사
solar radiation
2pm/snsd, nichkhun/jessica
rating: pg-13
word count: ~400
"God, everything really is better in California," Jessica coughs out through her fingers. "This will never stop tasting like rotten socks."
"So you've tasted rotten socks before," Nichkhun grins, making sure not to pound her back too forcefully. Fragile-looking girls automatically put him on edge. It was like trying to play badminton on a windy day; they were the feathery shuttles one hit from being blown off court. Nichkhun knows Jessica is not as fragile as she looks though. The sting on his shoulder before she hands him the blunt proves as such.
"Hyoyeon claims that that's what my cooking tastes like," Jessica says, folding her arms on top of her knees. Nichkhun allows the smoke to curl languidly around his face. This is one of the few things he has complete control over. The release, the pace, the method: there is no judgment, no approval to be sought. Time is quiet and doesn't heckle him; its clinginess relents at moments like this.
"So basically we're smoking your cooking right now then," Nichkhun concludes, tapping her elbow. Jessica brings the blunt to her mouth, pinky finger lifted.
"My cooking sucks," she exhales morosely, and Nichkhun can't help but laugh. "It'd be great if this were a burrito. I can still taste chicken burritos from Taco Factory." Her fingertips tap wistfully against her lips, as if they were trying to swipe off those last imaginary vestiges of Mexican cuisine.
Nichkhun understands that longing. He can still taste Californian air. The dry heaviness was an omnipresent reassurance, but Korean air didn't offer that. It was too thin, and whipped around you ruthlessly. There was no gentle pressure. You did what you could though. Mountain climbers always eventually adapt to the differences in elevation.
"California dreaming," he sings half-heartedly, more a sigh than a tune, and picks at the cuffs of his jeans. The concrete curb is beginning to prickle his skin through his back pockets. Jessica's shoes scrape against the asphalt, and he feels the unmistakable warmth of another body pressed against his. The tips of her hair tickle his shoulder--a kiss for her previous slap of retaliation--before the weight of her head rests lightly on it.
"Yeah, I miss it, too."
2pm/snsd, nichkhun/jessica
rating: pg-13
word count: ~400
"God, everything really is better in California," Jessica coughs out through her fingers. "This will never stop tasting like rotten socks."
"So you've tasted rotten socks before," Nichkhun grins, making sure not to pound her back too forcefully. Fragile-looking girls automatically put him on edge. It was like trying to play badminton on a windy day; they were the feathery shuttles one hit from being blown off court. Nichkhun knows Jessica is not as fragile as she looks though. The sting on his shoulder before she hands him the blunt proves as such.
"Hyoyeon claims that that's what my cooking tastes like," Jessica says, folding her arms on top of her knees. Nichkhun allows the smoke to curl languidly around his face. This is one of the few things he has complete control over. The release, the pace, the method: there is no judgment, no approval to be sought. Time is quiet and doesn't heckle him; its clinginess relents at moments like this.
"So basically we're smoking your cooking right now then," Nichkhun concludes, tapping her elbow. Jessica brings the blunt to her mouth, pinky finger lifted.
"My cooking sucks," she exhales morosely, and Nichkhun can't help but laugh. "It'd be great if this were a burrito. I can still taste chicken burritos from Taco Factory." Her fingertips tap wistfully against her lips, as if they were trying to swipe off those last imaginary vestiges of Mexican cuisine.
Nichkhun understands that longing. He can still taste Californian air. The dry heaviness was an omnipresent reassurance, but Korean air didn't offer that. It was too thin, and whipped around you ruthlessly. There was no gentle pressure. You did what you could though. Mountain climbers always eventually adapt to the differences in elevation.
"California dreaming," he sings half-heartedly, more a sigh than a tune, and picks at the cuffs of his jeans. The concrete curb is beginning to prickle his skin through his back pockets. Jessica's shoes scrape against the asphalt, and he feels the unmistakable warmth of another body pressed against his. The tips of her hair tickle his shoulder--a kiss for her previous slap of retaliation--before the weight of her head rests lightly on it.
"Yeah, I miss it, too."