ONESHOT; Rising sun reprise
Rising sun reprise ; Jaejoong-centric OT5
roselit @ viewscape
angst with a dash of attempted optimism
PG ; 2229w.
The best part about creating circles is coming back to where you started.
A/N: inspired a little by this. takes place in the midst of recent situations & written with epik high's 잡음 on repeat. please excuse the cheesy title, and special thanks to douknow, symphonied, & mcgrjc6 for looking over this for me. ♥!
____________________
Minutes short of one in the morning, Jaejoong steps into Yoochun’s house and catches him off guard, a stealthy affair that nearly earns Jaejoong a rolled newspaper to the face. After a pause of recognition and a light sigh, Yoochun steps back and Jaejoong gives him a mixed look before stepping over the threshold between work room and hallway.
“Really,” Jaejoong starts, shrugging off his jacket and draping it across the keyboard, “a newspaper?”
Yoochun shuts the door and tosses yesterday’s issue of The Korea Herald onto a gracelessly scattered collection of music sheets. Even half-folded, one of the headlines along the side remains glaringly obvious: Dong Bang Shin Ki activities in Japan suspended, see E3 for details. Jaejoong erases it the moment his eyes leave the black print.
“Hiatus or not,” Yoochun replies coolly, dropping into his leather desk chair and spinning to face Jaejoong, “it wouldn’t help the situation if tomorrow’s paper said, ‘Park Yoochun accused of alleged assault, bat to fangirl’s face.’ Wouldn’t you agree?”
“They still manage to get in?” Jaejoong asks, brushing away Yoochun’s crude attempt at humor. Tonight’s not exactly the night for it.
Yoochun makes a half-assed attempt at laughing. “Why are you acting so surprised? We’re not completely off the page yet.”
“We almost are,” Jaejoong says, his voice quiet and a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He answers too fast, too soon-but really, is it?-and a thick silence settles between them. Jaejoong meets Yoochun’s eyes; there’s no space for caution, not anymore. The road’s become brittle the past several months, dotted lines smeared beyond distinction and lanes merging into a pathetic excuse for a path. Jaejoong doesn’t even know how he’s managed to remain on it.
Across the room, Yoochun is reflecting everything Jaejoong’s been keeping inside, eyes clouded over and cheeks sunken with the weight of denial. It’s unbecoming of him, and yet this is the Yoochun Jaejoong knows, the one susceptible to deterioration, the one who places his heart on the outside if only to reach the rest of them.
“Yeah,” Yoochun says after a while, his voice cracking in the strains between whisper and emotion.
Jaejoong can tell he doesn’t agree. He could tell the moment he walked into the Park house, Yoochun’s work room the only window lit because if insomnia isn’t a habit, it’s something to be, something to do when there’s nothing else. Music sheets are strewn across every corner of the room, scrawled with remains of unfinished measures and inked frustrations. It’s not exactly unfamiliar, but Jaejoong admits that it’s been a while since he’s played broken chords in his head.
An idea hits then, spontaneous enough that Jaejoong knows better than to resist. He makes his way to the keyboard, removing his jacket and clearing the surface of crumpled paper. When Yoochun finally looks up, Jaejoong is beckoning him over and patting the empty half of his chair.
“C’mere.” Jaejoong’s expression is soft, inviting.
Yoochun rises slowly, wary as he always is when it comes to Jaejoong’s sporadic bursts of fancy. When he manages to squeeze himself onto the leftover space, he’s torn between the sudden absurdity and the need to maintain a precarious balance. For the first time in a long while, Yoochun feels real laughter threaten to bubble up from the inside out.
“Are you okay? On the seat?” Jaejoong’s enthusiasm shows, and Yoochun doesn’t know how much longer he can suppress a laugh that he knows doesn’t fit.
“This is ridiculous,” Yoochun musters, and he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.
“Just shut up and go with me,” Jaejoong says, reaching in between Yoochun’s legs to pull his thigh flush against his own. When they’re finally settled, Jaejoong brings his hands up to hover over the ivory keys. He pauses for a moment, then eases into the beginning chords of Like Now, as effortless as if the notes were practiced just yesterday.
Two measures in, Yoochun joins him, replacing Jaejoong’s left hand in a seamless flow. When Jaejoong meets Yoochun’s eyes again, there’s a rekindled kind of brilliance, something that Jaejoong doesn’t recall seeing these last few months.
“Ridiculous feels good, yeah?” Jaejoong grins, his chest inexplicably overflowing in warmth when Yoochun smiles back. Yoochun doesn’t answer; instead, he slips into the words of the chorus, right in harmony with the rendition.
And Jaejoong joins in, sings.
Changmin is a different story, the kind that chooses to be the mystery amongst the sci-fi, the tragedy amongst the fairy tales. Jaejoong isn’t surprised, not by a long shot, but when the door slams shut after the two seconds it takes for Changmin to recognize him, he can’t say he isn’t a little shocked.
He decides to count to thirty seconds and knocks again at twenty-three when impatience gets the better of him. There’s the interlude of silent contemplation, footsteps approaching the door, and the rush of air when Changmin swings it open. This time, he doesn't shut it.
Jaejoong doesn’t say a word, simply meeting Changmin’s eyes and noticing the way the younger man slowly, finally relaxes, shoulders visibly losing tension and posture becoming slumped, more Changmin-like.
“That’s better,” Jaejoong says after a drawn-out silence between them, his voice no louder than a whisper. Changmin doesn’t respond, stepping back to let Jaejoong in.
When they’re settled on the couch, Changmin is near one end and Jaejoong is sitting on the crack between cushions, not too far, and yet not too close. A safe distance.
Jaejoong casts a glance or two at Changmin, who’s staring at the two untouched mugs of coffee on the living room table in front of them. Jaejoong doesn’t remember the last time they talked, doesn’t even remember the last time he’s heard Changmin’s voice. It’s disconcerting, to say the least, and even now, Jaejoong wishes he could read minds, even for a day, just to know what goes through Changmin’s head.
“We’ve pretended long enough,” Changmin says suddenly, eyes never leaving the table. Sunlight filters past partially-open blinds, casting orange-gold splotches down the curve of Changmin’s cheek. They light up the shadows on his face, concealing the gaunt, dead look that Jaejoong knows is there.
“How much longer did you think we could lie?” Changmin continues, his tone flat. “We asked for this-”
“Did we?” Jaejoong interrupts, more forcefully than intended. Changmin neither winces nor answers. “You’re speaking like everything was under our control-”
“What more did you want to do?” Changmin finally turns to meet Jaejoong’s eyes, his words coming out heated. “Unless you think there was anything better, unless you think that all this separation and lack of-”
Jaejoong cuts him off then, a spur-of-the-moment gut instinct that he takes and reacts upon. Before either of them fully realizes it, Jaejoong has Changmin pushed over the other side of the couch, onto his back with his skull pressed uncomfortably against the armrest. Jaejoong is leaning over him, straddled and uncoordinated, his forehead to Changmin’s and breaths mingling in a slight rush of adrenaline.
Changmin starts to struggle, palms searching for purchase along Jaejoong’s chest, but Jaejoong circles his wrists and pins them to whatever surface of the couch he can manage. Changmin lets out a shaky breath of quiet frustration, his eyes locking onto Jaejoong’s, and the will to resist slowly ebbs away.
“This hasn’t been easy for me either,” Jaejoong says after a few seconds. “I’m feeling the same way you do, and goddamnit, Changmin-I’m just as much at a loss as you are.”
Changmin swallows with some difficulty, his throat suddenly constricted. He relaxes underneath Jaejoong, his remaining energy dissipating and his limbs becoming lax, surrendering. His eyes start to sting at the edges, Jaejoong’s face blurring to the onslaught of overspill, and when it becomes too much, he closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, Jaejoong is closer than close, lips pressed to his own in the lightest, most fleeting of touches. And Jaejoong doesn’t move or pull back, as if determined to let Changmin know the words he’s repeating in his head, the words on the tip of his tongue.
But Changmin thinks he can hear them, loud and clear. I miss you, Jaejoong seems to say, and you’re not alone.
Jaejoong shows up on Junsu’s doorstep just two hours after Junsu’s returned from a late showcase party for Junho, planned by their mutual friends. Nothing short of exhausted at half past two, Junsu’s ready to collapse in bed, but the moment he opens the door to Jaejoong’s familiar figure, he immediately lets him in without preface.
They’ve always worked like the gears in an old clock, worn grooves fitting in just the right places, or like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, eventually finding their way to one another. The night hours have always been their witnesses, and whether that’s by coincidence or habit, Jaejoong can never tell anymore.
Junsu makes hot tea before asking Jaejoong if he wants any, and when Jaejoong tells him it’s okay, Junsu slips a steaming cup into his hands anyway and calls him a liar. Jaejoong laughs, forgetting how easy it is to give in to Junsu, and joins him at the dining table.
“Why didn’t you make tea for yourself, too?” Jaejoong asks when he notices the water in Junsu’s own cup.
“I have to sleep, you know,” Junsu says. “Tonight’s been a long night, and I’m not exactly Yoochun when it comes to being nocturnal.”
Jaejoong hums and nods, making Junsu’s words seem more philosophical than they actually are, and raises warm porcelain to his lips. The single light over the table seems too bright, illuminating everything in a way that hides the gray and the drab. And save for the solemn expression etched across Junsu’s face, just about anyone could be fooled, Jaejoong thinks.
“Did you know it’s currently raining in Tokyo?” Junsu asks suddenly, his hands wrapped loosely around his water on the table. Jaejoong eyes him for a moment, then shakes his head and sips again at his tea.
“It’s supposed to rain the rest of tonight and tomorrow, too,” Junsu continues, idly tracing a finger over the rim of his cup, slow and cyclic.
Jaejoong laughs, a little forced and strange-sounding to his own ears. “What, have you become the weatherman now?”
Junsu meets Jaejoong’s eyes and nods, a hint of a smile sad and worn against the edge of his lips. “Yeah, something like that.”
Humor for humor, Jaejoong thinks he can take it. “Then what’s the forecast for Seoul tomorrow?”
“Sunny,” Junsu answers, as if he’s been waiting for the question, “and not a cloud in the sky.”
Jaejoong turns the irony over in his head and decides that he doesn’t like it much when Junsu’s playing weatherman. No, he really doesn’t.
Jaejoong has difficulty reaching Yunho.
Between practicing for the London performance of the Michael Jackson tribute and traveling here and there for interviews, catching Yunho is about as easy as pinpointing Djibouti on a map. Caught in his own filming schedule, Jaejoong ends up forfeiting the idea of actually finding Yunho in person after nearly three days of busy routines and missed opportunities.
Jaejoong returns to Japan to continue his work, and before he realizes it, a week has passed. Filming remains tedious, often pushing him to hours he’s learning to become accustomed to once again. He’s still surrounded by friends he’s found in the cast and crew, as drawn to him as he is to them. And sometimes, everything slips his mind, even when person after person gives him that sympathetic look he never asks for.
But sometimes, when the final cut is called and everyone is rushing to clean up and close for the night, Jaejoong remembers. The first four numbers on his phone’s speed dial are filled, ones he deems the most important, ones he’ll never erase, never replace.
Distance can be bridged with the click of a button, voices and words and the sound of breathing as the wooden planks strung from end to end. Not exactly the sturdiest now, but it’s a bridge nonetheless, and as Jaejoong steps outside the studio and lifts his face to a starlit sky, he knows he’ll run across it if that’s what it takes to reach the other side.
Digging into his pockets, he retrieves a crew member’s cell phone he’s asked to borrow, as well as his own. His fingers fly over the keys as if he’s been practicing, and when he hears Yunho pick up on the third ring, he puts him on hold and links a three-way with Yoochun. He uses the other phone to dial another three-way call; it’s a little confusing at first, but he manages.
Above him, the sky is rapidly brightening with the approach of a new day. Jaejoong stands on the highest hill he can find, the grass wet with morning dew and the faint chirp of birdsong drifting to where he is. Holding a phone to each ear, Jaejoong turns to face the horizon, a gentle smile stretching across his lips when the first ray of light breaks the surface.
“And here comes the sun,” Jaejoong says, his voice soft and threadbare.
On the other side of the bridge, four voices greet him, a bit chaotic and sleep-drenched, but clear.
____________________
a/n: yeah, this was written on the presumption that yunho is going to accept the invitation to do the mj tribute in london, too. and before you throw things at me, yes, i know, i copped out on yunho's part, i'm sorry. ;____;!
and yes, beatles reference à la metric. ♥
hnnngghh, this is what i do instead of the work that i need to do. :|| sigh.
roselit @ viewscape
angst with a dash of attempted optimism
PG ; 2229w.
The best part about creating circles is coming back to where you started.
A/N: inspired a little by this. takes place in the midst of recent situations & written with epik high's 잡음 on repeat. please excuse the cheesy title, and special thanks to douknow, symphonied, & mcgrjc6 for looking over this for me. ♥!
____________________
Minutes short of one in the morning, Jaejoong steps into Yoochun’s house and catches him off guard, a stealthy affair that nearly earns Jaejoong a rolled newspaper to the face. After a pause of recognition and a light sigh, Yoochun steps back and Jaejoong gives him a mixed look before stepping over the threshold between work room and hallway.
“Really,” Jaejoong starts, shrugging off his jacket and draping it across the keyboard, “a newspaper?”
Yoochun shuts the door and tosses yesterday’s issue of The Korea Herald onto a gracelessly scattered collection of music sheets. Even half-folded, one of the headlines along the side remains glaringly obvious: Dong Bang Shin Ki activities in Japan suspended, see E3 for details. Jaejoong erases it the moment his eyes leave the black print.
“Hiatus or not,” Yoochun replies coolly, dropping into his leather desk chair and spinning to face Jaejoong, “it wouldn’t help the situation if tomorrow’s paper said, ‘Park Yoochun accused of alleged assault, bat to fangirl’s face.’ Wouldn’t you agree?”
“They still manage to get in?” Jaejoong asks, brushing away Yoochun’s crude attempt at humor. Tonight’s not exactly the night for it.
Yoochun makes a half-assed attempt at laughing. “Why are you acting so surprised? We’re not completely off the page yet.”
“We almost are,” Jaejoong says, his voice quiet and a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He answers too fast, too soon-but really, is it?-and a thick silence settles between them. Jaejoong meets Yoochun’s eyes; there’s no space for caution, not anymore. The road’s become brittle the past several months, dotted lines smeared beyond distinction and lanes merging into a pathetic excuse for a path. Jaejoong doesn’t even know how he’s managed to remain on it.
Across the room, Yoochun is reflecting everything Jaejoong’s been keeping inside, eyes clouded over and cheeks sunken with the weight of denial. It’s unbecoming of him, and yet this is the Yoochun Jaejoong knows, the one susceptible to deterioration, the one who places his heart on the outside if only to reach the rest of them.
“Yeah,” Yoochun says after a while, his voice cracking in the strains between whisper and emotion.
Jaejoong can tell he doesn’t agree. He could tell the moment he walked into the Park house, Yoochun’s work room the only window lit because if insomnia isn’t a habit, it’s something to be, something to do when there’s nothing else. Music sheets are strewn across every corner of the room, scrawled with remains of unfinished measures and inked frustrations. It’s not exactly unfamiliar, but Jaejoong admits that it’s been a while since he’s played broken chords in his head.
An idea hits then, spontaneous enough that Jaejoong knows better than to resist. He makes his way to the keyboard, removing his jacket and clearing the surface of crumpled paper. When Yoochun finally looks up, Jaejoong is beckoning him over and patting the empty half of his chair.
“C’mere.” Jaejoong’s expression is soft, inviting.
Yoochun rises slowly, wary as he always is when it comes to Jaejoong’s sporadic bursts of fancy. When he manages to squeeze himself onto the leftover space, he’s torn between the sudden absurdity and the need to maintain a precarious balance. For the first time in a long while, Yoochun feels real laughter threaten to bubble up from the inside out.
“Are you okay? On the seat?” Jaejoong’s enthusiasm shows, and Yoochun doesn’t know how much longer he can suppress a laugh that he knows doesn’t fit.
“This is ridiculous,” Yoochun musters, and he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.
“Just shut up and go with me,” Jaejoong says, reaching in between Yoochun’s legs to pull his thigh flush against his own. When they’re finally settled, Jaejoong brings his hands up to hover over the ivory keys. He pauses for a moment, then eases into the beginning chords of Like Now, as effortless as if the notes were practiced just yesterday.
Two measures in, Yoochun joins him, replacing Jaejoong’s left hand in a seamless flow. When Jaejoong meets Yoochun’s eyes again, there’s a rekindled kind of brilliance, something that Jaejoong doesn’t recall seeing these last few months.
“Ridiculous feels good, yeah?” Jaejoong grins, his chest inexplicably overflowing in warmth when Yoochun smiles back. Yoochun doesn’t answer; instead, he slips into the words of the chorus, right in harmony with the rendition.
And Jaejoong joins in, sings.
Changmin is a different story, the kind that chooses to be the mystery amongst the sci-fi, the tragedy amongst the fairy tales. Jaejoong isn’t surprised, not by a long shot, but when the door slams shut after the two seconds it takes for Changmin to recognize him, he can’t say he isn’t a little shocked.
He decides to count to thirty seconds and knocks again at twenty-three when impatience gets the better of him. There’s the interlude of silent contemplation, footsteps approaching the door, and the rush of air when Changmin swings it open. This time, he doesn't shut it.
Jaejoong doesn’t say a word, simply meeting Changmin’s eyes and noticing the way the younger man slowly, finally relaxes, shoulders visibly losing tension and posture becoming slumped, more Changmin-like.
“That’s better,” Jaejoong says after a drawn-out silence between them, his voice no louder than a whisper. Changmin doesn’t respond, stepping back to let Jaejoong in.
When they’re settled on the couch, Changmin is near one end and Jaejoong is sitting on the crack between cushions, not too far, and yet not too close. A safe distance.
Jaejoong casts a glance or two at Changmin, who’s staring at the two untouched mugs of coffee on the living room table in front of them. Jaejoong doesn’t remember the last time they talked, doesn’t even remember the last time he’s heard Changmin’s voice. It’s disconcerting, to say the least, and even now, Jaejoong wishes he could read minds, even for a day, just to know what goes through Changmin’s head.
“We’ve pretended long enough,” Changmin says suddenly, eyes never leaving the table. Sunlight filters past partially-open blinds, casting orange-gold splotches down the curve of Changmin’s cheek. They light up the shadows on his face, concealing the gaunt, dead look that Jaejoong knows is there.
“How much longer did you think we could lie?” Changmin continues, his tone flat. “We asked for this-”
“Did we?” Jaejoong interrupts, more forcefully than intended. Changmin neither winces nor answers. “You’re speaking like everything was under our control-”
“What more did you want to do?” Changmin finally turns to meet Jaejoong’s eyes, his words coming out heated. “Unless you think there was anything better, unless you think that all this separation and lack of-”
Jaejoong cuts him off then, a spur-of-the-moment gut instinct that he takes and reacts upon. Before either of them fully realizes it, Jaejoong has Changmin pushed over the other side of the couch, onto his back with his skull pressed uncomfortably against the armrest. Jaejoong is leaning over him, straddled and uncoordinated, his forehead to Changmin’s and breaths mingling in a slight rush of adrenaline.
Changmin starts to struggle, palms searching for purchase along Jaejoong’s chest, but Jaejoong circles his wrists and pins them to whatever surface of the couch he can manage. Changmin lets out a shaky breath of quiet frustration, his eyes locking onto Jaejoong’s, and the will to resist slowly ebbs away.
“This hasn’t been easy for me either,” Jaejoong says after a few seconds. “I’m feeling the same way you do, and goddamnit, Changmin-I’m just as much at a loss as you are.”
Changmin swallows with some difficulty, his throat suddenly constricted. He relaxes underneath Jaejoong, his remaining energy dissipating and his limbs becoming lax, surrendering. His eyes start to sting at the edges, Jaejoong’s face blurring to the onslaught of overspill, and when it becomes too much, he closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, Jaejoong is closer than close, lips pressed to his own in the lightest, most fleeting of touches. And Jaejoong doesn’t move or pull back, as if determined to let Changmin know the words he’s repeating in his head, the words on the tip of his tongue.
But Changmin thinks he can hear them, loud and clear. I miss you, Jaejoong seems to say, and you’re not alone.
Jaejoong shows up on Junsu’s doorstep just two hours after Junsu’s returned from a late showcase party for Junho, planned by their mutual friends. Nothing short of exhausted at half past two, Junsu’s ready to collapse in bed, but the moment he opens the door to Jaejoong’s familiar figure, he immediately lets him in without preface.
They’ve always worked like the gears in an old clock, worn grooves fitting in just the right places, or like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, eventually finding their way to one another. The night hours have always been their witnesses, and whether that’s by coincidence or habit, Jaejoong can never tell anymore.
Junsu makes hot tea before asking Jaejoong if he wants any, and when Jaejoong tells him it’s okay, Junsu slips a steaming cup into his hands anyway and calls him a liar. Jaejoong laughs, forgetting how easy it is to give in to Junsu, and joins him at the dining table.
“Why didn’t you make tea for yourself, too?” Jaejoong asks when he notices the water in Junsu’s own cup.
“I have to sleep, you know,” Junsu says. “Tonight’s been a long night, and I’m not exactly Yoochun when it comes to being nocturnal.”
Jaejoong hums and nods, making Junsu’s words seem more philosophical than they actually are, and raises warm porcelain to his lips. The single light over the table seems too bright, illuminating everything in a way that hides the gray and the drab. And save for the solemn expression etched across Junsu’s face, just about anyone could be fooled, Jaejoong thinks.
“Did you know it’s currently raining in Tokyo?” Junsu asks suddenly, his hands wrapped loosely around his water on the table. Jaejoong eyes him for a moment, then shakes his head and sips again at his tea.
“It’s supposed to rain the rest of tonight and tomorrow, too,” Junsu continues, idly tracing a finger over the rim of his cup, slow and cyclic.
Jaejoong laughs, a little forced and strange-sounding to his own ears. “What, have you become the weatherman now?”
Junsu meets Jaejoong’s eyes and nods, a hint of a smile sad and worn against the edge of his lips. “Yeah, something like that.”
Humor for humor, Jaejoong thinks he can take it. “Then what’s the forecast for Seoul tomorrow?”
“Sunny,” Junsu answers, as if he’s been waiting for the question, “and not a cloud in the sky.”
Jaejoong turns the irony over in his head and decides that he doesn’t like it much when Junsu’s playing weatherman. No, he really doesn’t.
Jaejoong has difficulty reaching Yunho.
Between practicing for the London performance of the Michael Jackson tribute and traveling here and there for interviews, catching Yunho is about as easy as pinpointing Djibouti on a map. Caught in his own filming schedule, Jaejoong ends up forfeiting the idea of actually finding Yunho in person after nearly three days of busy routines and missed opportunities.
Jaejoong returns to Japan to continue his work, and before he realizes it, a week has passed. Filming remains tedious, often pushing him to hours he’s learning to become accustomed to once again. He’s still surrounded by friends he’s found in the cast and crew, as drawn to him as he is to them. And sometimes, everything slips his mind, even when person after person gives him that sympathetic look he never asks for.
But sometimes, when the final cut is called and everyone is rushing to clean up and close for the night, Jaejoong remembers. The first four numbers on his phone’s speed dial are filled, ones he deems the most important, ones he’ll never erase, never replace.
Distance can be bridged with the click of a button, voices and words and the sound of breathing as the wooden planks strung from end to end. Not exactly the sturdiest now, but it’s a bridge nonetheless, and as Jaejoong steps outside the studio and lifts his face to a starlit sky, he knows he’ll run across it if that’s what it takes to reach the other side.
Digging into his pockets, he retrieves a crew member’s cell phone he’s asked to borrow, as well as his own. His fingers fly over the keys as if he’s been practicing, and when he hears Yunho pick up on the third ring, he puts him on hold and links a three-way with Yoochun. He uses the other phone to dial another three-way call; it’s a little confusing at first, but he manages.
Above him, the sky is rapidly brightening with the approach of a new day. Jaejoong stands on the highest hill he can find, the grass wet with morning dew and the faint chirp of birdsong drifting to where he is. Holding a phone to each ear, Jaejoong turns to face the horizon, a gentle smile stretching across his lips when the first ray of light breaks the surface.
“And here comes the sun,” Jaejoong says, his voice soft and threadbare.
On the other side of the bridge, four voices greet him, a bit chaotic and sleep-drenched, but clear.
____________________
a/n: yeah, this was written on the presumption that yunho is going to accept the invitation to do the mj tribute in london, too. and before you throw things at me, yes, i know, i copped out on yunho's part, i'm sorry. ;____;!
and yes, beatles reference à la metric. ♥
hnnngghh, this is what i do instead of the work that i need to do. :|| sigh.