SOOGYU ONESHOTS

White and red

Soobin always hated jazz.

Well, maybe one could argue that "hatred" was a bit of an overstatement since it was a hell of a strong word to use towards some mismatched sounds coming out of the objectively beautiful instruments. And that was actually the part that Soobin hated the most. The instruments were beautiful—always, and even gorgeous—at times. The trumpet was one of the first musical instruments he ever painted while doing his study on metallics. His now-long-forgotten friend painted a sax. Soobin could not, for the love of God, remember the face of his university friend, but he could remember that the saxophone he painted was sexy. Whatever sounds it was making now on the stage in front of him... just weren't.

If it was up to him, he would never end up in a place like this. He didn't mind how dimly the room was lit or how thick the cigarette smoke that filled it was. There was something weirdly soothing about sitting in the dark room with people too concentrated on the alcohol to notice anything else around them. even the face that was on multiple billboards this year. "Discovery Artist of the Year", please. As if Soobin started painting this year and not since he learned how to hold a goddamn brush.
He let himself lull his mind with the delicious thought of being famous while circling the rim of his whiskey glass with his finger. It was an embarrassing type of indulgent thought, but also his most commonly used one. Nothing hit quite like finally becoming famous in your thirties when you had dreamed of it since you were a little kid. However, Soobin highly suspected that the people gathering in the club he was in that night were not his target audience. He could not imagine abstract art and jazz in the same room together. No, actually, it was a lie. he could. He just didn't want to. Not his art, anyway. Not while he was still breathing and well.

His friend, who had the full responsibility for taking his ass to the jazz evening because "it would be a ravishing experience," which was not enough to catch Soobin's attention, and "I heard Dianne Von Kurtz will be coming too," which embarrassingly was, had finally made his way back to their table. Soobin suspected that his trip to the bathroom didn't consist of just taking a piss and maybe taking a few shots with the people he met on the way, but he said nothing. He was already slightly irritated, and the promised art critic he wanted to charm was nowhere to be seen. She must have been a very good critic, after all, if she spared herself that experience.

"I saw something on the dancefloor." Soobin's friend said, words slightly slurred, hand unsteady on his lighter.

"I bet you did." Soobin replied, not very intrigued. That friend of his, name and occupation irrelevant, had a bad eye for things. He had a good mouth for talking to all the right people, though, which often led them to interesting places. It was thanks to that mouth that he knew Soobin, too.

"You must go take a look at him." The cigarette was finally lit and placed between two fingers, pointed at Soobin in a somewhat accusatory gesture. As if he were responsible for...anything about that evening, really. "It's this. This incredible thing. He doesn't even look human. He is like. A flock of furies or something."

"Is he." Soobin asked, with no interest.

He took a sip from his glass. It wasn't unusual for his friends to try and pair him with all types of boys, since it was rare for Soobin to make a first step himself. All of their attempts failed, though, with differing levels of misery attached to them. Some took a good evening out of Soobin's schedule (always at the worst, busiest time of the year), and some took his wallet (like a blond rascal that looked all sexy in the tight leather pants but ended up having not-so-sexy stealing tendencies). In the past nine months, Soobin has had enough unpleasant dates for a few lifetimes, it seemed.

"I saw him, and it was like a click. That's Choi Soobin's man."

Soobin rolled his eyes, but he doubted it was effective in the dimness of the club.