Work Text:
Juanito Pelaez glances to his side. Once, then twice, then he wonders why the air feels different today. Nevertheless, he breathes in, and out, and back in— He feels a bit light-headed with all this thinking. He clutches onto his violin, shuts his eyes. (The air feels different, it just does, he swears.) He puts his violin down.
There's a knock on the door.
He heaves out a sigh.
There's an expectant silence. Juanito refuses to satisfy it. (One... Two... Three—) "I'm busy," comes his response, curt and monotonous.
Timoteo Pelaez grumbles something from the other side. He just clenches his eyes shut, shut, shut. (The air—)
He reaches for his cellphone. He breathes, heavy and exaggerated, eyes opening as he exhales into the atmosphere. He lets the phone ring. It stops. "Hey," he speaks, "are you still coming?"
"I'm studying."
"You still coming?"
"...yeah."
He can hear their off-sync breathing, focuses on it so much that it startles him when the line goes dead. He stares blankly for a while, dumbfounded and lost.
He cracks, digs the balls of his hands into his eyes. ("Fuck.")
The violin leans against the foot of his bed. He leans against nothing. (He falls.)
I know it's sad, that I never gave a damn about the weather, and it never gave a damn about me.