🅱🅴🅾🅼🅹🆄🅽
ᴺᵉʷ ᴬᵈᵘˡᵗ | ᴰʳᵃᵐᵃ | ᴿᵒᵐᵃⁿᶜᵉ
Choi Beomgyu is traumatized by his life and has lost everything in it. His home, his environment and his voice. Without any belongings, he tries his luck on the street. Without success. On a rainy, cold nig...
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It was already night when they sat together in Daniel's room on his sofa. Between them was the notebook in which the black-haired man wrote his lyrics. Beomgyu, of course, had his own in hand, snuggled cross-legged into the couch in one of Daniel's sweatpants and a black, baggy shirt, freshly showered. »What's going through your head?« Asked the ash-blonde with his little book and only looked briefly at Daniel before he let his eyes wander around the room and discovered one of the caps. He reached for it, wiped his hair back with a wave of the hand, and sat up.
The black-haired man, who had thrown himself into one of his band shirts, also sat cross-legged, but leaned over both books in such a way that you might think he was going to tip over at any moment. But then he straightened up again. "Well, the song ... it's kind of about my situation." He wondered how he could explain his written words. "The stage and the applause that it sucks to work on songs for so long. That it's hard and my head is full, but nothing comes out." He ran his fingers through his jet black hair, then let his hands fall on his lap. "Somehow the song is supposed to describe me, but I have the feeling that it pulls me down even more because of that."
Beomgyu looked at the older man's face under the umbrella of the cap. Then his eyes wandered over the text Daniel had written, but picked up his own notebook and pen. Perhaps Daniel found it difficult to describe himself because he didn't know exactly how to see himself. So he made a note of: »Efficient, ambitious, a little vicious,« Beomgyu giggled and leaned more over his pad. »A rare sight.« Grinning, he held out the few examples.
With a smile on his lips, Daniel poked him in the side, but these were more intended as compliments. "I was even told earlier that I was uncreative and unrealistic. So my stepfather kept saying that. "If he even thought of this man, dinner would come back to him and he would shake his head.
Still giggling, Beomgyu bent over to the side he had been pricked again and made a note of: »Not artistic? Unrealistic? Chauvinistic? Not those things.«
" I wouldn't even write that guy a disstrack, "he muttered, resting his chin on his palm as he watched the movement Beomgyu made by bobbing the pen. "Have you ever written something like this?" Because somehow the taller could picture him with a lot of hatred, but more towards himself than others.
