a flourish and then proceed to swing it into the piano. those pianos were built sturdily and wouldn’t scratch. he would probably get marked up as another student who cracked under the pressure, and be shoved out of the program. a relief.
it doesn’t really matter what his mother’s face would look like, anyways. it’s not like she cares about what he does. he still sends program flyers and tickets and the seat stays empty.
he’d be on top of the world, free of burdens. for a second. the spotlight would be on him, and he’d soak in the best performance of his life. shocking, indeed.
what would he do after? what is he going to do after? is that second of glory worth living the rest of his life in heavy regret?
hoseok quickly shuts down that line of thought.
///
hoseok walks up to the rooftop. the breeze is soft, today, and his case is surprisingly light in his grip. the sky is nice and namjoon would probably bring out his phone and filter the picture just right.
he sits by the railing, unsure of what to do. he fiddles with the clasp, pinching and unpinching. he pulls the zipper, left and right. there’s a little bit of rust around the grey railing. no traces of rain are left, puddles dried up by the springtime sun.
it’s tiring, trying to decide. so he just decides to be impulsive, for once. fuck this planning bullshit. he rests the case on the railing. he supports it with his hands, lightly.
it’s just a push, right?
///
his mother’s voice rings in his mind. “this is your future, hoseok. right here.”
the memory plays again, young him sitting on the couch. his mother gently places his first violin into his hands. “be careful,” she warns when he grips the fingerboard too tightly. “these break easily. treat your instrument with love and respect. your dreams rest inside.”
he remembers peering through the f holes of the small instrument. dreams were big things, like going to los angeles or beating the neighborhood kids in basketball. a kid in his class wanted to go to space. he doesn’t see anything like that inside, just a small stick of wood and a label.
but his mother is always right, so he nods like he understands.
now, he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand.
///
the sky is blue, a lighter blue than his case, and his violin shatters into firewood at the bottom of the building, too many feet down.
the wind flutters across his cheek, ruffling his hair. it’s a gentle caress, a reassurance that everything will still be okay.
hoseok looks down at the case, seemingly intact on the exterior, and he knows inside it’s a mess. there’s no way it could’ve survived a drop from this high up.
hoseok turns away from the railing and walks to the rooftop door. the sun is warm on his back. he steps down the stairs, footsteps echoing in the stairway, a slow and never ending descent.
he’s not in a rush. his future is shattered to pieces. he’ll just have to build himself a new one, sometime.
as the door creaks and the sunlight grows dimmer and dimmer, hoseok feels… at peace.
the world fades to black as the door closes with a finalizing click.
///
he wakes up in bed, the best rest he’s had in two weeks. he turns his head to the right and there it still is, sitting right by his desk and stand.
the usual wave of anxiety doesn’t flood him. his mental calculator doesn’t immediately start running the numbers on much time he needs to make up for his mistakes. the sun is nice on his cheek. the windmills look beautiful for april’s calendar picture. his cactus is looking healthy on the windowsill.
and to his left, there’s namjoon, awkwardly snug between him and the wall. his snores have gotten better since the surgery. he makes hoseok’s heart hurt, in good ways and bad ones.
he settles back into his blanket, nestling in his pillow. if he doesn’t fall asleep, he can just enjoy this morning atmosphere, comforted by someone he loves and who loves him. even if namjoon doesn’t take up an audience seat, he still praises hoseok. he says all the things hoseok needs to hear, which he is so endlessly grateful for. there are no hooks, no weights, no dreams namjoon places on him. just an acknowledgement as an equal and a hope for success.
“thank you,” hoseok whispers, brushing aside a few stray hairs. “i never tell you enough.”
“mmm. love you too.”