guys my age | yuta/taeyong

think i'm too cool to know ya

Taeyong shakily drags his luggage off the train and onto the platform of the subway station. He looks around for an exit sign, and then makes his slow way towards the escalators, trying to manage all his suitcases.

He emerges into the sunlight and the immediate loud noises of a busy street. His family lives in a small neighborhood about an hour away from the heart of Seoul, so he's not incredibly used to the amount of traffic he now has to navigate. The university he goes to is small, and located far from any large cities—but that's partially why he chose this internship to begin with. The main reason was because this city is a musical hub, but he also knew he should try living somewhere new for once.

He manages to flag down a taxi, but as he's moving to the curb, he trips over one of his many bags. It's knocked to the side, and he can only watch, stumbling, as the extended handle whacks against a stranger's leg. He winces, and ducks his head. "I'm so sorry," he rushes out.

"That's quite alright," the stranger says, and he doesn't sound angry. His voice has the slightest of accents that Taeyong can't place, and he risks a peek up at him.

The man in front of him isn't much taller than Taeyong, if at all, but what strikes Taeyong is his white-blonde hair, long and slicked back, some strands brushing the back of his neck. It wouldn't be so odd if he was young (Taeyong himself is currently sporting bright cerulean hair), but this man has to be in his late-thirties at the least. It's clearly not his natural color, and Taeyong wonders what kind of job he has that allows him to dress this way at his age. But then, he realizes, he is in the city, there's probably a lot of performers and producers and fashion designers here. This man could be anyone.

He gives Taeyong a smile, and for some reason it knocks the wind out of him. Maybe it's the way his skin is perfect, or that his teeth are white and straight, but Taeyong feels like he's frozen.

The man offers Taeyong the handle of his suitcase, and he realizes the taxi driver has already loaded his other things into the trunk. Taeyong quickly accepts it with a short bow and a murmur of thanks, passing it to the driver. When he turns back around, the man is already walking away, sunlight glinting off the back of his black leather jacket.

"Where to?" the taxi driver asks, opening the door for Taeyong so he can slide into the backseat.

Taeyong rattles off his new address absently. He chalks it up to exhaustion, but he can't help but feel a little starstruck by that man. Why? Sure, he was pretty, but he's like, forty, moron, Taeyong berates himself. And you won't be twenty for another couple of weeks. So relax. He sighs, leaning back into the headrest as the driver pulls away from the curb. Well, it's not like I'm going to see him again, anyway, he thinks, glancing out the window and watching the city flash by.

By the grace of some god, Taeyong manages to get all his things up to his third-floor apartment. It's a little complex a bit removed from the main streets, and stands only about five stories high. It's meant to be student housing, so it comes barely furnished, and Taeyong spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning up and unpacking, familiarizing himself with the sharp edges of the small kitchen and the high squeak of the hinges on the windows.

Finally, he's satisfied with the state of the apartment—for the moment, at least—and he sits down to find a takeout place to call. He's a good cook, but he doesn't have any groceries, so he decides it will be tomorrow's problem, and settles on a street-eats place just down the street.

The air is warm even though the sun is setting—one of the virtues of summertime, he supposes—as he follows his navigation app across the street and down the block. He knew it was pretty walkable, but nervousness about being alone in a strange city made him worry that it wouldn't be. Luckily, it had just been his mind playing tricks on him; he's excited to settle in and call it home.