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writetomyheart2015-10-05 12:59 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-10-05 12:59 pm
[team four] derrida days
Catbear here, team four captain and guilty of being VERY LATE; I'm really sorry that life and deadlines and my own personal pride got in the way of kicking the team off; all I can say is I both won't be this late again and also, I will probably be going back to writing much shorter things in the future. *exceedingly guilty faces* However, I am looking forward to being on this team with all of you ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xiukisses goodbyelover singilu drainbamage954 laughingvirus and for both shiritori veterans and newcomers, please let me know if you have any questions!
This was written as a response to this coffee shop prompt; (the flip interpretation is here) and has been crossposted on ao3.
If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear, does it make a sound?
Namjoon has his book open behind the counter; it's a slow period right now between the pre-offfice rush, the late crazy students with eyes propped open with toothpicks mumbling orders for quintuple shot espressos and one-shotting them before they stumble out the door, limbs already starting to vibrate, and it's not yet time for the lunch time post-buffet rush.
"Trees," he sighs to himself. It's been a while since he got out of the city, and sometimes, on days like this when he's rolled out of bed and into whatever clothes he'd left hanging on the chair the night before, the itch is particularly strong. But there's no time, not with school and work and the confines of the city stretching up so high on either side, ringing him in like a maze of glass and metal that can't be so easily defeated.
No, he thinks, as the air shifts, the sliding doors opening to admit entrance to a lone customer, a sound only exists if there's someone to hear it.
He hears the customer before he sees them; the sound of a voice rising and falling, pauses and then the voice again. Someone talking on the phone? Those are the worst, the people who are so plugged in that they don't even stop to talk to you like an actual human being.
Namjoon looks down at his shirt, the letters written across the front. I AM A ROBOT it says, in block letters. How appropriate.
". . .and double check with the translator and I need access to the copyright information, I don't care if you have to get on a plane and jet over to France, I need it on my desk by Monday. . ." the man isn't very tall, shorter than Namjoon is, definitely, but he's the customer and Namjoon is used to standing hunched
over the counter anyway. The man doesn't even stop talking, just puts a hand over the receiver and mouths the words "venti macchiato" without skipping a beat before segueing back into his conversation.
"Welcome to Coffee D—," Namjoon says politely, "Can I get your name to write on the cup?"
The man isn't even listening, making small motions with his hands, going on about "paper quality and standard sizing for a European market" while he slides his credit card over the counter.
Park Jimin
it says, in silver raised lettering on the black card. Namjoon hasn't seen a black card before; it's not terribly impressive even though he has the feeling that maybe it's supposed to be. The man ignores him completely, gathering up the card when he's done running the order and completely disregarding the held out receipt; he doesn't even make eye contact, just heads directly for the order pick up counter, still talking on the phone while he pulls an iPad mini out of an inside pocket of his blazer and peers at the screen.
Yup, Namjoon thinks to himself as he gets the felt-tip pen to write the customer's name on the cup; it's policy even though there's no line up right now, Kim Namjoon has been demoted from human being and is now a robot.
The Sharpie slips in his fingers, slides across the white cardboard; when he looks down at the word he'd written while his mind was wandering, Namjoon stifles a laugh. Jibber. It matches the man perfectly.
"Here you go sir," he says, passing the paper cup across the counter; the customer, Jimin, doesn't even look up as he slides the iPad mini back into his pocket and takes the coffee, phone still pressed to his ear as he grabs a lid from the stack and walks out. The door swishes shut behind him.
"Oh, there was a customer?" Jeongguk asks, walking out of the back, still tying his apron on and getting the black straps all tangled.
"Yes," he says, reaching for the apron. "Do you need help?" Jeongguk backs away, holding his arms out in front of him.
"No thank you! I still remember the last time you helped, when the straps somehow tore off accidentally and I had to spend my whole shift with one of Seokjin's pink safety pins holding everything together."
Namjoon just laughs, flipping the pages of his books shut as he moves toward the back.
"It's pretty quiet right now but I predict that the post-lunch rush will be particularly heavy," he says, eying the greying sky outside the window. "Did you bring an umbrella? I forgot mine."
"I did and I hid it," Jeongguk says, going for the espresso machine. "You're not allowed to touch my stuff; you only break them." He makes himself an americano, breathes in the fragrance of coffee. "Philosophy 101 is a killer; I don't know why you're torturing yourself."
Namjoon shrugs as he exits, "Why not. Hey, if a tree falls in the forest and there's no one to hear, does it make a sound?"
Jeongguk just snorts, then gives a small shout because he obviously spilled hot coffee on himself. "The answer is always wrong," he calls, his voice muffled by the door swinging shut behind Namjoon's back.
As he turns up the collar of his jacket against the rain, Namjoon waves at the young man huddled under an awning to keep out of the rain.
"Hi Yoongi! How's it going?" he calls, gesturing at the water dripping off the fabric.
"Could be worse," Yoongi says, "could be better." He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, waving as Namjoon rounds the corner.
"Long night?" Seokjin asks, as Namjoon walks into the library rubbing his eyes. He looks, eyebrows raised, at Seokjin, sandwich in one hand and fingers flipping through the pages of the book with the other.
"I don't think you're allowed to eat in the library," he says, not bothering to whisper. Seokjin shrugs, takes a bite. Namjoon glances towards the librarian sitting at her desk, in complete sight of them, but she doesn't seem to care. I'm pretty sure if I pulled a sandwich out of my bag, you'd be all over me.
Namjoon consults the list of books on his phone; starts hunting the shelves. By the time he staggers back his arms are full and Seokjin sets his sandwich down on the table to grab the book that's sliding off the top of the stack.
"Thanks," Namjoon says, and sighs.
"Required reading?" Seokjin cocks an eyebrow as reaches for his sandwich and takes a bite that encompasses the entire remaining section. Namjoon doesn't even bother being surprised anymore.
"I did that last night," he says, slumping down into his chair and pulling the first book forward. "This is just some stuff." Seokjin looks interested, but Namjoon is too tired to explain. "I'll tell you later." He looks at the book Seokjin is reading; the page is open to what looks like a diagram of a tree, except it has nerves. Or maybe it's nerves that look like a tree? Namjoon blinks.
"Hey, Jin," he says, chin resting on his hand, thoughts spilling out sideways instead of focused. "If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one to hear, does it still make a sound?" Namjoon looks down at the book. Ferdinand de Saussure it says on the page,
black on white, a false dichotomy of meaning. Seokjin hums around the food in his mouth, swallows.
"I think that the important thing is that the tree fell," he says, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Did you know that giraffes have no voice? So when they scream, they scream in silence? But would you still call that screaming, because you can't hear anything?"
Namjoon feels a chill crawling up his spine, like a cold shudder. He frowns.
"I'm pretty sure you're wrong," he says, and Seokjin laughs, folding his sandwich wrapper up neatly and tossing it into the garbage can. The librarian looks up at the sound, and Namjoon expects her to say something about tossing contraband food wrappers around the library, but she only smiles and looks back at her computer. Life isn't fair.
It's the evening shift today, and Namjoon is slightly giddy over Martin Heidegger and too much coffee. He feels like he might burst into laughter or tears at any moment, running words over his tongue, a smooth velvet flow but the words are sharp, pointed, and Jeongguk is eying him cautiously, as though he's afraid that Namjoon is seconds away from exploding.
I'm seconds away from exploding.
He takes a deep breath, thinks about mountains, about the om you hear when you're climbing up one alone, when the oxygen gets thinner and there's just you and the universe stretching out, an infinite sky reaching up to the inverse sea of stars. There's something suffocating about the city, especially when he doesn't have time to be.
The door slides open, air shifting as he glances up to say—
it's a man on his phone, voice slightly raised, impatience radiating off him from the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness of his neck, the way his face is pinched as he barks into the phone,
". . .the paper supplier had three months to come through with the rice paper for the dust covers. We aren't printers; this isn't our job, it's their job and they need to take responsibility. . ."
He steps up to the counter, sliding his card name up as he jabs at the spelling of his name with an angry pointer finger as he holds the palm of his hand over the receiver for a moment to mutter, "venti macchiato," before he's on the phone again, ". . .accountability and commitment stated in the contract. . ."
Namjoon looks at the card. He looks at the man who isn't looking at him, lingering at the counter and waiting for his card. Everything feels slow-motion—is this it? Namjoon wonders. Is this when I do something I'll regret? He can feel Jeongguk hovering by the sink, the nervous tick in his shoulder and Namjoon watches as his fingers enter the order, swipe the card through the machine and complete the transaction before he slides the card over the counter for Jimin to pry off the surface with his own fingernails as Namjoon scribbles a name on the paper cup and makes the venti macchiato; just right, perfect in the cup as he sets it on the pick up counter.
Jimin takes the cup without looking. Namjoon stands by the pick-up counter, watches at he walks away, as the door slides shut behind him, as Jeongguk steps gingerly up to his side.
"Did that cup say jerk-face?" Jeongguk asks quietly. Namjoon just nods.
It's quiet in the coffee shop, just before closing time. He watches the door for a long while, but no one comes through it. Through the window, all he can see he is Yoongi packing up his stereo to head home. It must be cold; he has a scarf wrapped around his neck.
"I'm so glad you came!" Taehyung is far too giddy, bouncing up and down but Namjoon just grins; lets his friend climb all over him, as Jeongguk hides behind Seokjin. It's not every day that someone gets to have a private exhibition of their work, and this is Taehyung's first, something he's been working towards for years.
"Come on, come one!" he exclaims, half guiding, half shoving them down the hallway as other viewers look up, probably wondering what the commotion is Namjoon thinks. I wonder what their reaction would be if they knew the loud crazy guy in the red t-shirt is the artist. He shrugs; it's funny.
There are mixed media paintings on the walls; photographs Taehyung has taken, covered up with paint and string and seeds and little things he's picked up that tell a story. One of them, Namjoon notices in his peripheral vision as Taehyung herds them along, is titled Things that Jin could probably fit in his mouth. He's kind of glad he doesn't have time to see the actual art.
Taehyung stops in front of a wall; it's white like all the others but there's a forest on it; not a painting but rather something that's half collage, half sculpture in bas relief. It's a bird's eye view of a forest, a kind of strange hybrid of coniferous, deciduous and tropical, and leading from the edge are scars, grooves in the green that Namjoon, upon leaning closer, realizes are logging roads. The heart of the forest is gone; clear-cut in swathes of stumps that are here, in paper and paint and things that Namjoon can't quite identify, seeping blood. And now that they're standing there, still, he can hear something, the roar of motors, wood tearing, trees toppling over. It's some kind of recording; Namjoon's eyes flicker to Taehyung, standing at the side with a proud expression on his face. The blood seeping from the trees looks wet; Namjoon's pretty sure that if he reached forward to press his fingers to the cuts, the tips would come away red.
It's horrible all of a sudden; the painting or whatever it is. It hurts. As Namjoon steps back, tries to look at the bigger picture, decipher the meaning, the tears in the living green canopy of the forest resolve into words.
I SCREAM
the gashes in the green spell out. The forest is shouting and he can't hear it over the recording of the trees toppling, but he can hear the message all the same.
"Wow," Seokjin says, and Taehyung beams. Namjoon pats a smile onto his face; it's a wonderful work of art even if it's terrible, and he appreciates it even though he doesn't like it.
"You did an amazing job," he says, and reaches out to pat Taehyung on the back, but Taehyung goes in for a hug instead, and the warmth feels safe somehow, against the backdrop of death hanging on the wall.
"What is it called?" Jeongguk asks, his voice curious.
"You can give it a name yourself," Taehyung says, grinning with his most infuriating smirk. "What does it mean to you?"
Namjoon thinks about it for the rest of the day.
There's nothing worse than rolling out of bed in the afternoon to go to work, especially after you only fell into bed at noon, after pulling an all-nighter to finish a paper and making it to class at the crack of dawn. Namjoon stubs his toe twice on the legs of the bed, bruising his foot and causing him to limp into the kitchen where he promptly knocks the milk onto the floor and spends a few frantic minutes mopping up the mess before he's running late for work, missing the first train and just deciding to run.
Yoongi is already sitting on the low wall by the coffee shop, stereo on the stone beside him, thumbing through a notebook but Namjoon only has time to wave before he's throwing himself at the staff entrance.
"Did you run a marathon?" Seokjin asks, when Namjoon bursts into the back.
"Slept too late," Namjoon groans, trying to get his apron on and only succeeding in somehow tearing both the straps off. Seokjin patches everything together with safety pins, but Namjoon understands what Jeongguk was talking about now, the bright pink plastic heads bright against the black.
"It's cute," Seokjin says, grinning, but Namjoon doesn't agree, so Seokjin ends up working the till until he has to duck away to use the restroom, leaving Namjoon no other option when the door slides open.
He hears the voice before he sees the man, ". . .shipment has been delayed and I need the quota for the major bookstores as per contract, I have a contract to fulfill and the. . ."
Namjoon wants to—
he doesn't know what he wants to do. He types in venti macchiato before Jimin has time to open his mouth and has his hand out for the card, the weight as it falls on the palm of his hand like a stone, dragging him under. He completes the transaction and passes the card back without looking up, but he can still hear Jimin talking.
You're just a cog in the machine, Namjoon reminds himself. Mario Savio. He runs the words over and over in his head, swallows them down where they
choke. Jackass, he writes on the cup, even though it doesn't mean anything, even though he knows it's a fruitless empty gesture against a system he can't control.
"Are you alright?" Seokjin asks, deftly re-tying his apron as he walks in from the back. Namjoon sighs, shakes his head.
"Just, been thinking too much," he says. "I thought about Hoseok again. . ." His voice trails off, fingers hanging limply at his sides. Seokjin doesn't ask, just wraps his arms around Namjoon and gives him a hug.
"It's okay," he murmurs, but it really isn't.
If he closes his eyes, just lets the wind drift across his face, Namjoon can pretend he's in a forest somewhere, kilometres away from the nearest town, only trees and hills and a small stream babbling at the foot of the hill, not here, in the middle of the city, the sound of traffic hovering just on the edge of his awareness, skyscrapers ringing the sky.
Namjoon opens his eyes. It's April, and the white asphodel he grows, tucked in a pot in his apartment, has just begun to bloom. Here, tucked in his hands, is single white blossom, a reminder.
"Hi," he says, laying it on the stone at his feet. Somehow, lying against the grey, it looks like a fallen star; a smile in the dark. He can still see Hoseok smiling.
There are lots of things Namjoon could say, things he's been thinking about and he misses talking to Hoseok more than ever, his endless enthusiasm, the way he was absolutely positive that studying philosophy was just as valid a way to change the world as any kind of political or environmental activism.
Namjoon doesn't say these things though, the words too heavy in his chest. Instead, he asks the question that's been rolling around in his mouth for days.
"If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear, does it make a sound?"
The wind sighs, grass rustling; everything is fresh and barely green. He can still see Hoseok, falling, everything suddenly in slow motion, silence, strung out like beads of time slipping from existence.
The answer is no. The answer is yes. The answer is a wall of sound crashing over him when everything starts moving again and people are screaming for help, for the ambulance, for someone, anyone.
His palms are sticky, nectar from the flower, as his fingers curl slowly shut. Namjoon closes his eyes.
Even though Namjoon doesn't really like working the closing shift, there's something nice about the quiet presence of all the students, especially now during exams. All the pages flipping, the sad litany of sighs, it's like a common vigil to education, to a process of something hopefully even a little bit like enlightenment.
Sometimes, Namjoon thinks, espressos flying out beneath his fingers, weary students with bloodshot eyes slipping silently up to the counter for more coffee, I wonder if I've learned anything at all. He slips cookies to the ones who look the most sleepy, giving them grins of solidarity as he turns back to his readings. When it's late like this, German turns into French into English and deconstruction starts to deconstruct itself.
The door slides open, another student clutching a laptop under their arm, probably retreating to the coffee shop in a last-ditch attempt to beat late night fatigue, and Namjoon flashes them another grin as he takes their order for a quintuple shot espresso, giving them a glass of water to go along with it. Hopefully diffuse the caffeine jitters.
He hears the voice before he sees it, it's always like this by now, a siren announcing Jimin's approach, and Namjoon grits his teeth, smile morphing into a grimace as he rings up the order, takes the card and completes the transaction before he passes it back without even looking up, the voice droning on, ". . .book promotion deal and I don't like the look of that poster, it takes everything that works about the cover and turns it into a complete mess. . ."
Jabroni he writes on the cup before filling it, lip curling slightly even though he knows he's being infantile. At least the coffee smells good, and the silence that fills the coffee shop after Jimin leaves is even better. Namjoon makes himself a macchiato just for the heck of it, even though he doesn't really like the way the milk sticks to his tongue.
Namjoon finishes locking up, the beep, beep, beep counting down as the alarm system engages, and takes a deep breath. It must have been raining before, just a bit, and even though it's the city the air smells fresh.
"Hey!" he hears, turns and sees Yoongi grinning, paper cup in hand. "How are exams?" Yoongi looks great, blond hair and a grin on his face.
"Same old grind," Namjoon grins sardonically, shaking his head at himself. "How are you?"
"B-boying sucks in the rain," Yoongi laughs, "but the word flow is good. There's something about watching people rushing by, stuck in their own problems—most of them don't ever even bother to look up." He shrugs, tips back his head and drains the paper cup. Namjoon is just turning to head for the subway because it's late, he has class tomorrow, and it's chilly here in the dark, when a word catches his eye.
Jabroni it says, black on white, the word written on the paper cup in Yoongi's hand.
Namjoon blinks; opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.
"Where did you get that coffee?" he asks quietly, even though he already knows the answer.
"This?" Yoongi glances at the cup, grins at the word written on the side. "There's this guy who walks by sometimes, some kind of white collar on his phone—I never noticed him the first time I guess, but he brought me a coffee once and ever since then he'll pause and watch whatever I'm doing, put his phone conversation on hold for a bit and clap and give me a coffee." Yoongi grins. "I don't know, but it's kind of cool I guess?" His laugh bubbles in the dark. "There's always a funny word written on the side too, so it's like a bonus."
He's still grinning as Namjoon says goodbye, almost tripping over the fire hydrant as he heads for the subway exit. It's like everything has flipped on its head.
"If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear, does it make a sound?" he asks himself, in the dark, the lights of the city reflecting brightly off the puddles on the ground, the splash as his feet hit the concrete.
The question is wrong. Namjoon is wrong. It's not does it make a sound but rather, if the trees falls, is the forest listening?
The answer is no. The answer is yes. The answer is—
"Step out of your box," Namjoon tells himself, as his swipes his transit card at the subway gate and merges with the flow of people on their way home.
taggingxiukisses have fun!
xiukisses goodbyelover singilu drainbamage954 laughingvirus and for both shiritori veterans and newcomers, please let me know if you have any questions!This was written as a response to this coffee shop prompt; (the flip interpretation is here) and has been crossposted on ao3.
If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear, does it make a sound?
Namjoon has his book open behind the counter; it's a slow period right now between the pre-offfice rush, the late crazy students with eyes propped open with toothpicks mumbling orders for quintuple shot espressos and one-shotting them before they stumble out the door, limbs already starting to vibrate, and it's not yet time for the lunch time post-buffet rush.
"Trees," he sighs to himself. It's been a while since he got out of the city, and sometimes, on days like this when he's rolled out of bed and into whatever clothes he'd left hanging on the chair the night before, the itch is particularly strong. But there's no time, not with school and work and the confines of the city stretching up so high on either side, ringing him in like a maze of glass and metal that can't be so easily defeated.
No, he thinks, as the air shifts, the sliding doors opening to admit entrance to a lone customer, a sound only exists if there's someone to hear it.
He hears the customer before he sees them; the sound of a voice rising and falling, pauses and then the voice again. Someone talking on the phone? Those are the worst, the people who are so plugged in that they don't even stop to talk to you like an actual human being.
Namjoon looks down at his shirt, the letters written across the front. I AM A ROBOT it says, in block letters. How appropriate.
". . .and double check with the translator and I need access to the copyright information, I don't care if you have to get on a plane and jet over to France, I need it on my desk by Monday. . ." the man isn't very tall, shorter than Namjoon is, definitely, but he's the customer and Namjoon is used to standing hunched
(over the table in his darkroom, dipping paper in the different tubs of solution before hanging them up to dry,)
over the counter anyway. The man doesn't even stop talking, just puts a hand over the receiver and mouths the words "venti macchiato" without skipping a beat before segueing back into his conversation.
"Welcome to Coffee D—," Namjoon says politely, "Can I get your name to write on the cup?"
The man isn't even listening, making small motions with his hands, going on about "paper quality and standard sizing for a European market" while he slides his credit card over the counter.
Park Jimin
it says, in silver raised lettering on the black card. Namjoon hasn't seen a black card before; it's not terribly impressive even though he has the feeling that maybe it's supposed to be. The man ignores him completely, gathering up the card when he's done running the order and completely disregarding the held out receipt; he doesn't even make eye contact, just heads directly for the order pick up counter, still talking on the phone while he pulls an iPad mini out of an inside pocket of his blazer and peers at the screen.
Yup, Namjoon thinks to himself as he gets the felt-tip pen to write the customer's name on the cup; it's policy even though there's no line up right now, Kim Namjoon has been demoted from human being and is now a robot.
(Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? is the title of the painting, though it's an abstract mess of blues and greens and something that looks like clotted blood running through the centre of the canvas, dripping off at the end as it tapers, like a chart falling, stocks sinking to the ground.
"What do you think?" Taehyung asks, bouncing around the studio.
"It looks like something I might dream," Seokjin says, but he sounds more affectionate than honest.
"I think this android has an anger management problem," Namjoon says, and they all laugh.)
The Sharpie slips in his fingers, slides across the white cardboard; when he looks down at the word he'd written while his mind was wandering, Namjoon stifles a laugh. Jibber. It matches the man perfectly.
"Here you go sir," he says, passing the paper cup across the counter; the customer, Jimin, doesn't even look up as he slides the iPad mini back into his pocket and takes the coffee, phone still pressed to his ear as he grabs a lid from the stack and walks out. The door swishes shut behind him.
"Oh, there was a customer?" Jeongguk asks, walking out of the back, still tying his apron on and getting the black straps all tangled.
"Yes," he says, reaching for the apron. "Do you need help?" Jeongguk backs away, holding his arms out in front of him.
"No thank you! I still remember the last time you helped, when the straps somehow tore off accidentally and I had to spend my whole shift with one of Seokjin's pink safety pins holding everything together."
Namjoon just laughs, flipping the pages of his books shut as he moves toward the back.
"It's pretty quiet right now but I predict that the post-lunch rush will be particularly heavy," he says, eying the greying sky outside the window. "Did you bring an umbrella? I forgot mine."
"I did and I hid it," Jeongguk says, going for the espresso machine. "You're not allowed to touch my stuff; you only break them." He makes himself an americano, breathes in the fragrance of coffee. "Philosophy 101 is a killer; I don't know why you're torturing yourself."
Namjoon shrugs as he exits, "Why not. Hey, if a tree falls in the forest and there's no one to hear, does it make a sound?"
Jeongguk just snorts, then gives a small shout because he obviously spilled hot coffee on himself. "The answer is always wrong," he calls, his voice muffled by the door swinging shut behind Namjoon's back.
As he turns up the collar of his jacket against the rain, Namjoon waves at the young man huddled under an awning to keep out of the rain.
"Hi Yoongi! How's it going?" he calls, gesturing at the water dripping off the fabric.
"Could be worse," Yoongi says, "could be better." He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, waving as Namjoon rounds the corner.
"Long night?" Seokjin asks, as Namjoon walks into the library rubbing his eyes. He looks, eyebrows raised, at Seokjin, sandwich in one hand and fingers flipping through the pages of the book with the other.
"I don't think you're allowed to eat in the library," he says, not bothering to whisper. Seokjin shrugs, takes a bite. Namjoon glances towards the librarian sitting at her desk, in complete sight of them, but she doesn't seem to care. I'm pretty sure if I pulled a sandwich out of my bag, you'd be all over me.
Namjoon consults the list of books on his phone; starts hunting the shelves. By the time he staggers back his arms are full and Seokjin sets his sandwich down on the table to grab the book that's sliding off the top of the stack.
"Thanks," Namjoon says, and sighs.
"Required reading?" Seokjin cocks an eyebrow as reaches for his sandwich and takes a bite that encompasses the entire remaining section. Namjoon doesn't even bother being surprised anymore.
"I did that last night," he says, slumping down into his chair and pulling the first book forward. "This is just some stuff." Seokjin looks interested, but Namjoon is too tired to explain. "I'll tell you later." He looks at the book Seokjin is reading; the page is open to what looks like a diagram of a tree, except it has nerves. Or maybe it's nerves that look like a tree? Namjoon blinks.
"Hey, Jin," he says, chin resting on his hand, thoughts spilling out sideways instead of focused. "If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one to hear, does it still make a sound?" Namjoon looks down at the book. Ferdinand de Saussure it says on the page,
(white on black paper; it's not paper though, and when Namjoon steps closer he can see that what he thought was paper is actually black cotton, stretched on a frame, the cut-outs of letters spelling words that dissolve as he steps closer and sees that the white backdrop is actually formed of newsprint paper-mâché, several metres back.
"Do you see all the words?" Taehyung asks, suddenly murmuring with warm breath into Namjoon's ear. He jumps, frowning as Taehyung laughs, the sound a contrast to the starkness of the backdrop,)
black on white, a false dichotomy of meaning. Seokjin hums around the food in his mouth, swallows.
"I think that the important thing is that the tree fell," he says, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Did you know that giraffes have no voice? So when they scream, they scream in silence? But would you still call that screaming, because you can't hear anything?"
Namjoon feels a chill crawling up his spine, like a cold shudder. He frowns.
"I'm pretty sure you're wrong," he says, and Seokjin laughs, folding his sandwich wrapper up neatly and tossing it into the garbage can. The librarian looks up at the sound, and Namjoon expects her to say something about tossing contraband food wrappers around the library, but she only smiles and looks back at her computer. Life isn't fair.
It's the evening shift today, and Namjoon is slightly giddy over Martin Heidegger and too much coffee. He feels like he might burst into laughter or tears at any moment, running words over his tongue, a smooth velvet flow but the words are sharp, pointed, and Jeongguk is eying him cautiously, as though he's afraid that Namjoon is seconds away from exploding.
I'm seconds away from exploding.
He takes a deep breath, thinks about mountains, about the om you hear when you're climbing up one alone, when the oxygen gets thinner and there's just you and the universe stretching out, an infinite sky reaching up to the inverse sea of stars. There's something suffocating about the city, especially when he doesn't have time to be.
The door slides open, air shifting as he glances up to say—
it's a man on his phone, voice slightly raised, impatience radiating off him from the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness of his neck, the way his face is pinched as he barks into the phone,
". . .the paper supplier had three months to come through with the rice paper for the dust covers. We aren't printers; this isn't our job, it's their job and they need to take responsibility. . ."
He steps up to the counter, sliding his card name up as he jabs at the spelling of his name with an angry pointer finger as he holds the palm of his hand over the receiver for a moment to mutter, "venti macchiato," before he's on the phone again, ". . .accountability and commitment stated in the contract. . ."
Namjoon looks at the card. He looks at the man who isn't looking at him, lingering at the counter and waiting for his card. Everything feels slow-motion—is this it? Namjoon wonders. Is this when I do something I'll regret? He can feel Jeongguk hovering by the sink, the nervous tick in his shoulder and Namjoon watches as his fingers enter the order, swipe the card through the machine and complete the transaction before he slides the card over the counter for Jimin to pry off the surface with his own fingernails as Namjoon scribbles a name on the paper cup and makes the venti macchiato; just right, perfect in the cup as he sets it on the pick up counter.
Jimin takes the cup without looking. Namjoon stands by the pick-up counter, watches at he walks away, as the door slides shut behind him, as Jeongguk steps gingerly up to his side.
"Did that cup say jerk-face?" Jeongguk asks quietly. Namjoon just nods.
It's quiet in the coffee shop, just before closing time. He watches the door for a long while, but no one comes through it. Through the window, all he can see he is Yoongi packing up his stereo to head home. It must be cold; he has a scarf wrapped around his neck.
"I'm so glad you came!" Taehyung is far too giddy, bouncing up and down but Namjoon just grins; lets his friend climb all over him, as Jeongguk hides behind Seokjin. It's not every day that someone gets to have a private exhibition of their work, and this is Taehyung's first, something he's been working towards for years.
"Come on, come one!" he exclaims, half guiding, half shoving them down the hallway as other viewers look up, probably wondering what the commotion is Namjoon thinks. I wonder what their reaction would be if they knew the loud crazy guy in the red t-shirt is the artist. He shrugs; it's funny.
There are mixed media paintings on the walls; photographs Taehyung has taken, covered up with paint and string and seeds and little things he's picked up that tell a story. One of them, Namjoon notices in his peripheral vision as Taehyung herds them along, is titled Things that Jin could probably fit in his mouth. He's kind of glad he doesn't have time to see the actual art.
Taehyung stops in front of a wall; it's white like all the others but there's a forest on it; not a painting but rather something that's half collage, half sculpture in bas relief. It's a bird's eye view of a forest, a kind of strange hybrid of coniferous, deciduous and tropical, and leading from the edge are scars, grooves in the green that Namjoon, upon leaning closer, realizes are logging roads. The heart of the forest is gone; clear-cut in swathes of stumps that are here, in paper and paint and things that Namjoon can't quite identify, seeping blood. And now that they're standing there, still, he can hear something, the roar of motors, wood tearing, trees toppling over. It's some kind of recording; Namjoon's eyes flicker to Taehyung, standing at the side with a proud expression on his face. The blood seeping from the trees looks wet; Namjoon's pretty sure that if he reached forward to press his fingers to the cuts, the tips would come away red.
It's horrible all of a sudden; the painting or whatever it is. It hurts. As Namjoon steps back, tries to look at the bigger picture, decipher the meaning, the tears in the living green canopy of the forest resolve into words.
I SCREAM
the gashes in the green spell out. The forest is shouting and he can't hear it over the recording of the trees toppling, but he can hear the message all the same.
"Wow," Seokjin says, and Taehyung beams. Namjoon pats a smile onto his face; it's a wonderful work of art even if it's terrible, and he appreciates it even though he doesn't like it.
"You did an amazing job," he says, and reaches out to pat Taehyung on the back, but Taehyung goes in for a hug instead, and the warmth feels safe somehow, against the backdrop of death hanging on the wall.
"What is it called?" Jeongguk asks, his voice curious.
"You can give it a name yourself," Taehyung says, grinning with his most infuriating smirk. "What does it mean to you?"
Namjoon thinks about it for the rest of the day.
There's nothing worse than rolling out of bed in the afternoon to go to work, especially after you only fell into bed at noon, after pulling an all-nighter to finish a paper and making it to class at the crack of dawn. Namjoon stubs his toe twice on the legs of the bed, bruising his foot and causing him to limp into the kitchen where he promptly knocks the milk onto the floor and spends a few frantic minutes mopping up the mess before he's running late for work, missing the first train and just deciding to run.
Yoongi is already sitting on the low wall by the coffee shop, stereo on the stone beside him, thumbing through a notebook but Namjoon only has time to wave before he's throwing himself at the staff entrance.
"Did you run a marathon?" Seokjin asks, when Namjoon bursts into the back.
"Slept too late," Namjoon groans, trying to get his apron on and only succeeding in somehow tearing both the straps off. Seokjin patches everything together with safety pins, but Namjoon understands what Jeongguk was talking about now, the bright pink plastic heads bright against the black.
"It's cute," Seokjin says, grinning, but Namjoon doesn't agree, so Seokjin ends up working the till until he has to duck away to use the restroom, leaving Namjoon no other option when the door slides open.
He hears the voice before he sees the man, ". . .shipment has been delayed and I need the quota for the major bookstores as per contract, I have a contract to fulfill and the. . ."
Namjoon wants to—
he doesn't know what he wants to do. He types in venti macchiato before Jimin has time to open his mouth and has his hand out for the card, the weight as it falls on the palm of his hand like a stone, dragging him under. He completes the transaction and passes the card back without looking up, but he can still hear Jimin talking.
You're just a cog in the machine, Namjoon reminds himself. Mario Savio. He runs the words over and over in his head, swallows them down where they
(ring out through the room, echoing off the walls; it's like the words are literally hanging in the air.
"There is a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can't take part. You can't even passively take part! And you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop! And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it — that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all!"
The walls of the room are plain white, but when Namjoon steps forward to trace his fingers over the surface, he can feel the letters, the message written over and over again, a quiet backbone for the voice over the loudspeakers, as Hoseok grins, gesturing all around at the display, stars sparking in his eyes, and Namjoon bobs his head along to the staticky recording as the words)
choke. Jackass, he writes on the cup, even though it doesn't mean anything, even though he knows it's a fruitless empty gesture against a system he can't control.
"Are you alright?" Seokjin asks, deftly re-tying his apron as he walks in from the back. Namjoon sighs, shakes his head.
"Just, been thinking too much," he says. "I thought about Hoseok again. . ." His voice trails off, fingers hanging limply at his sides. Seokjin doesn't ask, just wraps his arms around Namjoon and gives him a hug.
"It's okay," he murmurs, but it really isn't.
If he closes his eyes, just lets the wind drift across his face, Namjoon can pretend he's in a forest somewhere, kilometres away from the nearest town, only trees and hills and a small stream babbling at the foot of the hill, not here, in the middle of the city, the sound of traffic hovering just on the edge of his awareness, skyscrapers ringing the sky.
Namjoon opens his eyes. It's April, and the white asphodel he grows, tucked in a pot in his apartment, has just begun to bloom. Here, tucked in his hands, is single white blossom, a reminder.
"Hi," he says, laying it on the stone at his feet. Somehow, lying against the grey, it looks like a fallen star; a smile in the dark. He can still see Hoseok smiling.
There are lots of things Namjoon could say, things he's been thinking about and he misses talking to Hoseok more than ever, his endless enthusiasm, the way he was absolutely positive that studying philosophy was just as valid a way to change the world as any kind of political or environmental activism.
("Look at ideas," Hoseok says, grinning over his shoulder as Namjoon is studying, "Ideas change the world!")
Namjoon doesn't say these things though, the words too heavy in his chest. Instead, he asks the question that's been rolling around in his mouth for days.
"If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear, does it make a sound?"
The wind sighs, grass rustling; everything is fresh and barely green. He can still see Hoseok, falling, everything suddenly in slow motion, silence, strung out like beads of time slipping from existence.
The answer is no. The answer is yes. The answer is a wall of sound crashing over him when everything starts moving again and people are screaming for help, for the ambulance, for someone, anyone.
His palms are sticky, nectar from the flower, as his fingers curl slowly shut. Namjoon closes his eyes.
Even though Namjoon doesn't really like working the closing shift, there's something nice about the quiet presence of all the students, especially now during exams. All the pages flipping, the sad litany of sighs, it's like a common vigil to education, to a process of something hopefully even a little bit like enlightenment.
("Knowledge is power," Hoseok says and Taehyung sticks out his tongue.
"A picture is worth a thousand words!" he retorts, but it's not really an argument, as they both start laughing, tossing darts at balloons Taehyung has tacked up on a white canvas, red splattering over white.
"I shot the president!" Hoseok exclaims, jumping up and down.
"He has green blood," Taehyung points out, "No wonder he was so slimy." Everyone laughs at this, even Jeongguk who's frowning at his math textbook.
"You guys are so loud!" he shouts, but he's not really complaining.)
Sometimes, Namjoon thinks, espressos flying out beneath his fingers, weary students with bloodshot eyes slipping silently up to the counter for more coffee, I wonder if I've learned anything at all. He slips cookies to the ones who look the most sleepy, giving them grins of solidarity as he turns back to his readings. When it's late like this, German turns into French into English and deconstruction starts to deconstruct itself.
The door slides open, another student clutching a laptop under their arm, probably retreating to the coffee shop in a last-ditch attempt to beat late night fatigue, and Namjoon flashes them another grin as he takes their order for a quintuple shot espresso, giving them a glass of water to go along with it. Hopefully diffuse the caffeine jitters.
He hears the voice before he sees it, it's always like this by now, a siren announcing Jimin's approach, and Namjoon grits his teeth, smile morphing into a grimace as he rings up the order, takes the card and completes the transaction before he passes it back without even looking up, the voice droning on, ". . .book promotion deal and I don't like the look of that poster, it takes everything that works about the cover and turns it into a complete mess. . ."
Jabroni he writes on the cup before filling it, lip curling slightly even though he knows he's being infantile. At least the coffee smells good, and the silence that fills the coffee shop after Jimin leaves is even better. Namjoon makes himself a macchiato just for the heck of it, even though he doesn't really like the way the milk sticks to his tongue.
Namjoon finishes locking up, the beep, beep, beep counting down as the alarm system engages, and takes a deep breath. It must have been raining before, just a bit, and even though it's the city the air smells fresh.
"Hey!" he hears, turns and sees Yoongi grinning, paper cup in hand. "How are exams?" Yoongi looks great, blond hair and a grin on his face.
"Same old grind," Namjoon grins sardonically, shaking his head at himself. "How are you?"
"B-boying sucks in the rain," Yoongi laughs, "but the word flow is good. There's something about watching people rushing by, stuck in their own problems—most of them don't ever even bother to look up." He shrugs, tips back his head and drains the paper cup. Namjoon is just turning to head for the subway because it's late, he has class tomorrow, and it's chilly here in the dark, when a word catches his eye.
Jabroni it says, black on white, the word written on the paper cup in Yoongi's hand.
Namjoon blinks; opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.
"Where did you get that coffee?" he asks quietly, even though he already knows the answer.
"This?" Yoongi glances at the cup, grins at the word written on the side. "There's this guy who walks by sometimes, some kind of white collar on his phone—I never noticed him the first time I guess, but he brought me a coffee once and ever since then he'll pause and watch whatever I'm doing, put his phone conversation on hold for a bit and clap and give me a coffee." Yoongi grins. "I don't know, but it's kind of cool I guess?" His laugh bubbles in the dark. "There's always a funny word written on the side too, so it's like a bonus."
He's still grinning as Namjoon says goodbye, almost tripping over the fire hydrant as he heads for the subway exit. It's like everything has flipped on its head.
("We can never know everything about someone's life," Hoseok says thoughtfully, flipping through the pages of a scandal rag at the grocery store. Namjoon shrugs, puts the chocolate milk on the conveyor belt.)
"If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear, does it make a sound?" he asks himself, in the dark, the lights of the city reflecting brightly off the puddles on the ground, the splash as his feet hit the concrete.
The question is wrong. Namjoon is wrong. It's not does it make a sound but rather, if the trees falls, is the forest listening?
The answer is no. The answer is yes. The answer is—
"Step out of your box," Namjoon tells himself, as his swipes his transit card at the subway gate and merges with the flow of people on their way home.
tagging
xiukisses have fun!
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I'm sorry I kind of - twisted the prompt into something else? It was supposed to be vaguely reflective and slightly sweet but it's been a bit of a tough week and I kind of mulled it over into something a little different so the romance angle kind of - while it's not impossible I suppose, it couldn't really happen yet - but it ended up being a kind of "open your eyes" thing I guess? Anyway, I really look forward to reading yours as soon as I get today's mad rush out of the way! I'm super excited!
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I actually love how you interpreted and wrote the prompt? It's a very different interpretation from what I ended up doing, but I think that makes it all the better? The messages, morals, ideas and tone of the stories are so different but they're both good interpretations of the prompt which was, if I recall, the entire point of us doing this :)
I really loved the way you wrote this honestly, because it took a prompt that might be assumedly romantic or cliche and turned it into something that was very eye opening and sobering, which isn't as common in stories these days. I personally loved it, and wish you all the best with the rest of your work for today!!!
Hwaiting, Ansa!!! You can do it!
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I am SO curious for your story, I really can't wait to see your interpretation! And yes, I agree - that was the whole fun in this, taking something and just. . .letting it see where it would take us. I love how we all see the world so differently, but even more than that, we process our ideas differently as well.
Thanks so much for your encouragement (and I look forward to being able to leave you a comment as well!) and I also wish you all the best for today!
*insert Jimin cheering for Yoongi playing basketball* ☆彡
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this was really beautiful and thought-provoking and this line is my favorite -
("We can never know everything about someone's life," Hoseok says thoughtfully, flipping through the pages of a scandal rag at the grocery store. Namjoon shrugs, puts the chocolate milk on the conveyor belt.)
i really love what you did with this <3
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What Hoseok says is actually something I think about a lot, I guess?
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yes! and it's something i don't think a lot of people realize
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I think yes and no? But it's something that definitely needs to be more thought about, in any case. ^^
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IDK I LIKE THINKING ABOUT THIS SORT OF THING A LOT
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ME TOO
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