Welcome to my second YoI fanfic :3 I had more success with my debut fic than I expected and I thank all of my readers for that. Like, sincerely hahha I write because I enjoy it, but getting positive feedback makes it even more enjoyable to share! Like my first fic, this will be in first person; I know that's not everyone's jam, but my third person writing just. ..it feels forced and first person comes naturally to me. Anyway, this chapter is a Seung Gil one, and I hope you like it :D

Every tick of the clock on the far wall is another reminder that time could not be passing slower, even if it was possible. Each click on my keyboard, few and far between, emphasizes the fact that I am still at my desk, still chipping away at a memo, still staring blankly at my computer screen and, unfortunately, still not on my lunch break. I sigh again when I check my watch, confirming that it's definitely too early for me to leave the office now, especially with the lack of progress I've made on this vicious document. It really won't take long to finish writing, but the aggressive growling of my stomach is preventing me from moving forward. Surprisingly, the slow passage of time isn't the most annoying thing in this room: the mediocre vocals and artificial music of the city's local pop station manage to grate on my nerves even more. Each and every day at the office begins with these songs, only ending just before lunch. It's only a few hours, but it feels like a lot longer with such bland and banal noise filling the space around me. I can usually tolerate it without complaining, but today isn't working out that way. I turn in my chair, swiveling to get a look at the man responsible for all this noise pollution. Of course, he's busy working on a spreadsheet. I wonder if the tapping of his own keyboard is enough to drown out everything else; his typing is pretty loud. The others who work back here are near the window on the opposite side of the room; they don't have to listen to this radio station like I do. I clear my throat to get his attention: he turns his head my direction, blinking once before nodding. My shoulders fall on an exhale before I stare at his computer. "That's loud."

"What is?"

"That station."

He points to the screen, arching an eyebrow. "The music?"

"Yeah."

"You think it's too loud?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes."

"It's the same volume as usual."

"Liar." I don't believe him, or that irritating curl one side of his mouth is starting to take. I know I'm becoming hangry, but there's no way the radio is always this obnoxious.

"I swear."

I rub my eyes so I won't have to see him smirking anymore. "Otabek, really."

"I know it's not good music." He softly laughs, altering the volume. "But that's not why I listen. And I can't help that you have ears like a bat. I think you're the only other person who can even hear it."

Sighing, I turn back to my computer. Instead of working, I type: 'I'M STARVING I'M STARVING WHY DOES OTABEK'S MUSIC SUCK SO MUCH I'M SO HUNGRY CAN I GO TO LUNCH' with the speed of a snail. "I doubt it." My stomach lets loose a growl that overpowers the terrible music, startling me a little. While I delete my rantings, a granola bar comes flying over my shoulder and hits my wireless mouse. Quickly, I unwrap it like it might get taken away.

"You skip breakfast?"

"No." I pause to chew, turning back to face my coworker. "I'm just really hungry."

Otabek shrugs, unimpressed. "Okay. You're welcome." He turns his attention back to his spreadsheet, typing real figures and earning his paycheck, unlike me. I hum a thank you and glance at my screen again. I'm still uninspired, but I guess the urgency to get out of here and find food isn't as strong as before. While I listlessly type away, I consider where I'll go for lunch; I've been to every restaurant in the area at least a dozen times and never packed my own meal since moving here. Bringing food from home would mean real grocery shopping and sharing the office fridge; I've heard my other coworkers complain about food going missing, both labelled and unlabeled, food hanging around indefinitely, messes ruining both meals and the integrity of the fridge: no thanks.

After a few solid minutes of work, the music from Otabek's computer finally stops. My shoulders relax when I sigh and shut my eyes. "That wraps up today's top twenty on the charts! Tune in tomorrow, same time, same place, for more of your favorite hits." A female voice announces from the radio.

"After the break, Minami's got you covered with throwbacks and a dedication block every other hour, so stay tuned." A male voice adds in.

"Thanks for listening to Tiger and Mila in the morning!" She goes on to mention where to follow the duo on social media, cut off by Otabek closing the active window on his screen as I turn to face him.

"Why not an audio book, or something?" I wonder out loud.

Otabek shrugs, peering at me over his shoulder. "I don't think I'd be able to work and listen well."

It'd make too much sense for him to listen to literature, or something: we do work in a book store, after all. They make a great deal of sales through digital and audio formats, audio books being at the top of that list. I prefer physical books and being able to hold pages in my hands, which isn't exactly what the company is known for. My aunt once asked me why I work for something I don't care about, how I can spend so much time at a place I'm not invested in. Truth be told, accounting sometimes requires me to interact with interesting people and I like working with the various sponsors and authors the store works with; business owners and storytellers are more entertaining than my coworkers and the stray customer I run into now and then. "You and that station of yours." I mutter under my breath, but Otabek hears the comment and laughs.

"I have my reasons."

"It's obnoxious."

He pauses a minute, smirking at me instead of inputting numbers. "Not everything on the station is like that."

"Oh?"

Otabek nods, glancing at his watch. "Yeah, next is music from when I was a kid. You were probably a kid at some point, too, right?" I roll my eyes when he laughs. "Later, there's a jazz show. It's kind of calming."

"Calming jazz?"

"That's right. Slow stuff." He turns back to his work, shrugging again. "I listened to it before and it helped me fall asleep. It's relaxing."

"I could use relaxing."

He hums in response. "Give it a try after work, then."

Well, I just might do that; I've got nothing to lose but sleep, and as an insomniac, that means very little to me. I manage to get to sleep when most people have been dreaming for hours. It doesn't bother me much; on occasion, though, my body hits a wall of exhaustion and I deal with it by inevitably passing out for a day or overeating. It shouldn't be any surprise to me why I feel ravenous: I've gotten around twenty hours of sleep this week, and it's already Thursday.

The instant I finish my project, I stand and zip on my dark grey hoodie: lunch hour has arrived! While I toss my key card around my neck, I turn back to Otabek. "Going to lunch. Want anything?" I've already got my phone and wallet in my pockets; all I need is his response and I'm off.

"Something vegetarian."

"Well that's gross." I scoff on my way out, passing the two other coworkers we share the office with; their desks are set up by the window similarly to mine and Otabek's. They don't spare me a glance, absorbed in marketing and social media tasks. I know their names, but I'm not sure if they know mine; I've never really spoken at length with either of them. Nobody really talks to Otabek and me. When I leave the office space and step onto the shop's floor, the strong smell of paper is almost overwhelming but welcome. It reminds me of new adventures and comfortable silence. Unfortunately, the store isn't that quiet: another coworker and a few patrons are standing nearby, conversing about the numbers on a receipt. None of them look my direction when I pass by, excluding the youngest looking customer who quickly looks away, but I'm not sure why. I guess they're real occupied and busy. Walking past the rows of bookshelves and whispering people, I'm reminded of high school: I rarely spoke to anybody and no one ever bothered me with menial conversation attempts. Most of my time was spent reading and studying, roaming the library the same way I'm walking through this store, fingers brushing bound spines of hardcovers and paperbacks. When I got to university, I wasn't as lucky; our library was constantly filled with loud chatter and empty seats harder to find than the end of a rainbow. Those days were more difficult, but I found my dorm room was quiet enough to read to my heart's content and the library wasn't too far when I needed more material. These days, I buy from right off the shelves and enjoy my reads after clocking out. When I get to the front door, I stuff my hands in my sweatshirt's pockets and follow an older couple out of the building, the chiming of the little bell announcing my exit fading quickly as the door shuts.

The clouds from this morning have scattered to the edges of the sky. Even though the sun is shining brightly, I'm grateful that I put my sweatshirt on. A chilly breeze ushers me down the sidewalk, footsteps indistinguishable among the other lunch hour traffic. I'm one of the few people headed away from the heart of downtown but I don't rush; the cool air feels good on my face. One of the downsides to working in a small office is the lack of fresh air, making every lunch trip a chance to breathe in natural oxygen before finding a place to eat. The place on the left with the striped awning has apparently been around for longer than I've been alive; they have decent pizza, but service can be slow. The place down the road, a sandwich shop, has a line all the way out their front door and down the sidewalk; I don't have time for that. Across the street is a new Chinese place that I tried last week. Honestly, I wasn't impressed. The staff was nice and everything, but the food didn't taste great. I'll probably go back next week and try something else but right now, I want something I know will be good. I think I know just the place, but I'll have to walk faster: I want time to enjoy my meal.

Picking up the pace gets me to the small Mediterranean restaurant in little time. I'm not the only one in line, but I'm not far from the counter. What is this music they're playing? It's vaguely familiar, but foreign at the same time. The moment it's over, the host recites the station's number: the station Otabek listens to. I roll my eyes as I get to the counter. I simply can't escape these radio shows. "Long time, no see." The cashier smiles.

"This radio station doesn't bother you, Nico?" I fiddle with the laminated menu resting on the glass countertop, twisting and bending the edges. The last time I was here, Nico had longer, darker hair. His easy smile is exactly the same: slightly tired but obviously honest. He laughs a bit with a shrug.

"Customers like it. You don't?"

I sigh, glancing down at the menu. "It's the bane of my existence." He takes my order without writing it down and invites me to sit at the nearest table. I grab a bottle of water and try not to scrape the chair's legs against the flooring as I pull it from the table, only making a slight noise against the tile before sitting. In the middle of the table, a standing menu with bright, bold lettering announces the dinner specials for every day of the week. They look interesting, but I have to push the thought from my head. When New Year's came, I promised myself that I'd only buy takeout for lunch and not for dinner unless invited out. I was trying to make a resolution I could actually follow through with and I don't really have anyone to go out with, but I didn't anticipate my own cravings to be so difficult; I've been begrudgingly eating out of cans and frozen packages in the months ever since. No, I don't feel any healthier or anything, but having a goal once in a while is good, probably.

"Order, Seung Gil!" Nico calls minutes later. I nod and leave a tip in the hand-painted jar, taking my leave with the plastic bag in tow. The clouds have decided to congregate overhead again, darkening the daylight just enough for me to notice after taking a few steps. A couple more steps back towards the office and song lyrics I thought I'd forgotten drift out of my mouth, just under my breath. Why is this song stuck in my head? The last time I heard it was several years ago, but…oh, it must've been playing on that stupid station!

"Damn music." I whisper, using my key card to open the back door of the building. The first time I walked through the sales floor with lunch in hand, I was scolded by the cashiers and manager; I think they were hungry. At any rate, I've taken to using the door in the alley to get back in so I can eat in peace. The old song lyrics are still on my tongue when I sit at my desk, rummaging through the bag for Otabek's food. He holds his hands up when I raise the foil wrapped sandwich in his direction, catching it with ease. "Did you want the salad? I want the fries."

Otabek walks his chair closer to me with a hand outstretched. "Have 'em. I'll have the salad." He didn't really have a choice, honestly, but it doesn't hurt to be polite once in a while. After splitting up the food, I put my computer to sleep; if I can see work that needs to be done, I won't be able to focus on my meal. "Thanks. I'll pay you back tomorrow." Otabek mutters. I hum in response, mouth occupied. "From Nico's restaurant?" I nod an affirmation. "Did you know his siblings own a club downtown?" I shake my head no. "Yeah, it's on the main street past all the one-ways. Have you been there?" My only reply is a scoff. This causes Otabek to laugh. "It was an honest question. It wasn't a joke."

"If it's about my social life, it is."

"You act like you've never gone out."

I shrug, gulping down the rest of my water. "I don't, really." Not anymore, anyway. "Especially not to clubs."

He shrugs, fighting back a smirk. "Really? You strike me as the dancing type." Instead of responding, I glare and tear into my food. His laugh induces a dramatic eye roll from me and if he notices, he doesn't acknowledge my response. "I get dragged out all the time. I'm used to it now." I don't know much about Otabek's personal life, but I do know that he has a group of friends who like to party and he has some sort of significant other and a dark silver band around his ring finger. Prying isn't in my nature so I've never asked about that kind of thing. If he's grown used to something, does that mean he's grown to like it, too?

"'Used to it.' Does that mean you like it?"

Again, he shrugs. "It's alright. Some nights are more fun than others." Otabek pauses to dress his salad in an oily mess. "I'm definitely staying in tonight, though. This week has kicked my ass."

We had a secret shopper come by, and all of the floor staff were uptight and snippy; having to be on their best behavior was apparently very stressful, and they made the first three days of the week a dreadful bout of whining, complaining and lashing out at random moments. We don't know which day the shopper came or who they were, but I'm glad it wasn't my ass out there. "Same. If I have to hear about teamwork and game faces again, I just might die."

"No joke." Otabek laughs before facing his computer. "Tonight is a hot tub night. What about you?"

"Just that radio show."

The hours pass quickly with a full belly, and the promise of something new later. After clocking out and walking home, I still have some time left before the jazz show starts. I toss my keys, wallet and key card on the kitchen counter. The noise is almost jarring, loud and sudden against the surrounding silence. This level of my building is never noisy; the main level, though, can get irritatingly loud, especially on weekends. I share a wall with my neighbor, connected by the laundry room: I've never heard a sound from them, aside from the door opening and closing when anyone comes and goes. Each of my footsteps nearly echoes on the hardwood; I think I should buy a rug or two. My feet hardly make a sound when I reach the carpeting of the hallway, showering before setting my laptop and phone on the coffee table. A worn novel sits beside the computer, cover nearly falling off. While microwaving a meal and grabbing a glass of water, I find some clear tape and settle in on the sofa; the furniture was a gift from my parents who never understood my distaste for the color green. I find the station's website and allow the commercials to distract me from the quiet, flipping my hood on and pulling the drawstrings a bit. The book cover is simple enough to mend; it won't win any beauty contests, but I think it speaks volumes about how thoroughly I've loved its contents. The microwave dings just as the show begins: "Your evening with Eros is just getting started." I wasn't expecting such a voice, laced with sensuality and confidence. Maybe it's been too long since I've been spoken to like that, but I find myself feeling rather flushed. "If you're in the mood for something smooth that moves with expert rhythm, you've come to the right place." Well, I'll admit, my jaw drops a little; if I didn't know any better, I'd think this man was trying to seduce his audience: I don't think I can be blamed for my reaction. The more he speaks, the more I get used to the soft, husky voice and the warmth in my face finally begins to subside. Getting caught up in Eros' intro, I'd forgotten about my food. While he continues his spiel, I don't bother plating dinner: I'm not above eating off of microwaved plastic with disposable utensils. I already have water, but I could use a beer. I try my best to ignore the photos stuck to the fridge, magnets pinning them with the images turned away, and pull a can from the box. It's a cheap brand I grew to like when I was in university but would never order at a bar. My beer and I get reacquainted with the sofa when the first song starts. This particular tune begins so softly that I have to stop chewing to hear it.

"So quiet." I mutter. If only the music was this quiet when Otabek listens! Before I can turn it up, a bold bass joins the party, accompanied by an insistent saxophone that carries the melody. "Never mind." I blink away my surprise and sit back, eyes shut. 'Relaxing' isn't how I'd describe this particular song, but I guess I can see why Otabek recommended the show: it's tasteful, unobtrusive and doesn't have any whiny singing. The next song is an old standard with an updated twist: it lacks its usual 'classic' feel, replaced with an upbeat tempo and a larger rhythm section. Again, not really a lulling tune, but if it makes me tap my feet, how can I complain? If this Eros guy knows what he's doing, then it could be that he starts his show with livelier songs and will end it with slower selections. It could take all night for me to find that out; who knows how long this show is. I shove another forkful of food into my mouth, picking up my phone to send a quick text to Otabek: 'Thanks for the radio rec, O…so far so good. Do you know how long this show is?'

I don't wait for a response. Instead, I pick up my book and extend my legs the length of the sofa, abandoning the phone on the coffee table. When I first started at the bookstore, Otabek had already been there a few months. He seemed grateful to have someone take over accounts so he could focus exclusively on payroll and offered to buy me a beer one weekend as a thank you. At first, I didn't want to agree; he was a stranger with only a first name and a desk near mine. He seemed harmless enough, though, and I like getting to know new cities. I also like free beer, so we exchanged numbers and went to a nearby happy hour. We've gone out a few times since, once to celebrate something Otabek didn't specify and for a couple of our birthdays. In the four years I've worked here, no other coworker has gotten my number, and certainly no one else has bought me a beer. After a few more songs, my phone vibrates on the table: 'Thought you'd like it! Ends at 2230'

What the fuck is 2230? I reply just that: 'What the fuck is that? Who uses a 24 hour clock?' Half past something, I know, but I'm not a soldier; is he? I count on my fingers and roll my eyes, figuring he meant half past ten.

'Lmao it's 1030, SG. Simple math. Aren't you an accountant lol'

Hilarious, really. I exchange my phone for my beer and get back to my book. The only time I get up is to throw away my garbage and refill my water, determined to hear the end of this show. As predicted, the songs become more mellow and calming as the hours pass. "Thank you for spending your evening with Eros." It surely won't be the only evening spent this way. He continues to close out his segment, mentioning the next show. "If you're struggling with a significant other, learning to live with a loss or fighting with family and friends, hang around for a little longer for words of wisdom from your boy P. Chu. Feel free to call in, and maybe he'll help you on the air." Eros gives the station's number before closing out his show with a kissing sound, presumably blowing a kiss at his microphone. I'm kind of sad that the jazz is over, but also irritated that a talk show is part of the station's repertoire. The nonsensical station Otabek listens to is bad enough, but why do they need some armchair therapist at this hour? I suppose anyone who would call in to such a show would have nothing better to do than be up all night, but I still think it's sad. I continue reading through the commercial break in order to get to a new chapter, but I don't reach my goal: the talk show begins.

"Okay, first things first: have you all seen the moon this evening? Gorgeous!" P giggles. The man literally giggles on the air. I don't think I can roll my eyes more, but the chipper voice continues. "Seriously, go take a look up at the sky. You won't regret it." What am I listening to? I can't even focus on my reading anymore, setting the book on my lap. "Anyway, I'm glad you've tuned in to listen to P. Chu talk you through your issues. I'll take calls in a few minutes, but I wanted to give you guys some background on tonight's topic and why it matters."

Groaning, I rub my eyes. "Here we go." I mutter.

"We're gonna talk about guilt. You know, that nagging at the back of your mind reminding you that you've made a mistake? Yeah, that's guilt. We feel guilty over so many things in our lives. Earlier today, I set my alarm at a decent hour so I could make myself a healthy breakfast, do some cardio and get my grocery shopping done." P scoffs at himself. "Almost none of that happened. Hit the snooze, chugged some coffee with too many shots and shopped online all afternoon. Even as I'm admitting this, I feel guilt: I should be treating my body right by eating healthy and exercising more often. I should have done things differently. But I didn't, and now I feel bad about it." I pick up my book again and attempt to reach the end of the chapter, frowning at the printed words. "Things we do, things we want to do, things we think we do and things we don't do all cause this heavy feeling to burden us and remind us of why we're in the wrong. It can't be helped: a part of the brain feels good about being guilty, like the conscience is proud to know right from wrong." Is he serious? That can't be true. His voice is so distracting, I can't get through this paragraph. "We can correct our behavior and feel good about improving ourselves because guilt reminds us to do so. The only problem is that it can manifest into something ugly and break us down." Forget it: I throw my book on the table. Clearly I'm not going to get anywhere in this book with this guy explaining why too much guilt is unhealthy for a person; I no longer see any reason to bother trying at this point. I want to hear what kind of people call in, but I'm very close to shutting my computer off instead.

"Do you have any idea what you're talking about?" I mumble, sitting up straighter so I don't choke on my water while lying down. Really, it's irresponsible for some random person who likes talking to advise strangers with personal issues. The only thing that would make this worse was if P referred to himself as a doctor. Deep down, I know this is all ridiculous, but I kind of want to hear what else happens. It's not like I'm going anywhere: it'll be hours before I attempt sleep and I have nothing else to do. I could try to read again, but P's voice would be a distraction. I could shut him up, but then I'd be stuck in silence. I could try to find a similar jazz station to Eros' show, but the search could take a long time and I'd probably give up after too much trial and error. Sighing, I lie back down with my head against the sofa's arm. If I get sick of this show, I'll just shut it off and head to bed early. After all, I should try to overcome my insomnia one of these days instead of putting up with it. Maybe I'll get used to P's voice like I got used to Eros'.

"Alright, we have our first caller of the night!" P says in a sing-song voice.

I may have spoken too soon. We'll see.

Have y'all ever started watching some reality tv show, knowing it's nonsense, but kept watching anyway? Hahha by the way, don't forget to follow, favourite, comment and all that good stuff; it helps me know that you're reading and that I'm doing something right XD Most chapters won't be like this, but I'll explain that in the next update! Thank you for reading~