Aubade | J.J.K FF ✔

0.5

you wake up with a terrible headache, a dry mouth, and terrible morning breath--the scent enough to make the dead roll in their graves. stumbling to your feet, you slide to the bathroom, washing your face and not bothering to brush your hair that lies in tangles around your gaunt face.

once you brush your teeth, the minty aftertaste lingering, you make your way to the kitchen and pull out cereal. you pour out the cereal into the bowl, then the milk, before straight up sitting on the ground, watching as birds fly by under the midday sun.

you woke up around noon--a solid six hours from when you slept, and you felt dead as hell. you take a look around the apartment, still shoving the now soggy cereal in your mouth, and your mouth turns down.

the apartment. is a fucking mess.

pillows and blankets strewn everywhere. empty bottles of soju just lining the wall. not to mention, the smell that permeates throughout the minuscule flat that reminds one of a dumpster on a hot day.

this has to go.

you're motivated this time. tired but motivated. it takes three trips to the dumpster to get rid of all the trash and, by the time you're done, the sun has set.

the apartment is cleaner now, smell gone and dishes clean and put away. with a feeling of accomplishment, you head out to the balcony, a bottle of water now in your hands.

it took time but you threw out all of the alcohol in the house, left with only water. the urge to buy more struck you throughout the day more than once, but you didn't budge, refusing to waste more money.

you were jobless and you had to take that into account.

you had to get your life together.

the night air is cool against your sweaty skin, chilling you down as you take sip after sip from the water bottle until it's completely empty. the moon shines down on you, it's glow brighter than that of the stars.

"well, well, well. if it isn't the drunk who's changing up her choice. what is it in that bottle? vodka?" you hadn't even heard the sliding door open, but the drawling voice isn't hard to notice.

you don't look up in surprise, you keep your head down, staring at the dirty streets below through the plastic crinkles of the bottle. it's all distorted, much like you.

you can hear the flick of a lighter and the tantalizing husky scent of a cigarette greets your nose. it's enough to make you look up, your words stopping in your throat once you see the sight in front of you.

he's beautiful in the moonlight.

black hair that shimmers like a river at midnight and doe eyes that contradict the sin that resides inside. his slightly disproportional lips curving around the lighted cigarette, the orange glow strangely pleasing to the eye and reminiscent of deadly dragon fire. a veiny hand holds on to the cancer stick, connected to a muscular arm covered in a sleeve of intricate tattoos, a black flowery vine accentuated with thorns.

his eyes are sharp as they look down at you, deadly.

and, for the first time since meeting this dangerously handsome man, you're terrified.

"scared?"

549 words