LEAN INTO MY SIDE

noeul keeps his character strong (both personality and looks,) and honestly? he takes pride in it. the freedom of self expression and identification, let us rejoice. so when roeun, out of all wardrobes and styles to choose from, picks out the most threadbare excuse of a sweater– he has all the reason to make a long face. actually, throw in the extra furrow of his brows as well as the ‘why-the-hell-did-you-have-to-drag-me-here’ cross of his arms, and it pretty much speaks for his entire say-so. huffy, almost like a middle schooler who’s crabbed about his mom (girlfriend) changing him out of his cool skater-dude outfit for church-sunday.

not bad of an analogy. aggravatingly on point, actually.

“this is not what i meant by ‘spending more time together,’ and you know it.” she knows, he knows, and he also knows that his futile talk-backs won’t do shit. not if her dad is coming over and he has to stage the good church boy put-on, but he still tries. he eyes the boring-colored sweater in her hands, tapping it with the back of his hands in distaste. “a kid i beat up in highschool wore something like that.” as in, i’m not wearing that shit.

“c’mon, roeun. my clothes are fine the way they are. you see this? it’s versace. s/s ‘19 collection. if anything, it’s better than anything in this goddamn shop.” throwing a hand in the air, he points at the needlessly spiffy print on his dress shirt with the other hand. baroque-inspired, or whatever. more like ‘i-pimp-out-girls-for-a-living’ with the over-fit of it and all. all this to no avail. even his guts tell him that this stupid beige knit is going to end up through his head one way or the other, especially with the way roeun’s looking at him, buying zero ounce of his hard sell.

she doesn’t like this just as much. roeun wonders if he knows (since it’s so obviously written on her face) or cares (since he seems so obviously invested in his own turmoil). it is just as much as a bother. though noeul doesn’t seem to care to make it any easier with the way he acts. face pulled into such distaste she almost wants to slap off him. (but temper, roeun. temper. he isn’t going to do anything without proper coaxing.)

“what did you mean then?” play innocent. at least till he tests the last of her patience. either way he’s going to have to do it. it’s just whether or not he’ll do it while she’s still nice or otherwise. “so?” her brow arches, gaze meeting him steadily with the gesture. a kid she knows now is about to get beat up with it. “it’s simple and cute.”

she’s quick to respond, and he scoffs out of amusement. “just call me a dumb ass while you’re at it.” she’s right, and that’s his way of admitting she’s right. the way she’s so nonchalant and casual and how she doesn’t seem to mind what had happened a few minutes prior is appreciated. as much as he’s pissed at sowon for always trailing behind gijoon, at least kyungho doesn’t have to deal with her constant scolding on how he never considers gijoon’s opinions or feelings. it’s obvious to him who she prefers. “nah, i don’t think you’re their type.” he quips. of course she has to mention that son of a bitch – kyungho’s expression shifts and he rolls his eyes. “gijoon isn’t scary, he’s a fucking prick.” he sits, grumbling under his breath, “not my fault you’re short.” 

but, what choice did she have? ask someone else? roeun can’t even begin to imagine the possible backlash if he found out.

“how long are you going to fucking pout?” still, it doesn’t make the grueling process of de-bastard of a club owner-ing him any easier. “you’re always complaining about not spending enough time together, what do you think we’re doing now?” combing through rack after rack of season appropriate drab ass sweaters.

“hey,” she pulls out something beige by random, pressing it against his frame. “how’s this?” her eyes flick over his, sporting as convincing of a grin as it could get in the face of utter displeasure on noeul’s face. 

“i think it’ll look cute.” correction. (because it’s often needed in brat taming ego stroking) “you’ll look cute.”

she tries not to play favourites, she tries her best to be the mediator, but she knows she tends to favour gijoon over kyungho. thank god she’s good at hiding it. she’s more trained when it comes to suppressing emotions and feelings to be considerate of those around her and as much as she wants to yell at the both of them, she knows it won’t do anything but harm their dynamic and it scares her. “i’m not covering for him, you always think that.” does he not notice how she followed him and not kyungho? does he not realize she covers for him too? “you really think i’m going to let you out of my sight when you just got into a fist fight?” irrelevant, she would have gone with him anyway. “come on–” grabbing his arm to lead the way.

patience, an obvious weakness of his. his impatience is what caused them to have an altercation to begin with. his hands in his pocket, following her lead, walking cautiously in case he finds something useful. his mind goes back to gijoon and how irritating he is and how irritating it is that sowon follows him every time. he closes his eyes, half-listening to what yebin is saying. “wouldn’t most of the good stuff be behind the counter anyway?” he looks at the crushed bottles of advil and trampled on boxes of condoms on the ground, a short laugh escapes his lips as he kicks the scraps away. he rolls his eyes with a smile, “congratulations, you’re quite the scavenger, aren’t you?” he teases. “i would tell you i’m fine and that i don’t need first aid, but the last thing i need is for someone else to be mad at me so i’m only listening to you this one time.”

she recognizes that look in his eyes and it frightens her that maybe one day her pleads and persistence won’t be enough for them. that it’ll be way past reconciliation. it’s always been the three of them, she doesn’t want that to go away. she has depended on their friendship to be the only consistent and stable thing in her life. “i’m not hurt.” holding his wrist, forcing his hand away from her face. “he didn’t hit me, okay? it’s not like he meant to hit me – if he did.” shut up, sowon, you’re not helping. “because he wants to make sure we’ve made it far enough away from that shithole of a town we escaped.” she nods, “i’m okay,” reassuring him one last time. “i swear to god if you ask me if i’m okay one more time, i’ll leave your ass in the forest to rot.” 

there’s a multitude of reasons for his anger – gijoon being at the centre of it. he knows how to rile kyungho up and despite being his best friend, he also hates the guy. their friendship is being tested and he knows they should come to a compromise for the sake of the group, but something about him annoys the shit out of him and he refuses to let his pride down. tonight took a turn for the worse. another physical altercation, but this time, he nearly hurt sowon. it would have been purely accidental, but he would have never been able to forgive himself if something did happen. he hears yebin calling out to him, but he doesn’t stop. he wants to be left alone and unbothered. reluctantly, he turns around once yebin catches up to him. he’s too tired to reject or start an argument with someone else, so he goes with her. “this aisle is fucked, how are we supposed to find anything…” kicking a broken pieces of plastic.

she can only follow aimlessly. footsteps carrying an air of urgency in her attempts to tail, noting only absently that they stray further away from their group. but, it’s fine. the retail chain is huge and some distance would do them some good as well. still, it wasn’t going to do them any good to just continue on like this. “h-hey—wait up...!” reaches out once she spills something in passing, fingers curling into the fabric of the taller’s shirt to pull him back. “let’s go down there—” medicine aisle. though it looks as if a hurricane went through it. still, there should be something right? “maybe we can find a first aid kit for the future... and you know...” gestures vaguely to his face, eyes fixed square on his forehead. “come on!” she tugs, lips pulled into a small frown. “let’s go.”  

there she is – he feels his heart racing, and he welcomes it. he quickly wipes his hands at the sides of his pants, fixating on organizing the cups, trying not to look too eager for her to approach him. he looks up, and she’s already standing in front of the counter. she looks so pretty – his first thought. and she smells nice – not creepy, right? she has the prettiest smile and he can’t help, but smile in return. and this time, it won’t be as awkward or weird – maybe now the barista will understand. “hi, taeri.” he’s trying to be more friendly and less formal. “you look nice.” he compliments with a bright smile. his voice is soft and quiet. he presents her with a cup full of coffee he had been waiting to give to her. “for you.” sliding it toward her. 

summer, 2019 with cee. | @dichotvmy

monotonous snips, spaced-out chatters and fallen strands of hair beneath his feet fill the standard 8 out of 24 hours before time clocks him out. god-fucking-finally. he holds his job high, he swears, it just happens to be one of those days. see ya guys later, he mutters as he makes his way out the salon, slipping into the bustling crowd by the 9th exit station.

question: how many problems (girls) do you need before you stumble over ‘em and sink? ian’s answer: too many.

“hey,” he calls after a five second once-over at the girl behind the second work station. his tattoo artist is searching high heavens through the tray, groaning a ‘where the hell did i put the artwork?’ ian pays no mind, with his mind already at leisure on a friday night. time’s there to spare, waste– whatever.

“aren’t you that girl that i met at dabin’s place? by the pool.” he raises a brow with his chin in palm, eyes locked on her long lock and slim frame. his fingertips drum gently atop of the armrest, his usual ploy getting a head-start with the whole repeated-encounter situation. he recalls the way his little cousin would look at her, honey-eyed and always reluctant. he hasn’t paid much mind about the whole spiel with the two, but something about her that was beyond-reach by a second figure puts a match to his interest. attraction? nothing new, nothing moral.

does he care? not really. not at all.

“cecila– right?”

she’s not good with names. has a better knack to matching faces to small details, uneven eyes, mole beneath the lobe or something like that. here, situated comfortably before a thick appointment book, she’s far more preoccupied with rearranging saturday’s appointments to focus on anything else. in fact, almost misses the call her way.

“mm?” her eyes flick over absently to the voice, pen cap pressed between rows of ivory and brow arched in curiosity. the male in question is familiar and sure enough, drops enough mentions for the memory itself to become increasingly clear. dabin’s cousin—yes. she remembers, vaguely.

“yeah, yeah—cee is fine.” only her grandmother calls her cecila. “uh, you’re dabin’s cousin—right?” her mind stalls, twirling the pen absently to try and fill in the blanks. match a name to the face. a name. a name. why is it that she can’t remember anything beyond the tattoo on his shoulder?

oh. right. by the pool. she would’ve had well along the lines of buzzed by then. 

her lips curve, hopefully masking the fact that she had forgotten his name—fingers plucking the pen cap from her mouth. her pen presses into the pages absently, scrawling brief words for later. shoulder tatt. name. underline. underline. 

                                                                                                            i used to live on crumbs                                                                               / but i too am a wants-to-be-touched thing                                                                                                                           — @rottenfrvit

                                                                          x

    blood. however thick. however controversial. it clings to skin, garments, weapons, hair and all. an unforgiving stain, putrid in the way her stomach clenches around the metallic stench. it normally doesn’t bother her. normally. but things could be considered differently when the source is from someone she’s previously lain with. in multitudes. when she could distinctly remember the slice of her skin, light fading from her eyes. roar of the crowd (or was it the monster wearing her skin) behind the lifeless corpse of one, formerly enthralling, sappho.

    it’s strange. the peculiarities of emotions that dwindled in with every step away from the arena, into its connecting corridor and through to the waiting room. every step being the slightest bit more that viper would let slip through. relief. rage. regret (there will be no regret. there is nothing to regret when it is your life on the line). but more importantly, and this viper feels in rolling crashes against her battered body the moment her eyes lock with buttercup’s, sympathy.

    it is her lover. it was her lover so you owe her something. the voice (let’s call it the remnants of a conscience) in her head chides, dauntingly plucks at her heartstrings. as if viper hasn’t reached in and wrung dry parts of herself for less. “buttercup.” her name escapes in a purr, head tilting to the side slightly in expectation.

    it takes every fiber of her being not to move. not to suddenly react, self-conscious, to the blood splattered on her skin, caked in her hair, stains in her clothing. cuts and bruises that she hadn’t even bothered to tend to just yet—nothing quite matters just yet. nothing beyond the woman before her.

    still, brazen, viper manages a ghost of a smile.