UNCHARTED

a few starters - ice breakers (x) — still accepting(?).

there’s a momentary lapse of judgment, and the words ‘are you talking to me?’ almost tumble out of his lips in genuine bewilderment. he’s shooting surreptitious glances around him to make sure the question is his to answer despite the fact that she’s staring right at him.

“uh.”

jesus christ. 

“your…” clears his throat to expel the unbidden nerves, and he’s tilting slightly to the side to quickly peek at the group of tittering girls behind her in the distance, before straightening up, eyes resolutely fixated on her shoulder because holy shit. is this still a thing?

“your friends?" 

this has to be a joke. 

she’s nothing less than downright gorgeous, so it feels incredibly ridiculous that she, and her friends, need any kind of affirmation on how, uh, aesthetically pleasing she is to the eyes from some random guy in the mall but—

"definitely.” it’s a clear response, but he’s reattaching his gaze to the rack of sweaters he’d been sifting through before, embarrassing flush blooming across the tanned skin of his neck, “you can tell your friends i think you look—"  

awkward pause.

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a few starters - ice breakers (x) — still accepting(?).

there’s a faint trace of a familiar scent that placates him on impulse; taehyung recognizes her like this first, and then by the mellow voice that speaks, gentle even with the blatant sarcasm twined in her words. he straightens up with a jerk, callous fingers flitting against the corners of his eyes and sifting through black locks, a hasty attempt to look like he hadn’t been on the verge of a nap in a public cafe; knows the dark circles and heavy lids give him away regardless. 

he’s grinning anyway, gravel voice muttering a slow, “you talkin’ to me, soo?” raised eyebrows following up with mock confidence. his hand skitters across the table to curl against a petite wrist, an accustomed need to touch. pleased would be an understatement, and he’s raking in the lines of her face then, finding comfort in simple company. it comes to him easy here, with her, as if they’ve winded back in time.

alright alright alright so what the fuck was he on?  adrenaline? something a little deeper, a little rougher? not in his chest but in his head? blurring out his thoughts and blurring his sense? jesus does this kid even have any sense?

people would ask when kihyun challenged a junior twice his size freshman year. what the fuck is this child on? people would question his mother as he ran around the house, endless energy and destructive digits. it’s always the same. his friends were a little more raw in their questioning, leaving no part of his pride untouched. feelings were nonexistent. onlookers and family friends were probably more tight lipped and wearing it on their sleeve. etiquette and connections were very much a thing. his mother? she tried. smiled small, spoke small and even reacted small but it always translated the same. what the fuck is wrong with him? 

……hell if he knew.

“what? am I not speaking korean? am I not making sense? are you a fucking parrot?”

he expects his answers, he expects this to go relatively easy and he expects the truth. he’s not guaranteed it by any means and this false entitlement is the first step he takes downhill. the truth in this situation should silence his concealed fears but these words, these responses from the male before him alternatively build up a coil around his chest. 

there are telltale signs of submission. universal body language that should quell the burn in his chest but it’s not stemming from fear. it’s not stemming from caution. irritation can only burn so freely that it starts to consume rationale. kihyun doesn’t see the hands raised in gentle surrender, he sees the sharp edges of the words aimed at him. his hair stands on his skin, his stomach lurches everything is yellow and red and he’s burning. so when the male dumps out his pockets kihyun’s dumping out all reason.

“waaaaaaaaaaah,” he starts again and this time he’s moving in succession with words dragging out like a broken dial tone. “you’re really good at this aren’t you? what. where were you going? the drugstore down the street? or maybe you were heading home? down here?” he’s laughing. it’s strained and broken. lonely in how unused it sounds. “yah, you know who lives down here? people that’d tear you apart. I’m trying to do both of us a favor. you think I’m dumb or somethin’?” he doesn’t walk past the male and he doesn’t get too close but his foot steps on a bill and he knows he’s crossed acceptable territory. he knows he’s testing, taunting, doing everything he can to prove himself right because that’s all he has now. kihyun doesn’t have time to take back the accusation. he doesn’t have enough space in his mind to double it back and let the traffic build up so he surges forward instead.

“yeah go, go the other way and stay the fuck out my way.”

for a second, he hears nothing but piercing tinnitus in his ears. the boy speaks. he can see the rapid succession of muted words, moving lips, and the turbulence that lines his face. taehyung blinks slow, throws an inexpressive glance to the dimming sky, amber glow of a setting sun that steadily coats the city. it lights up the vivid orange strands of this boy's hair, a soft inferno, and he's briefly distracted here. just for a second. it’s enough to keep him grounded. 

the laugh filters in first, broken sounding, and he's wiping a palm down the side of his face, right over his ear when the ringing finally fades away, too soon. he feels the brunt of his last few words then; of the foot that steps on his bill, insulting, testing. 

anything he says now to justify himself wouldn't work here. not with this guy. he's got answers, but nothing to be heard. it's easier keeping it in. he doesn't owe him a second of his time. thinks of all his fleeting one-sided conversations, grating repetitions of words for him to hear, to accept, soundlessly. they didn't mean anything anyway. 

he could walk away, but it's never that simple.

"hey," he says, finally, quiet as he steps in front of him, blocking his path, "i'm walking this way too," steady gaze, jaded voice, he's jabbing a thumb behind him. "don't tell me what to do." 

a few starters - ice breakers (x) — still accepting.

alright, she looks young. could pass off as a freshman in college. it's cool. she could be busy. even if she's not, it's cool; it's an unfamiliar neighborhood but there's a discernible aura about the place that makes it seem somewhat questionable. his existence itself is questionable, so, yeah, alright, he doesn't entirely blame her for the brusque disregard - 

but the fact of the matter is, his bladder is in a bit of a dilemma. well nigh on the verge of complete disaster actually, and he's literally a solid three minutes away from pissing right in his pants (subsequently dying a slow, embarrassing death), so, for the love of all that is holy - "please," taehyung starts, sounding oddly constipated, gritted teeth. a pause then as he adjusts himself against the pole of a bus stop, legs coiled tightly around each other in a feeble attempt to delay the imminent eruption.

a few starters - ice breakers (x) — still accepting.

her voice rings clear, distinct even through the muffled line. the phone digs into the curve of his ear, cold against flesh. he feels warm. 

it’s been a year, perhaps more, but she knows. she knows this voice. 

“it’s me,” taehyung says, finally, something vague in his expression, awkward in the way his lips quirk, like he’s forgotten how to smile. he’s got something to say, a whirlwind of unspoken thoughts; knows eunji likes words and soft honesty. he thinks of the whispers he’d echoed to the fissured ceiling of his cell last night, a bare stream of consciousness. they flicker in his head now, lost easily in the deafening cadence of his pulse. 

“i know it’s too early for this right now but,” taehyung starts, exhaling once to expel sudden, unbidden timidity, “i just -” a finger taps quietly, between the gaps of faded buttons, a nervous tic. 

it’s not nearly as petrifying now as it was in highschool, freshman year; sweet citrus dissolved between teeth and quiet confessions, under the shade of a clementine tree, pinkies tangled. it brings him back just the same, knows a tinge of red still marks up to the tip of his ears as he speaks, quiet but firm. 

( @lachrymals )

paranoia is for the weak. paranoia is for the weak. paranoia is for the weak.

whoever told kihyun repeating the phrase would make him stronger had fed him a load of bull. he didn’t feel weak, he felt threatened. anyone could feel threatened. the king of the hill on the playground felt threatened when someone came near his domain. too close. too ambitious. he’s not weak for the nagging in the back of his head, for the red across his eyes when he turns around every two seconds. he’s paranoid and he’s not weak. he’s not scared. why should he be? kihyun’s all teeth-bared, fist clenched and body ready to fling itself at danger as if he could swallow it. he’s not scared. he’s not weak. this guy is following him and he’s tired of it.

“y’think I’m stupid or somethin’? ya been riding my ass for the past five blocks.” people don’t just cross into this territory. they’re not exactly invited either. they show the scars of the streets, the roughness of a walk that proves a wrong move could someone’s last. he walks with confidence because no one is stupid enough to wear false masks but cautious enough that his hands haven’t left his pockets since. he knows this area, knows his reputation and it’s stopped him in his tracks, eyes boring into the culprit.

“d’ya even know where you are? people don’t just wander into this area yeah? ‘s why I took a detour.” a pain in the ass it was too. his hands keep purchase in his pockets though the smooth surface of the lighter doesn’t calm his nerves. he’s not nervous! he’s not he’s not he’s not. the mantra doesn’t do shit either. usually kihyun wears nonchalance like it was made for him like everyone else is poor copy. expressive as he is it’s unusual to find him so expressionless. fire burns when he addresses the male again, dying into a cool burn in his gaze that’s not leaving anytime soon. paranoia is for the weak and he won’t be played for such.

“so who sent you?” he’s not moving, he’s ending it.

“the fuck are you on about?” it comes out rough, a little exasperated when he turns back around to look at him. his hands are out of his pockets, bare, an indirect admission of peace. he means no harm.

the persistence is astounding, but he knows this demeanor. feels the thrum of preceding belligerence in his bones still; of aggressive incursion spurred by something as inconsequential as a glance. it’d be a lie to say he’s not panicked, it sparks a build up of harrowing anxiety that brings back unhinged memories. but subsisting on prison grounds has taught him how to keep his footing on the field, how to feign confidence and brawn even if he feels like drowning. he’s etched that callous modus operandi onto the back of his hand - knows how it starts, knows how it ends, and everything in between.

“who sent me?” he wants to laugh, but it dissipates in the back of his throat just as soon. stunned is probably an understatement. a moment to hazard a guess; he wonders briefly, what kind of life you’d have to lead to utter those exact words, and comes up empty handed.

“no one, jesus christ - the fuck am i being interrogated for?” seriously, who is this guy? his hands are still, eyes an easy gaze despite the frustration that outwardly lines his body. “what, you want to pat me down too now?  here -” rough fingers flit inside loose pockets then, swiftly emptying them onto pavement. it’s a messy tangle of used tissues, crumpled receipts, a lone bill, and a half-eaten samgak-gimbap still in its wrapper. it’s with dismal realization taehyung notes he’s got half a mind to pick up the unfinished snack, and it’s probably a mark of some fucked up, he-man, overbearing egotism that he can’t bring himself to bend down and reach for the damn thing again -

a few starters - ice breakers (x) — still accepting.

his feet graze to a slow stop against gravel. there’s a puzzling pause as taehyung stares back at the dark haired boy, an uncomfortable shift in his stance. swivels once, a quick glance to affirm that the accusation’s been directed at him, and then right back at him when he spots no one else. “me?” the corners of his lips twist into a frown. it’s an earnest inquiry. he should probably be offended, called out for stalking so blatantly out in public - but to be fair to the pint-sized kid, the similarity of their paths so far has been verging on the edge of perturbing. and it’s with embarrassing coincidence that taehyung realizes he’s also a hair’s breadth away from looking like a vagrant beggar; laziness on an off day is a disease he’s yet to amend. the boy’s made a solid assumption, he surmises quick enough, but it doesn’t make him feel any less bitter about it though.

“no, i’m not,” he’s pushing the hood of his jacket off then, softening the knot in his eyebrows in an attempt to look a little less questionable, “we’re just headed in the same direction, man.“ 

a few starters - ice breakers (x) — still accepting.

holy fuck.

hunched in a half-squat, unlit room, he catches hoseok’s looming, overshadowed head shift into view by the door frame. there’s a click, eerie in the silence, and the bulb overhead flickers in delay before basking the room in a dimmed, golden glow. he can only stare, frozen, surrounded by a miniature lego world, partially ravaged because he’d tripped and nose dived straight into a castle the second he’d entered the room - he’s gotta be bleeding somewhere.

“wait, hyung, it’s me,” pushes his hoodie off his head, wide eyes, elbow clumsily knocking into a bridge as innocent mini lego men and horses tumble to death, “i was just looking for the bathroom and - motherfuck -”

- steps on a lego.

a few starters - ice breakers (x) — still accepting.

“no, it -” wasn’t a ghost, is the preferred response, but there’s an inconvenient quiver in his voice that quells his following words. he knows what this looks like; sprawled out on his ass, right on the curb, hand a vice-like grip against his chest, heart hammering in the aftermath of a blurred scare. he’d seen the iridescent glinting of eyes, body shrouded in darkness, and misapprehended it as something else - which, alright, in his defense, the stray hound had been on a platform of some sort, gave it the demeanor of something akin to the size of a fucking lion -  

“wasn’t a ghost.” taehyung finishes lamely, ending with an embarrassingly high-toned inflection. fucking get it together. he straightens up to his feet, clearing his throat, “wasn’t a ghost,” repeats, deeper now, as if dropping his voice could bring back his lost virility  - makes him sound more imbecilic, if anything.