“jongin,” with shaky hands he thrusts the journal before him, mouth opening and closing for lack of words coming to mind. their propinquity has never been one based on small talk, so he shouldn’t be surprised that nothing’s coming out. “i figured you’ve been looking for this, ah.. i’m sorry to disturb you. i meant to give it back sooner but.. i lost track of time.”
The collapse is slow, but eventual, takes shape from the confusion in their eyes, the fear on the boy's breath; the way his hands, steady in their grip, tremble from within; not from fear nor anger, but a softened energy that threatens to escape, threatens to expose. Yet, the more it buds and swells, warms him, the more that Jongin feels the need to chase his elusive image; the ghost of who he has to be, the outline drawn by too many hands, a silhouette that doesn't wear well -- that he feels too small for. He's never wanted grandeur, though he aches for it.
Still, he feels the incoming demise in the way his thoughts slow, become abstract, like single notes stretched out too far and too thin; they become indescribable and terrifying, wild oceans that shake him, loosen his hold.
Yet, as always it seems, in the peak of disaster, a small voice appears, a calm face emerges.
Lu Han looks so different, no longer framed by pale light, no longer padded by silence. He looks small and weak, frail in a way that makes Jongin feel guilty -- this is the collision of the worlds he fights hard to separate, and here they spill into each other, bleed in a way that makes his knees weak. His hold falters; the boy in front of him lands on his feet but Jongin doesn't notice, he doesn't look at him, doesn't look at Lu Han. He fixes his gaze on the floor as he collects his clothing with quiet, careful spurts of movement. The nerves still populate his spine and the eyes on him grow heavy; he feels the pressure of visibility, something foreign. It tastes bitter.
He gathers his things, collects them with precision, though he knows that the seams of his person are coming apart; knows that, stitch by stitch, thread by thread, he himself is coming undone -- there's ridicule, there's sadness. There's a forced interaction between the snakes of his brothers -- now leering, curious -- and the person he, in some ways, longs to resemble -- a confused fixture in a strange place. And if he is to be bared, he does not want to do it here; the halls are too familiar; the environment unfriendly.
It's selfish that he causes so much pain here, but refuses to feel the same, a luxury he affords himself even now as he looks around. The pause is short, no longer than a breath, before that, too, collapses and his steps spring forward. He takes his journal in one hand, Lu Han's elbow in the other. His hold is firm, though his aim is not to hurt -- his aim speed, a quick and furtive escape from the shadow of this house and its demons.
His feet seem to race, and he imagines the world a blur -- a stream of color. It soothes him for only a moment; soon he's reached a destination, a short stretch of a hallway; a window looms near, the corner simmers in shadow. It's here, in a temporary privacy, a timed cloak, that Jongin allows himself to groan. It's here, in his company, that he lets himself feel the heaviness of a mistake. He falls to knees, though quickly sits back, lowers his head until his journal rests neatly against his hair.
The comfort of silence returns but it feels frail; as if a whisper could fracture it. And, against his better judgement, he punctures it with small, pointed syllables. They aren't sharp -- they aren't offensive -- but they aren't open, either. They're guarded, careful.
"Why would you go there to return it -- ?! I don't understand -- do you like being tormented? Exposing yourself to them?"
And he doesn't let on that the bundle of his chest, a heated tangle of words and emotion, is mostly embarrassment. Slytherin boys were easy to fool; those who weren't, were easy to persuade, to bend. They were iron, soft to the heat of anger. But Lu Han was on the other end of that spectrum -- Jongin didn't want to trick him, didn't want to pretend. Wanted to seem, for once, like a person able to exist without violence; without the constant thread of striking; without an imagined existence. He wanted to seem genuine. Still, he's exposed himself; this collapse, too, is eventual.
A breath escapes; he looks up, eyes nearly closed. “Did you look inside of it?”
