BAD HABITS

his eyes narrow when he realises he’s going to be left behind – well as if jaeyoung could ever beat him when he’s walking at a grandpa’s pace – so he starts shifting his crutches in order to catch up. it annoys him when his body refuses to do what his mind is set on to do, always has annoyed him but this time around he couldn’t even look graceful doing it.

at least with football he made the passes look beautiful but this? this race is a mess.

he realizes the exact moment his crutches hit the floor at a fatal angle.

“FUCK—”

and the crutches slip sideways, his weight going with them. one goes sliding behind him with a clatter, the other still clutched in his working hand. he pitches forward, catching his fall with his face, seeing actual stars and is that—is that blood coming out of his nose? he lies there, groaning. the embarrassment kicks in a second later. 

nothing matters, perhaps, but the teetering moronic greeting he offers her.

uh. hey. christ.

jaeyoung can’t be faulted, krystal knows this well; the situation painted unsavory for him more than anything—and though krystal wanted to find complacence in it, in which she’s at the least retained all working limbs in comparison the university student finds—with sinking disappointment and mounting frustration—the beating organ within her chest twisting disgustingly with concern. 

“hey.” she utters, lips pursed as her gaze travels, lingering on features that’d grown blurry over the years (but strikes her now, unforgiving in the nostalgia it brings) before lowering to his cast. it takes a few seconds before she decides to speak again, words curbed with bemusement and just a bit of something else.

“so.”

ugly pause. 

“what are you doing back in seoul, anyway? thought you were off at harvard or something—ah, i guess you would've graduated by now.” he disrupts the small talk, the feigning at normalcy, with a short laugh, incredulous. “man, i really didn’t think i’d see you here.”

as in the coffee shop, but also ever. correction: ever again. her footsteps had sounded final the last time he’d heard them. he’s thought about another encounter in shallow depth, what he might say to her, what she might say to him, what things might fly pass unsaid. immediately after graduation, he’d thought about calling her, holding her accountable for everything she’d put him so willingly through. the certainty that he’d make a mess of it had held him back. probably a good thing. what ifs don’t sit well with him.

the incision she’d made before she left, the question mark branded in: the memory isn’t wrenching, the edges worn not by handling but longevity. his resentment had peaked and ebbed. there’s nothing of it revived again by looking at her now, virtually unchanged. the constriction of his chest is a subtle ache, a kind of nostalgia. he recalls high school like it was a different century entirely, equal parts dire and trivial. but even so, his mental gymnastics funnel down into a simple mantra.

somehow, she manages like this, shoulder digging into his torso when an inkling of relief sinks in and his bodyweight seems to bear down on her quicker than she’d like. she’s got an arm around his waist, terror-stricken eyes only widening in size when they search his face and realize that this, true to instinct, was no dream at all.

he looks at her; one heartbeat, two. recognition doesn’t come. it doesn’t come and he’s thinking—what, what the fuck just happened? (the bottle that turned into six, eight and ten. beer instead of liquor, because limits need to be hardwired for him and he’s fooled himself into believing that safety nets come in percentages.) 

he rolls to the side, back hitting pavement. the streetlight above hangs bright and open and pouring, like a hole bored through the door of a dark room. he closes his eyes and thinks with the taste of delirium in his mouth that it’s the sun, the residual glow unbearable. he turns again, too quickly and too soon.

“the fuck,” he wheezes, voice hoarse and biting. “the fuck you think you’re doing?”

there is nothing pious about the supplication of his folded body, hands and knees, heaving up nothing. cold air cuts through the column of his throat and he chokes it down, the curve of his spine undone by a heavy shudder. he settles a sideways glance at her, then stands with a bottom-weighted stagger, limbs impossibly heavy. a hand lifts to wipe his mouth, eyes narrowed.

eat pizza bites while they’re hot OR wait for them to cool

come to a complete stop at stop signs OR do a california roll

set their alarm clock for the time they actually will wake up OR set it early and hit snooze a bunch

fall asleep on their phone/laptop OR stop using electronics an hour before bedtime

floss twice a day OR only floss the week before they go to the dentist OR neither

hold their jacket in their lap until everyone is boarded OR put it into the overhead compartment right away OR smooshes it behind him tbh

run straight into the ocean OR slowly let their body adjust to cold water

run marathons OR marathon TV shows OR lack the attention span for either

consider french fries to count as a veggie OR make sure they have something green on their plate (vegetables r delicious)

“ow, ow—”

“will you— stop moving so much—”