hope yall are liking the storyline so far :) i stg this is a smut book but first we gots to get some angst outta the way so let's get it —
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taehyung bowed his head low for the sum of the journey. he knew they were not going home, they never did when his father was like this. he knew he'd be dropped halfway, then left to stumble throughout the night. except, it'd be different this time. this time, he'd know his way home, he'd be used to it enough... he thought this each time.
as they pulled up to the side of the curb, his father didn't even turn his proxemics towards his son. instead, he faced forwards, scratching the top of his hand so intensely that he drew small droplets of blood from under the flesh.
taehyung didn't dare speak.
"i need to go and get something from a friend." his dad spoke finally, his voice shaky, more so than it was half an hour ago at the stadium. "you know the rest of the way back. i might not be home until morning. dinner's in the fridge."
"yes, dad." taehyung kept his head lowered for a second, but decided to gamble a little, and glanced up to look higher at his father's state. the middle age man's eyes were wide, wider than seemed natural. his lips were dry, but parted, pants cascading out from them. the fullness of his body screamed desperate.
taehyung lowered his gaze once more, and reached to open the door, slipping out of the car and onto the cobbled pavement. without pausing, the car hobbled away, accelerating rather abruptly, though his dad was in a hurry.
taehyung wondered if his father thought taehyung knew where he was going. or if he cared.
a chorus of sighs exiting his lungs, his arms came in contact with the sudden brisk breeze. he supposed he hadn't noticed it when he was speaking with that jungkook kid. something about him had made him forget a lot of things, focusing only on the moment... ah, he was being ridiculous.
and with that thought in mind, he reached into his pocket. that damned cardboard box.
"fuck." taehyung cursed under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut and lifting his face to the sky. his fingers curled around the box and lifted it from his pocket. he ventured to look down at the object.
smoking kills. ha. like we don't get told enough.
"i hate you," he glared at the box, reaching into the middle and pulling a cigarette from it. the white filter paper was decorated prettily, with dusky cherry blossoms dancing about the white. he liked pretty things.
he searched further down in his pocket and pulled a lighter forth, flicking the wheel and raising the cigarette to his lips. he set the paper alit and inhaled.
calm. serenity. clarification.
he often wondered if anything else in his life could possibly give him the same effect that tobacco had.
