GUNS and POETRY

straws

a/n: this update is breaking all of my ethical/moral/integral parts of conduct. but seriously, who's more surprised with an an update this soon than me?

continuation from 06 | choice

but can you really blame me with all the YTY goodness we've been blessed with recently? no, you cannot. our boy is shining so bright :)

listen to paradise by the neighbourhood for this chapter. one of my favourite bands. also, beware YTY in one of my favourite hair era.

click the ☆ to VOTE and COMMENT

~

07 | straws

Every one of his mistakes, he is determined not to repeat.

The car moves smoothly on the road. A full tank of gas- it makes him smile how prepared everyone around him is, all the time. He has no idea where he is going to go, or rather, where he is supposed to go. All his hopes rest on reaching the town, or the Metropolis without attracting any attention to himself. And he wants to be better prepared this time, or so he would like to think.

He knows enough to keep a low profile and steer clear of the cameras that had their eyes hidden away at almost all the corners. Avoid cameras at all costs- he chants it like a mantra in his head. Avoid cameras. Don't roll down your window. Don't talk to strangers. Don't draw attention to yourself- good or otherwise. He has his gun with six bullets and the money he stole from Seokwoo. There is a safety kit in the glove compartment and a few granola bars along with water at the back. Ration, he knows, in case things don't go as planned; in case he has to stay in the car without any alternative on the go.

That, and the wad of cash he had hidden away in his jacket the first time he decided to step out of the safehouse to go to the grocery store. It should last him a few days. It should be enough, he tells himself, driving in the required speed limit. Now he has a car to get him anywhere he wants to go. He can't quite afford the attention of a cop on him.

He isn't quite far off from his target. The first signs of the city are the local diners that dot the crosswalks. Humid and warm, with the taste of salt and filth fills his insides with a strange nervousness of belonging. He recognises the smell at the back of his throat without a way of knowing its origins. The sun shines particularly hard on the asphalt as it creeps up on the horizon. The Metropolis- he has heard Zuho talk of it during the night he spent with Sanghyuk. He drives past the WELCOME sign without a hitch, his eyes involuntarily flickering to the rearview mirror.

No one was following him. Yet.

He doesn't remember doing this before. But his body remembers driving, and upon the first stop, he pulls over and gets out.

It's a good thing he has left early; the streets are nearly empty. He wants to discard the jacket he had picked up in the morning, but he feels naked without it. The tshirt he had worn underneath is soiled with dirt and sweat, clinging and crumpled. Still, wearing a jacket in this heat will attract more attention than he is willing to garner. So he slips it off, tossing it into the passenger seat. He leaves out the gun, switching for a small knife that fits into his pockets with incredulous ease and one fourth of the money he stole.

Outside, the warmth drags hot trails across his bare skin. He resists the urge to fold his arms as he walks, opening the door and nearly sighing in relief as the air conditioning blasts on his face. The man at the counter greets him good morning. No, not a man. A boy, closing in on his teens. He nods in answer, taking his time to notice the hands that kept fumbling with the buttons at the counter and the look of exasperation he wore. He must be new, he deduces, slinking to the aisle to pick up a basket, keeping his eyes to the place he was most likely to get the things he wants. The shelves are stocked full- a sight that fills him with relief.