life is a game.

The day sees you go about it as usual, leisure as any Tuesday could be. Through midday, you receive a call. The number is unknown but something compells you to pick it up and place it to your ear. The man on the other end enthusiastically exclaims your name. “Jeon Noeul!” His breath is labored over the other end, and a laugh cuts through the receiver. “That little problem of yours … that guy? Consider it … taken care of.” A clicking noise akin to a revolver muffled in the background. “Remember this: you fucking owe me one.” The other end clicks again. Then silence. The next sound that emerges from the receiver is a different voice: Every wish comes at a price.

The muddled sounds find clarity–it’s a voice of an unknown man, the sound of a gun, the words of murder and a threat that only crashes against his ears; he can’t make sense of what’s happening, can’t make sense of this, of anything. One moment the man has been in coma since years, and the next–

he’s dead, he tells himself, he’s dead–he’s killed a man, and he doesn’t have to move past that realization for his father’s shadow to wash over him; it feels cool, completely in his head but so real, so heavy; his shoulders curve and he stares, eyes still wide, breaths still paused, brim with a heat that forces his lungs to expand, to inhale. Of course he’s wished for this, for the only person who knew about what he’d done to finally find peace in heaven or hell, or wherever people who engage in illegal gambling activities go. 

Still, Noeul never thought it’d happen this way: with a stranger showing up and ending someone’s life. And while it wasn’t Noeul who pulled the trigger, it feels as though this is all his fault: he has killed someone, he’s no better than his father; he’s just as cold, just as deadly, and even his hands feel distant, foreign, as though he’s changing in the aftermath.

Maybe this is what a murderer feels like, he thinks: cold hands, quivering lips, eyes that sting with tears, little pricks of guilt and confusion and that inevitable sense of doom. He’s wished for this, he reminds himself, and finally finds his voice to answer. When he opens his mouth, the line clicks dead already and Noeul is left staring at the wall, at the window, at the way the sky is clouded by a blank sheet of gray, grim and ugly. 

He should be glad, he reminds himself, and yet he isn’t sure of what he seeks anymore, whether mercy or forgiveness, whether an opportunity to have a different outcome. He can only hope the threat was nothing but empty words. 

( ... )

He looked like he fit on this little island too well, born and raised on sunny beaches and hot summers and fun filled festivals like the one they were currently at. He was also…so friendly. Too friendly. Despite having been on the island for months, Soohyun could never get used to the easy kindness and no strings attached friendliness of his new neighbors. 

“I’m Soohyun,” he says quietly, more like a breath of air leaving his lips than words spoken. He should be more trusting he thought. It wouldn’t hurt to share a name. Or some time. He glanced at Noeul’s face one more time, at the easy smile, the way his laughter sounds kind rather than demeaning. 

“I’m not very good company during these types of things. I’m not…very useful.”

“You’re right, I am. Born and raised on this boring ass island.” he confirmed as he leaned forward against the railing, nodded his head, and fit his chin right on top of his palm. The gravity of the situation finally sunk in, added weight to his smile, made him realize that he was going to be spending the day with a complete stranger, spending time he didn’t usually have, time he should be using towards improving his fencing skills for the upcoming tournament. 

But one look back at those big eyes left him restless, almost mesmerized; it wasn’t handsome qualities that drew him in or painted the situation as more attractive, a pallid fantasy, but something else, a connection, the tug and pull of destiny.

It was exaggeration, of course, but it didn’t stop the beat tremors that unfurled down his neck, that gathered at the base of his spine; that made him feel an odd sense of excitement at the same time as curiousity, that made him wonder about small things, like why someone would bother migrating to this strange island and abandon their former place. 

Though Noeul’s thoughts were flimsy, breaking under the remark that had his brows shoot up. “Not true at all,” he began, pushing himself away from where he was leaning against. "You have two eyes and you have two legs. You can walk around and see everything. I think you’re plenty useful.”

gswyongsoo!​

( ... )

“Did you miss uncle?” The correct answer would be yes, and in reward, he’d offer Noeul his favorite treat. At least back in the day, that’s what he would have done. Now he didn’t wait for an answer and just gave the kid what he brought. “Still warm.” The woman who ran the bakery was middle-aged when he first started going there, now, she was a grandma who was still quite fit for her age. The red bean buns still tasted the same, because she insisted on her son not changing any of the recipes. 

History always seemed to find a way to catch up, leaving clues that would ensure it would never be forgotten, no matter how much people tried to block it out of their minds. It often manifested in form of memories or a specific item, but in Noeul's case, his history appeared in front of him, very much alive and very much irritating. Uncle Yongsoo represented Noeul's own hell, from childhood recollections to behaviors he had long since abandoned. Yet, with him around, everything he attempted to ignore returned and increased with each visit. 

From red bean buns to hair ruffling, he disliked everything. 

“I’m twenty-seven years old. Not seven.” he reminded him, almost grouchily so, even if the scent of the fresh food did tickle his nostrils pleasantly. Still, a dreadful hue of nostalgia tinged the scent, and it was his pride that prevented him from showing actual joy; sometimes he did miss eating those, and sometimes he did miss the times when he was able to run around and climb on trees and be saved by dear uncle whenever he was in any sort of trouble, too. 

But he was not the kind to indulge in nostalgic thoughts or pine for things that were long gone. Even his childhood, much like everything and everyone in his life, had an expiration date. He wondered when Yongsoo’s would lapse. “Anyway, what are you doing here, Mr. Hero? Don’t you have fires to extinguish? People to save? Ladies to charm?” 

gswharang​!

( ... )

Noeul’s still standing there though, like they might’ve made plans to meet at the mouth of the orchard for Harang to buy his used laptop. They hadn’t though, which Harang takes to mean that Noeul’s either bored or hoping to looking to use him as a distraction for whatever life problem he’s currently avoiding. He could be wrong, it’s been two years, but Noeul’s done nothing to tell him otherwise so Harang continues assuming. 

“Keep standing there staring and you’ll be the one getting sick.” Only, the way Harang says it makes it sounds like he hopes it’ll happen. Steps around him and into the orchard, mostly because he thinks Noeul won’t willingly follow him in. 

And anyway, he has nowhere else to be.

Spending time with Harang, overall, feels like a transaction; a give and take of something subtle, lower than sounds, quieter than thoughts. It treads on silent steps and winds around him–the clutch of stress that has a tight grip on his heart, his throat, the line of his ribs. It makes breathing hard at times, makes it impossible in others; it is the honeyed mixture of nostalgia and hesitation, something that once tasted sweet, almost sugared, but feels like poison in his blood now.

He didn’t plan on spending a night in the orchard with Harang and that snarky, overly dramatic attitude Noeul thinks he’s long gotten used to, yet begins to find annoying at times like these–at times where danger is looming, someone unknown hiding in the shadows of the trees. “Listen, I’m not here to start an argument with you.” Noeul’s voice is surprisingly faint, soon lowered to silence. 

Worry twists his features as he watches Harang disappear into the depths of the orchard, pulling his brows tight together, his lips into a frown. He’s already sifting through his head, going over the names of hospitals he knows on the map, other ones he’s heard about from when he first landed in one. Because a terrible, terrible feeling keeps clutching at his heart, as though something horrible is bound to happen. 

Perhaps it’s his own fear that has him overthink everything, has him follow Harang, out of sheer instinct to make sure nothing will happen to him, of course. It is one thing to be kind and it is another to be reckless. Noeul is the latter with only speckled bits of the former. “It’s not safe tonight, Harang.” He speaks again, this time louder, walking two or three steps behind him with his eyes flitting from side to side, examining, observing. Noeul knows he’s tired, it makes sense that he might be seeing things, can be imagining faces where they aren’t. But one part of him is painfully sober and aware, and he’s sure he’s not making things up. 

yiminggsw​!

( ... )

“It’s healed, I swear.” He told Noeul when the other was close enough for him to touch a hand to the other’s nose. “No scar left behind whatsoever - you are still pretty.” Yiming didn’t know how to comfort people properly, so he typically chose the method of distraction.

Scooting over, he gave Noeul space in case the other wanted to get in. He was pretty sure that was why the man was here. Only he wasn’t sure what the other wanted next. See, their relationship was really complicated and difficult to explain. He supposed it would be called semi-friendly housemates who occasionally had sex or the casual attempt at co-habitation of a gambler and an ex-mafia.

The mystical mechanisms of the heart remained foreign to the curiosity of the restless boy wandering down eerie hallways of a much too large mansion, no matter how many times he had stubbornly spent all attempts at unraveling; thread by thread and knot by knot, its myriads of secrets. 

Some may have claimed that the heart could never be truly comprehended by the rational mind and Noeul would normally be prone to agreeing. But ever since that outwordly incident, his mind began to shift, an unknown feeling began bundling up around his chest; sometimes clenching; sometimes clenching so hard he could barely breathe. 

He had given up trying to untie the knots of anything when his steps carried his body to the guest room that now belonged to Yiming. The night had aged to a murky dark, blanketed by a thick quiet. And it was comforting, hearing his voice, or perhaps Noeul was in need of hearing anyone’s voice. Anything to distract his head, a mind that was thinking too much. 

“It’s not the scar that’s bothering me.” he replied, voice stripped of bravado and its usual impish playfulness. Noeul was suddenly very introspected, very quiet, even as he slid under the duvets with Yiming and just laid there. “A detective was here. To question me about the attack.” A weak, fatigued chuckle. “But something tells me this guy is fishy. I feel like he’s got an eye on me,” and it scares me, because if he unravels all of my secrets, I’m left with nothing. “I don’t know what to do.” 

gswataru​!

( ... )

but, ataru sometimes couldn’t resist her curiosity- especially when there was no doubt that whoever helped her- sort of knew where she laid her head. she only started to regret her decision when the small buildings seemed scarce and trees became abundant. taru wasn’t even aware there were people that lived this high up the mountain. soon, the journalist was stepping out of her taxi with wide and very confused eyes. her gaze didn’t get to meddle much further since the gates opened to reveal a maid- one that seemed to be expecting her arrival. ‘you must be who we’re expecting- with a sincere thank you?’ the words caught her off guard a bit, “ah… yes.” just to say thank you? was she suppose to bring something? money? food? 

she followed quietly, not even hiding the fact she’d been scanning the place. 

Morning arrived in layered senses that settled over him like dust — first the light spilled in, crept over the floor, softened the shadows; then it was the sound that dangled in the air, one after the other, strung across the room like drying linen. Though it was the lack of warmth that finally pulled him from his dreams and placed him in the room, a bit grumpy, a bit perplexed. In front of him stood butler Claude, who informed him about the arrival of a young lady Noeul had not actually expected to come. 

He briefly recalled the situation: the sight of an inebriated woman wandering aimlessly, the part of his mind that believed she was to blame for exceeding her drinking limitations, and the sensible ration of his thinking that prevailed when he chose to help her get home safely. He remembered the letter he had left by her door on his way out, and as he quickly changed in black denim trousers and a white shirt, he concluded that she must have been either foolish or honorable for actually complying with his bold demand for a personal thank-you. 

But was it really egoism, was it really selfishness, if expressing appreciation for such a great gesture was a given? 

Confusion sweeps through him when a badge is presented, when he hears a voice he doesn’t recognize because Noeul has always done anything he can to prevent getting involved with those belonging to the police department. The sentiment speckles his expression, but he manages to muffle it under a masterfully crafted pokerface: he has to stay calm, no matter the reason a detective has decided to show up unannounced. 

Part of him wonders if this allowed, if any warrant is required to hold this conversation. Yet, he knows too little about law, doesn’t want to challenge the man in front of him and leave a bad impression, either. So he stands, and listens, and blinks away any thoughts about possible imprisonment when the detective continues to speak and exposes the purpose for his visit: the squid attack Noeul has been trying hard to erase from his memory. 

(At least, Noeul thinks, he’s not here to ask him about a prior occurrence, a secret he has guarded with his life.) 

A smile blooms, friendly, polite, a form of introduction. “Oh, you want to talk about that attack, huh?” he pauses, letting suspense collect in the brief silence, as though he’s suddenly in deep thought, mulling over the possibilities he’s presented with: shut the door in Detective Jang’s face and risk having him on his tail for the rest of his life, or acquiesce and talk. Noeul decides on the latter. 

“Sure, we can talk. But make it quick, I’m a busy man, as you may or may not know.” He steps forward, enough to have the door close behind him. Privacy purposes. “What’s the question? It must be pretty important if you traveled all the way up the hill at this hour to see me.” His tone is pampered with confidence; a synthetic openness is neatly wound around it, tightening for full, realistic splendor. 

minhyun-gsw​!

( ... )

“What’s your opinion on this very important matter? Or are you actually paying attention to the scary story?” Scary my ass, Hyun thought, but since he wasn’t paying attention maybe he was missing on something great.

His features twist into a bundle of disgust as he looks at the one thing the stranger next to him has pointed out–he can't fathom why this guy has even bothered pointed it out, something so grotesque that Noeul can no longer unsee it, even if he wishes he could. Whenever he tries to avert his gaze, it’s as though something keeps his eyes glued there, on that specific spot, and Noeul suddenly thinks that he hates his life;

He hates this moment. He hates the guy who’s ruined this already awfully boring situation he’s stuck. “Listen, I don’t know about you, but I actually don’t care what that thing is. It can be a parasite. Who knows.” 

His fingers itch to push himself up and get away from whatever this is, but he’s bound to his seat, his father’s words always echoing in the back of his head: something about the family’s image, how he cannot be responsible for having people talk about them and their unruly behavior. Noeul’s lips rub together, weight leaned onto his thighs by pressing his elbows into the clothed flesh. “I don’t think any of these stories are true, even if that giant ass squid soaring out of the sea was kind of impressive.” 

gswhyemi​!

( ... )

“deadpool’s here to save the day?!”

she has to shout to be heard over the music, arms instinctively clinging to who she can only assume is her saviour. her knight in shining…polyester? nonetheless, despite them also being a stranger she presumes they can’t be any worse than the creep she had just dealt with.

It isn’t always that he wears it–isn’t even common–but the evening has demanded he wears it, calls for him to channel his inner Deadpool with his professionally crafted costume, a treasure that has been given to him. And he imagines he is Wade Wilson, confident in his walk, carefree with his steps, a man with playfulness, little regard for any boundaries and the audacity to flaunt it. 

Not that Noeul has ever cared for any boundaries in his human and less superhero-y form. 

Even if the mask does feel a little uncomfortable, it enables him to witness the celebrations without having to interact with any of the island's people that he would prefer avoid. It doesn’t hinder him from receiving praises from girls and boys alike, though, making it easy to ignore the ones who choose to look at him weirdly. Anyone who stands out too much in this society is frowned upon, he knows by now. 

It isn’t until he witnesses the unpleasant sight of a familiar face being bothered by a man twice her size that he feels the need to be the antihero he’s supposed to be: interposing himself between the two and scaring the stranger away with threats, something about how the police will gladly take care of his nasty existence, before focusing on the woman he identifies as his acquaintance Hyemi. 

“Deadpool’s here to save the day, of course.” He remarks, loud enough for her to hear and lips curling into an impish smile. His arm wiggles, signaling she can now let go of it - the threat is gone, the area is safe. Seconds later he realizes she can’t see anything - his smile, his face, his identity, everything is invisible to her, to others. All she can see is a mask and a tight fitted suit–the thought excites him, makes him want to blanket himself in mystery further. 

After all, superheroes usually don’t reveal their identities.

gswharang​!

( ... )

It’s only when a set of footsteps start splitting the gravel that Harang blinks away white spots and doubled moons, hoists his weight up and balances it on his elbows. He can’t figure out his expression by the time time Noeul walks close enough to see it, but it feels like a frown. 

“Why’re you out here?” Harang asks like this forgotten patch of land is his to stake claim to. He tips his head back toward the trees jutting out from behind him, twisted boughs and wind whistling through the skinny gaps of space between them. Wishes twist and spiral on the twine knotted through them, most littering the outskirts. “What’d you do, make a wish and then think of a better one? Don’t think you’re allowed to change it.” 

The traditional lanterns cast a warm luminescence across the lively place and the base of the island is aflame with laughter and celebrations, songs sung by the island's eldest inhabitants as a way to keep up with the traditions Noeul always found rather laughable. It's a familiar scene, the happy faces underneath the starlit skies of the autumnal equinox, almost pathetic to see how they all pretend that everything is fine, that nothing feels out of place; that this whole celebration doesn't serve as a simple, but stupidly effective way to distract from the real problems starting to pile up around them. 

Not that Noeul cares. He never does. 

It's why he's turned his back to the joyous festivities and has wandered off in the night, distancing himself from everything he doesn't want to be part of. There is a barely audible sound coming from the haunted canopy of trees, the branches donning small notes with wishes written by people who believe their dreams will come true by jotting them down on a white paper. Laughable, Noeul thinks again, because dreams do not come true that way. 

Not that he cares. He never does. 

Still, there's this strange feeling looming, as though he's being followed by a stranger hiding in the shadows, or perhaps he’s surrounded by the spirits that are said to be wandering along the grounds. He can't tell if it's his mind that's playing games with him or if he's not consumed enough alcohol back then to make it through this festival sane. He can't tell anything, worry passes over his expression for a second, but it’s too fleeting, too light to settle. 

Instead, it flies away and takes with it each thing wrong when he finds a figure laying on the ground beneath the trees that sway with every breeze passing by. “Harang?” It's not a question, even if his voice makes it sound like one. He'd recognize him anywhere, Noeul is sure. “I should be asking what you are doing here.” A pause. Plush lips part so that an amused sound can slither past them. Suddenly the strange feeling that's curled around his limbs is forgotten, for now. “Did the floor of your apartment no longer excite you enough that you had to go and lay on the ground in the freaking forest?”

( ... )

"I might need a mirror.” Minjun bites his lip, scrutinizing the surrounding — or what he can see in this same darkness, eyes glancing over faces that surround them. In it, within this enclosure, it truly is just Noeul his eyes come back to; he ascribes this, too, to the fact he knows him.

And so it goes. Another down the line of list of decisions he is bound to regret the following morning, ad another he will try execute with the pop of a painkiller. He leans in, slowly — his lips awkwardly pressed against the younger cheek for a quick peck.

“Happy? I’ve only done it because you’re my friend.”

Social constructs matter little to a human known for proudly ignoring both the standards of their close minded society and the will of those orbiting in a world he views as his own game. His selfish desires always reverberate within him under the guise of brilliant little smiles and just the right words at the right time. He knows what he does, and he knows what he needs to say, and it always works the exact same way: he watches Minjun laugh, and he watches Minjun look at him as though he’s seen a ghost, all joy draining from his expression in the blink of an eye. 

Perhaps his alleged dare is infantile, more in line with party dares from college than the ones he's accustomed to. But he believes they need to start off small before they’ll delve further into the world he’s so eager to eventually show to the one person he may, in some odd and twisted and very undefinable way, consider a friend. The term is still foreign, a term in his vocabulary he can’t describe, but he’s noticed Minjun using it often. Noeul supposes the mirroring of actions and words is always an effective method to gather trust and show interest, even when none of it is actually there. 

He hums and grins, and raises both brows when he briefly feels Minjun’s lips on his cheek. As expected. Noel would have been disappointed if it were anyone else, and yet he knows of Minjun’s rather... tame lifestyle; a man who blindly follows what the Lord preaches. “You must actually be fifteen if you think I’m happy with a peck on the cheek. But I guess it’s a start.” The waiter has refilled their glasses and Noeul nudges Minjun’s in front of him, a subtle hint to tell him to drink. There’s still time, the night is young, and the real fun hasn’t even begun yet. 

His smile is that of a victorious devil, a smile that knows neither defeat nor loss. “You know, I noticed you often tend to call me that - a friend.” Noeul begins, idly starting to drum ring-clad fingers against the man’s arm, gliding them up and down, a leisure little gesture. “Why? Why do you see me as your friend?” 

gswharang​!

( ... )

There’s a hand, and that feels representative of something that Harang doesn’t have the mental capacity to figure out, finds himself eying at the gesture as Noeul talks. “If you start going real pitiful on me I absolutely will kick you out.” Harang’s less equipped to deal with sentimentality right now than he is for disruption and bravado. He eventually grabs at Noeul’s wrist, bypasses the curl of his fingers and digs blunted nails in at his skin for leverage on the way up. “Sleep somewhere that’s not in my bed though.” he decides, because he doesn’t want whatever this is to morph into an assumed hookup schedule. Harang yanks his hair out of the knotted up ponytail he’d been keeping it in, finds his bed in the far corner of the room and settles himself over the majority of the mattress preemptively, leg kicked out and facing the wall. 

“And turn off my light.”

It’s almost amazing, mostly shocking, at how easily they fit themselves into past roles, into habits and interactions that almost seem to be ingrained in their nature. It isn’t an uncomfortable cram, but a homely niche that welcomes Noeul as if it was only yesterday that they kissed for the first time and only today that they had their first fight. That tomorrow they’d wake up with more obsession than yesterday, less than the day after that. It feels like the simplest thing to give into this fantasy, a delusion weaved with delicate wishes, brittle thread that breaks quickly as reality rushes in. 

The past is in the past, even if a lot of things appear to be the same. 

There’s a small wince when he feels Harang’s nails dig into his skin, adding more pain to the already existing wounds. But he’s only grinning in return, because he’s long learned to simply let Harang talk, and only talk back when he feels the desire to stir him up even further. He watches him walk to his bed, the previous grin morphing into a faux contemplative purse of pillowy lips. “That’s a lie. If you wanted to kick me out, you’d have done it already.” 

There he winks, yawns, and stretches his arms above his head until he can feel his aching bones crack, small relief rushing in to replace the withering tension. He can feel the stretch down the length of his back; it curves harshly, a bold line against the illuminating moonlight that draws an equally muted exhale from him, exhausted. Turning, he stares at Harang’s figure tucked so neatly into his bed momentarily;

he’s hit with a pang of nostalgia. It feels weird against the cold night, indescribable; it’s such a familiar sight that he feels the need to avert his eyes and stare at the ceiling after he’s turned off the light and laid back down on the predestined place for him to sleep on: the couch. As much as a part of him does want to test the limits of how far he can go even now, Harang’s bed just mere steps away for him to lay on, he allows the opportunity to slip by.

Something tells him this isn’t the last time they’ll see each other again.