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Your cat? The cat’s better off on its own. You’re not thinking of your cat, you’re feeling sorry for yourself because you can’t protect the cat yourself. [ --- the words are coupled with a derisive chuckle and a touch of incredulousness, spending a whole minute listening to her petulant rant with disbelief written all over his face. that kind of childish self obsession is the reason he can’t honestly hold a serious conversation in this school. from what he hears, that cat is probably better off in the hands of satan himself than hers. the positive side of it, if there’s one, is that, now that he’s taken a proper glance, he recognizes her as that one girl from art club. pity she turned out to be such a self-absorbed pain in the ass, he did find her kind of cute when she had her mouth shut. ] I’ll take the fucking off alternative, sounds pretty decent. Have a ball getting yourself and your cat killed for the sake of your ego. [ --- he takes a full turn when he hears it. it’s ridiculous, he hadn’t heard any signs of approach, not any warning cry from wildlife -- or perhaps these hints had gone unnoticed in the face of miss suicidal doll face over there. when he turns his head, it’s already a pair of gaping dark holes on him, lurking behind trees. he stumbles backwards; it isn’t possible no one else around is seeing it. but the campus appears to be completely empty when he nervously scans the premises, safe from the girl from art club. ]
i... just realized i have been owing a starter and a reply for like two weeks now, fucking kill me i need a planner
(also i tried to reply everone, don’t know if i got the job covered, just really... angrily yell at/punch me if i didn’t message you, i am just very slow but i actually love you)
He’s got a big grin on his face, like it’s a joke only he can understand. Which wouldn’t be far from the truth, really -- the question comes out of nowhere. Well, it does crawl out of the gutter in which his mind has been constantly immersed the last few days.
He looks over his shoulders. The outdoors of the Amji Institute are looking closer to wastelands these days, students canned between walls for the better part of their day. They zig zag between the dorms and the main building, back and forth, from the infirmary to their rooms. They were reduced to ghosts.
He’s been trying to, but he can’t seem to find a problem in that. Everyone is scared. He is, too, he is not stupid enough not to be, but the collective paranoia and claustrophobic episodes can take its toll on the sanest of minds. It was probably not smart, but taking a breath of fresh air outside was doing him more good than nights spent on vigils. He realizes how much he’s been missing the open air, the track practices, running until his knees buckle from exhaustion. The lack of exercise might have left his brain oxygen deprived, because a fight sounds more like a good idea with each second he spends fixing Baekhyun with an expectant gaze.
All he wants is some action, some change, something.
(He had also devoured a whole package of M&Ms in an anxious frenzy half an hour ago, so it could be the sugar talking.)
A small, excited chuckle escapes his lips as he paces back into open space after giving Baekhyun’s chest a friendly shove. His arms open in invitation, in challenge, giving his own chest a tap. “Come on.”
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HE leans back, elbows propped on seats behind him, and sets his gaze across the field, where the remainders of the track team finish their course and start moving back to the locker rooms under an unforgiving afternoon sun. The bleachers provide a mild shield from sunlight, but the heat is pulsing under his skin, face flushed after multiple relays. He’d pushed himself beyond required, the coach actually having to shove him off the track after practice was over. His breath is still normalizing, enjoying the breeze to cool off.
His decelerating blood pressure, however, meets is rival in a pair of legs stretching out next to him and the subtle brush of an arm on his. Krystal Jung, second year, social studies department, is detrimental to his good health in more ways than one. She says it’s Krys, just Krys, and he takes the hint, light accent grazing over the phonems as they blend into his coloquial language. She is the owner of the most perfect face he thinks he’d ever laid his eyes upon face to face, and was gifted with a healthy amount of snark. She also has those legs, and the ability to make the hair on his nape stand with a mere touch. Hangyu is positive she knows, somewhere down there, of the effect she has on him, and he’s also quite confident she knows he knows she knows.
It’s less of a complicated situation than it would seem to an impartial observer. Between the (stares, exchanges, silences) two of them, it feels rather organic.
“Knock yourself out.” His foot nudges the bottle in her direction, comfortable enough to be rended unable to afford moving. There’s also curl at the corner of his lip, because he gets a moderate enjoyment of pissing her off. She just so happens to deserve it, a petulant side of him agrees, what with the sway of hair and sheer closeness, memory failing him when he tries to recall which of them had started it. Like it even mattered.
Krystal Jung, second year, social studies department, abuses her right to be attractive.
"Not at all,” he draws out, the flatness of his tone melting in a sugary lilt as he flashes her a matching smile. “I followed you to have another taste of your quick-witted humor. Just as fast as you are on the track.” He doesn’t meant to be a prick to her most of the time, but the urge is often too much of a temptation to resist. One of these days either of them is bound to push the wrong button, and their shared world of tepid teasing and ulterior motives will self-destruct with the softest of noises. Odds are that the honors would befall on him.
“Think the coach will finally send someone to detention some day for not following instructions?”
[ --- who the fuck is that girl? has she really just mentioned a “kitten”? he is not sure whether he’s supposed to feel offended by her poor employ of bravado, but he really isn’t leaning onto a positive answer. fuck yes, he is scared. he has yet to live a fulfilling life far away from this hell hole, and he will be damned if some obscure entity keeps him from that. she poses as courageous, but all hangyu can see is pathetic vapidness, and a target mark drawn on her distancing back. ] You’re really getting yourself killed over a cat? Sounds noble now, but that will make for a pretty stupid eulogy. [ --- the attitude is really something he could do without. hangyu is no knight in a shining armor, and if someone is stupid enough to put their neck on the line over an animal that is fast enough to run for its life, he would wish them good riddance. so he doesn’t understand why he’s marching towards her, legs moving out of their own righteous volition with which his brain isn’t catching up. his head gives him a clear command: turn back and let the girl get roasted. his body breaks the chain on thought, and he finds himself following her to reach for her arm. must be the insomnia talking when he speaks up, for all he knows. ] Think of your family and spare them the anguish or some shit, it’s a fucking cat. It runs, it’s fast. You’re most likely not. You’ll probably put it in more danger trying to save it.
[ -- he’s stressed out. tension built around him, in him, evident on stiff muscles and jaw sore from excessive clenching. he’s been out on a vigil the previous night, which really wasn’t a lot of effort, considering insomnia wouldn’t let him keep his eyes closed for over five seconds, and the lack of sleep is starting to make him twitchy. but what brings him to that realization now is the defensive glance he sends in the forest’s way from his dorm’s door. what he sees is a sign his mind is clearly playing tricks on him. what he sees is long hair waving as a girl approaches the woods with incomprehensible determination. the fuck. it is, quite literally, the last scene he would expect to witness these days, with the constant terrors related to the area being broadcasted left and right lately. he jumps down the couple steps separating him from the ground, frown creasing his forehead. ] Hey. Hey! [ --- it’s a firm shout, taking a couple hesitant steps in her direction. unlike her, he isn’t trying to get himself killed. ] What are you doing? Have you not been around the last couple days? It’s not safe in there -- it’s barely safe out here.
“Business is based on exchange. A good for a good, both parties have to be invested in the deal. If only one party commits out of their free will, then we’d moving to the grounds of charity, I suppose…”
It’s clearly a joke. So he smiles.
“And honestly, between the two of us, pal – I’m not the most charitable person out there.”
Make it the least painful you can. Give yourself a moment or two to read the question, lift a brow and read it again to make sure you didn’t miss anything (whatever it is that could be missed in five words, neatly lined on a paper), and whip out the pen. The question itself is a no-brainer, and you follow three simple steps to cross it out of your to-do list.
Fill out the identification form;
Check no, because of course you would, who are you trying to fool?;
Put:3.1. the paper in the ballot box;3.2. the thought out of your head for the rest of the day.
Congratulations. With a snap of a finger and minimal philosophical challenge, you tackled yet another mindless task of your day. Fine and dandy like an easy smile, like a cheap joke, like yourself.
And now – now what? Are you not satisfied? Do you really want to poke around and ponder, provoke thought? You want answers?
Answers?
You would, obviously, think you’re enlightened, entitled to self-knowledge like you have even fully grasped it as a concept.
Stupid kid.
Fine. Let’s run by the dossier, let’s make a case for the no you just marked on a whim.
You check no, because you’d rather like to a friend in need of help, your help, before you could even fathom facing unwanted confrontation.
Still not satisfied?
You check no, because lying is your hobby, a lie is a toy you like to play with, throw around and watch how it holds up under scrutiny. You like to watch how far it will go as long as you sell it well, how many paths it can cross before someone could piece it all back together.
You check no, because your father is desperate to make a case against his ex-wife, terrified of losing his child to misconstructed lies. He wants to file for integral custody, and your honest testimonial would greatly weigh things in his favor. He doesn’t know where to put his hands when he asks you those questions, hardly can look you in the eye. You say your mother doesn’t mention him much, and you dodge the subject. You can tell he know you’re lying, and the silence draws out between the two of you, elongating the distance all those missed birthdays and chuseoks had created in the first place.
No, let’s see the end of this.
You check no, and you don’t even spare a glance to the opposite alternative, because your mother was paranoid, she was a haunting shell of the woman you knew, splatters of wine mixed with droplets of blood, and the glass laid in shatters on the floor. Her head was in her tainted hands and she sobbed, she wailed, she bawled. You had never seen her that way before ( as a human, as a real person that exists beyond the tailored suits and impeccably arranged hair, or the silver sheen of a credit card ), and it terrified you. You took her in your arms and put her back to bed, because you didn’t know how to take care of people, but there was the faint calling of instinct stirred by the sight. She cried into your shirt, red staining the fabric, and asked you not to leave her, not for him, never for that vile, cheating bastard–You said of course, of course. Even then, you knew the decision belong to a judge in a court who would never hear about this moment right now, not to you.
You check no, because you’re not the type to mislead, you’re not one to cower behind lies to save your own neck. But you are the type to avoid. You know that, you don’t need it spelled out for you. Detached, careless, lazy. What do you call it, again – lucky? Scum. Whichever way is the easiest, whichever way is the quickest – as long as you don’t have any of the work on your hands.
Honesty is not as much of a policy for you as it is a practical solution. You are the blunt type, and some may believe you’d infallibly call it like it is, but your truth is too flawed, too defective, to be whole.
You check no because they made it easier for you to say the truth this time around.
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ooc:
i am CRYING i accidentally found his casual aesthetic........ only with black hair but still. alt & prog rock trash, PROBABLY STILL SAYS SHIT LIKE “GRUNGE NEVER DIED”. KID. YOU’RE A COUPLE DECADES LATE.
KKT; 🐍
--- what
--- oh wait brb laughing
--- you seriously think only one person in school would say that?
--- and that person would be me?
--- i’d hardly be against you having a little bit of anal fun, babe
--- might be just what the doctor ordered
❛ i hate myself a lot but i get offended when other people do ❜
@infsungyeol // source: closed.
THERE are many things to naturally hate about detention. It is a punishment by nature, it does often involve unsolicited labor, and he’s concentrating every fiber of his being not to mull over all the productive things he could be doing instead of scrubbing tableware. And that is why Hangyu prefers to focus on the positives.
To the downer debbies who would obejct to the possibility of a pro in detention, of all things, he would promptly say: get over yourself. Additionally, he would list a few examples, if he felt particularly kind. Namely: 1) a golden chance to steal some of the leftovers from dinner and grant himself a decent midnight snack; 2) a chance to walk around school past curfew and watch the night sky as he walks back to the dorm; and 3) talking to new people.
Not that he’s the type to be particularly interested in people (other than himself), but he does enjoy a break from the same faces, same speeches repeating themselves every other day of the week. And it’s always an opportunity to find the less uptight among the bunch,
Case in point: Lee Sungyeol, his dish washing company for the evening. Pretty Alright Guy extraordinaire, as far the night had gone thus far. Third year (sunbae, Hangyu begrudgingly takes note). Track team, a fact that stirred a brief exclamation of surprise out of him. He wondered for about five seconds why they had never talked while being part of the same sports team, but Hangyu is reminded of how little he cares about anything related to track other than running. Sungyeol must have slipped right past him, along with most of the other names in the team.
“Tough break there.” He's chuckling, gaze down at his gloved hands as they work on a batch of bowls cluttered within the sink. "But, huh. I wouldn’t say you’re the single supporter of that philosophy.” Sungyeol stands next to him, both left in charge of most of the dishes, with the kitchen aids sneaking out through the back door to have their hard earned smoke.
“Have a look around this school. If i’s not filled with people exactly like that, only less self aware, then I don’t know.” Stacking the rinsed bowls up and sliding them to the side with overly practiced ease, he takes a break to heave a sigh, squinting as he tosses his bangs away from his eyes, hands on the edge of the sink. “I’d easily say this place demands more self love and less pettiness.”
RAZOR sharp, the only flavor he’s known Boreum to come in. She looks a particular brand of beautiful as she runs her blade across his neck, breathing viciousness into banality. It’s fun as always, toying with her set of weapons and seeing which ones will miss, and which will hit. And he would say she doesn’t really mean it when it nails right on the bull’s eye, but he doesn’t see the point in lying to himself.
It’s fun, partly because it’s the only authenticity he gets out of her.
“It comes with the package, you know that.” The retort comes complete with a lifted brow, and a curled lip, adding shape to the brightness of his face.
And then -- well, it’s curious because he’s actually a shameless starer. Has always been, and has heard his share of hushed chastisements from grownups, enough to strip the childish innocence away from the habit only to replace it with an almost nefarious kind of interest. He has learned the way people shift and twist and break apart before a pair of eyes, knows how intrusive and powerful such a simple act can be.
But, right now, faced with perfectly sculpted cheekbones and eyes tainted with dark in more ways than one, it’s quite the chore to hold her gaze when she makes him the offer.
Yet, he never relents. It’s a battle, it always is with Boreum, and he didn’t come unprepared. The path he’d trailed from the classroom to their meeting spot was dedicated to the hasty manufacturing of a plan, a set of measures to take before taking the fall.
He readies, sets, and hits. The first excuse. Preliminary defense, a strategical move to dodge and delay. The only goal set in his mind right now is avoid.
“I’m actually off season right now.” He has two jobs lined up, and three currently in progress somewhere on his desk among the accumulating books and clothing pieces. No stutters, no side glances -- he’s focused on selling his story, and not making it out to seem as flimsy as it is. “Second year is not as much of the breeze I saw last year. Go figure. Sorry, though.”
He counts on that to stick, which is an unpracticed effort. He wouldn’t usually bet on sheer, dumb luck when there are stakes.
FEW things can instantly spread that sensation of discomfort on Hangyu like the notification flashing on his phone screen. He’s not exactly the type to busy his mind with mindless worries, or conceive possibilities of events yet to unfold, but there are exceptions to every rule. This is no simple case of foreboding; he has conjured an entire set of evidence strongly suggesting he should be readying himself for a talk he’d rather avoid.
It’s a simple text, when he reads it. Innocuous as the messages piling on his inbox will get. A straightforward request to meet up, sparingly worded. But the sender is what propels the situation into delicate territory, which is definitely more sobriety than expected for a contact name that’s only a snake figure.
Something about the oxymoronic trail of thought puts a smile on his face.
A moment of honesty: Hangyu would rather do a number of universally unpleasant things (dying not excluded) before he meets with Boreum under the current circumstances. The message, the timing (his teachers have also begun scheduling the bigger assignments), the history. He knows exactly where this is going, doesn’t need a compass to see an inch ahead of his nose -- and he hates it.
He’s still making his way to the narrow alleyway behind the gardens. Running a few minutes late, possibly, but he’s rarely ever on time. The words of his father ring somewhere in the back of his head. Frozen accounts, mass firing. They got a massive lawsuit on them. He’d rarely seen the man that worked up about a single case, the age marks he had on him seeming infinitely denser as Hangyu sat across from him on his office.
Boreum is there, as expected. Gorgeous and blonde as he remembers, and a frown that seems dangerously worse than the one she sports on a daily basis. It reads, approach with caution.
Hangyu is not much of a reader.
“Oh, yikes. You really should work on that greeting face of yours.” He feigns a shiver, but he grins, torso swaying slightly as he leans close, teasing. “I’m sure you’ve heard of a smile. How about putting that theory to practice, princess?”
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AS far as customer service goes, Hangyu believes it’s fair to say, from personal experience, the syndicate scores a less than impressive two stars. Two lost for violence, and one for tackiness.
The table was bubbling with life, white hot, he’d lucked out with his seat. He’d been keeping tabs on the cards for the past eight rounds, playing his part in the usual coy game as he counted every hit down to the jackpot, calculating the odds to land wins. The dealer announced his sixth win, three consecutives, and the hint of a raised brow almost cools down his heated ego. But yet another wave of cheers riding down the table when the money is passed to his stack, enough of a distraction to have him containing the smirk edging his lips with practiced ease and a shrug.
Must be his lucky night.
The last flash of the glorious scene disappears in a bat of his eye, replaced by sudden absence. In every sense of the word -- absence of light (darkness all around); absence of sound (his pulse racing to drone out every other noise in his ears); absence of air (he’s suffocating). His body is yanked backwards, and he floats for a couple seconds until his feet land on a ground, shuffling awkwardly as he is roughly guided to move, hands bound together behind his back.
Calculations are no longer needed to tell he must be in deep shit. He doesn’t full on nervous-laughs because the air within the space of the bag pulled over his head is a limited resource.
A list of things he can currently sense, in no particular order:
one. chilly, whistling wind characteristic of the open night prickling his skin;
two. bushes grazing against his shins as he is shoved down his path;
three. the sense of dread, cool against the pit of his stomach, growing proportionally to the continuity of the grunt’s silence.
Stopping feels worse than moving, a wince flashing under his guide as everything pauses. When the bag is lifted, he catches a glimpse of flaxen hair, glowing in moonlight shower, a picture in slow motion to his blurred sight. He takes his first breath, and everything crashes back in full speed. His wrists rut against the tree, against one another, against his spine, and she drives a knee further up against the pit of his stomach.
He is guessing he rose some suspicion back on the table.
“Ok, for fuck’s sakes, I get it,” he mouths blindly, squinting to catch the face behind the mop of pale hair with little success. His words barely hold their shape, thinning out into a grunt. “No need to kick a goddamn hole through my chest.”
His lungs empty out in a cough, the pressure on his diaphragm making it difficult to draw air back in. In retrospect, passing one or two round back at the table wouldn’t kill him any sooner than this.
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