obscurum per obscurius - oneshot (Tablo!centric)
Title: obscurum per obscurius
Author: kayjayloves
Chapter: 1/1
Pairing: Tablo!centric
Band: Epik High
Genre: angst
Rating: PG-13
Warning: insanity
Disclaimer: Don't own these guys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: An old friend visits; he’s got worn hands and worry lines around his eyes. He looks happy - he’s professional and brief, and while he tells you of a wife and a baby his tone turns dull
Comments: Written listening to the lyrics "And I've traced your shadows on the wall/And I kiss them whenever I'm down/Just kind of figured on/Not figuring myself out."
You’re seventeen that day. Or that’s what you tell them, when the looks come back and the eyebrows raise and the voices gain that little tinge of enlightenment. And they lead you back and there’s a new lady there and they’re telling her to watch you closer.
God damn them.
You walk around in bleached-gray sweats and the tattered remains of a pair of slippers. His book is clutched tight in your hands, “What’s this?” the new woman in white asks. “His,” you say and she opens her mouth and then she smiles at you, careful-sweet. You clutch the wrinkled pages closer to your chest and stare.
There’s lyrics written in the pages of his book - you like the way they feel in your mouth, on the waves of your thoughts. Pages and pages of words and phrases; you keep them close.
An old friend visits; he’s got worn hands and worry lines around his eyes. He looks happy - he’s professional and brief, and while he tells you of a wife and a baby his tone turns dull, like he’s said this all before, one too many times.
“What’s your name?” You ask; his face looks so familiar, so comfortable.
“I-“ he starts. You stare. He tried to take a look at the book in your hands earlier and you shrieked at him.
(“We’re going to make it big,” Mithra’s claims. You’re all drunk; the studio’s full of too-bright lights and propaganda posters made before you were born. There’s a naked lady on one wall - your attempt at publicity that nearly landed you in cops’ hands.
“Of course,” You say. Tukutz nods from your right. He’s tapping a nervous beat onto his knees like he can’t stay still. Like something’s threatening to escape if he doesn’t keep it caged in.
You hold up the notebook in your hand - the blueprints to an album. “To us.” To me, you think. To music. To life.)
Things are too hot and heavy and someone’s screaming and the nice lady in white is going, “Sun woong, Sun woong.” It’s all calamity and tragedy; something lyrical to trap your thoughts and make you smile - briefly, widely.
And it’s morning and the man’s gone. You’re confused.
“Bring him back?” You ask. The lady looks at you and it’s a little too remorseful, a little too sad.
“I don’t think so, Sun woong. I don’t think he’s coming back.”
You fingers clutch tight at the white fabric of your bed; you search frantic-fast for the notebook and find the dusty pages on a nightstand. You think of his face - can’t quite find the right images - and frown.
They never come back.
If only, you think, maybe-- if you could remember their names.
Author: kayjayloves
Chapter: 1/1
Pairing: Tablo!centric
Band: Epik High
Genre: angst
Rating: PG-13
Warning: insanity
Disclaimer: Don't own these guys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: An old friend visits; he’s got worn hands and worry lines around his eyes. He looks happy - he’s professional and brief, and while he tells you of a wife and a baby his tone turns dull
Comments: Written listening to the lyrics "And I've traced your shadows on the wall/And I kiss them whenever I'm down/Just kind of figured on/Not figuring myself out."
You’re seventeen that day. Or that’s what you tell them, when the looks come back and the eyebrows raise and the voices gain that little tinge of enlightenment. And they lead you back and there’s a new lady there and they’re telling her to watch you closer.
God damn them.
You walk around in bleached-gray sweats and the tattered remains of a pair of slippers. His book is clutched tight in your hands, “What’s this?” the new woman in white asks. “His,” you say and she opens her mouth and then she smiles at you, careful-sweet. You clutch the wrinkled pages closer to your chest and stare.
There’s lyrics written in the pages of his book - you like the way they feel in your mouth, on the waves of your thoughts. Pages and pages of words and phrases; you keep them close.
An old friend visits; he’s got worn hands and worry lines around his eyes. He looks happy - he’s professional and brief, and while he tells you of a wife and a baby his tone turns dull, like he’s said this all before, one too many times.
“What’s your name?” You ask; his face looks so familiar, so comfortable.
“I-“ he starts. You stare. He tried to take a look at the book in your hands earlier and you shrieked at him.
(“We’re going to make it big,” Mithra’s claims. You’re all drunk; the studio’s full of too-bright lights and propaganda posters made before you were born. There’s a naked lady on one wall - your attempt at publicity that nearly landed you in cops’ hands.
“Of course,” You say. Tukutz nods from your right. He’s tapping a nervous beat onto his knees like he can’t stay still. Like something’s threatening to escape if he doesn’t keep it caged in.
You hold up the notebook in your hand - the blueprints to an album. “To us.” To me, you think. To music. To life.)
Things are too hot and heavy and someone’s screaming and the nice lady in white is going, “Sun woong, Sun woong.” It’s all calamity and tragedy; something lyrical to trap your thoughts and make you smile - briefly, widely.
And it’s morning and the man’s gone. You’re confused.
“Bring him back?” You ask. The lady looks at you and it’s a little too remorseful, a little too sad.
“I don’t think so, Sun woong. I don’t think he’s coming back.”
You fingers clutch tight at the white fabric of your bed; you search frantic-fast for the notebook and find the dusty pages on a nightstand. You think of his face - can’t quite find the right images - and frown.
They never come back.
If only, you think, maybe-- if you could remember their names.