out of bounds

"right... now that i think about it, you were hot last time i saw you, too." she rubs her lips together, unable to keep the nervous laugh from escaping them (she can't believe she just willingly referenced the closet debacle of a century that she still thinks about to this day in embarrassed agony). (it must be the alcohol, and not his grin, his silent laugh).

there's a part of her still reeling from the words coming out of her own mouth when the world shifts faster than usual. her lashes flutter in a quick rhythm when he tilts her direction and then his cool skin is laid across her scorching forehead. her entire body goes completely rigid like he was headlights and it triggered her shut down response. her lips turned down in a surprised frown.

they were locked in a room together for at least an hour and he didn't touch her, he doesn't even dare to touch her in her dreams, where he has no power (though neither does she, or he might have— oh she's definitely drunk, huh, with the way her thoughts are quick moving through the forbidden things).

she unfreezes when he pulls away, the frown melting back to a grin that's awkward in a terribly feather, light way. "oh, god.." she chews her lip and shakes her head, "it's ok. i don't think doctors do it that way anyway." she laughs (it's all nerves, that sound). "thank you. for trying."

she tries to meet his eyes, to see if she can read him, the why, the who of him. she can't read this man to save her life (maybe now, sick and inebriated, isn't the time).

"water..." she repeats quietly and nods with a cheeky sort of brow raise. she glances at the soju sitting by her feet that she had been sipping on. and his follow up wonder as she was pondering just how far from his suggestion she was, draws her in on herself a bit. a gentle curve of her back as she leans forward to look at him and listen. his jacket falls softly around her shoulders with her, and she reaches out to fiddle with the sleeves in idle motion.

she seems to consider the words carefully. "i'll try. i don't know if i have the energy to get into trouble this time." a little shrug, "that said, trouble tends to find me." her eyes skip around his face as if she's looking for something again (is that what he is? or is she the trouble between them)?

without much chance to question it, she reaches out (slow, tentative, with eyes that implore him to humor her); and grabs his nearest hand in hers. she presses his fingers between her palms. her hands are hot and almost clammy, smaller than his. visible amusement over her face as she looks at his hand in between hers. she releases him gently, lifting one of her hands so he could withdraw if he wanted "your hands are cold..." she muses about it. she reaches up with her free hand and touches her own forehead and certainly compared to his hand it's absolutely scalding. she pouts. now she really can't tell... either she has a fever or he's the coldest man to exist.

tipping point number two: the number of drinks he’s consumed in the past hour. at first willingly, then unwillingly, and then semi-willingly again (because the ability to make good decisions for himself has been debilitated), all despite his front of complete unwillingness… which then lends itself right to tipping point number three.

it's too late to make a difference, but he realizes he must have crossed some sort of line; because he notices -- feels -- how she freezes upon contact. well, duh. he has the sobering realization that he’s acting fucking weird and feels somewhere between regretful and apologetic, though he’s already gone too far to acknowledge it and make things even weirder; and so he tries to act completely normal about it and hopes someone would just press fast forward on this moment in time.

her ‘thank you. for trying’ makes him want to die a little bit, and truthfully he's more preoccupied thinking about how weirdly out of character he was just now than listening to what she says after that. the next word he must've really clung onto was 'trouble,' right as she catches his eyes again, and though he wants to tear away, he doesn't. can't.

then the phenomenon repeats itself in yet another form. suddenly, he finds his hand in between hers; he feels numb at first, then warmth. sure, she must be running a fever. but it couldn't possibly be high enough for the warmth to permeate like this (perhaps up to his cheeks). his brows furrow, but his lips curl into the thin outlines of a smile.

"oh. well... yeah," he replies casually, like he's dismissing an obvious fact. notably, he doesn't pull away; if anything, eases into her touch and drops the weight of his hand onto hers with a silent sigh. fearing silence, he just quickly follows up with whatever words happen to form in his mouth. "i get that a lot." spiritually, he winces a bit after that comment because what in absolute hell does that mean?

"well, you are pretty warm. definitely a fever." he nods with a feigned certainty, stubbornly sticking to his act of nonchalance. while it probably hasn't been all that long, he feels like it's been an eternity and so gives her hand a very gentle squeeze before letting go.

sober agatha would've already taken a step back before she bites off more than she can chew. but agatha's definitely not sober still, and her processing is in third place if it ever participates in a race.

he isn't wrong to say the least. she has spent enough hours of her days staring at jinyoung's face in the last few months that she agrees he's 'mad cute' or whatever it is he used to describe himself. agatha takes a step towards him, her free hand settling on his arm, (mock) concern in her gaze. "i'm saying this from the bottom of my heart," she prefaces. "you do need to find more friends, i can't be the only one willing to hang out with you."

the implication that she's making is surely false. agatha knows he probably has other friends, people he hangs out with outside of herself. but it wasn't herself talking at this point. it's the mask, the game, the rush of hearing the defensiveness in jinyoung's voice that urges her. she doesn't blame the alcohol anymore, not when her inebriation makes her mind so muddled, the words falling out of her lips doesn't even sound like her own.

but this? he doesn't know what to make of all of this. whatever punchy comeback he was stringing together in his head falls apart, leaving nothing but a glassy stare as he chews on the tough piece of fake pity she offers; caught somewhere halfway between wanting to flinch away from the touch of her hand or to lean in more and stand his ground.

"this is you being 'willing'?” it’s a question asked, but not meant to be answered. he's sizing her up, akin to how he would a defender at the start of a football match. figuring out who he's dealing with a balanced blend of confidence and proper precaution... although, the latter might be rapidly falling to the wayside.

at last, she breaks eye contact, and he lets out an audible sigh, thinking this contest might finally be over; that is, before she shoots back a zinger of a pass he wasn't quite ready to handle.

it's round two — or three. or four... he's losing count — of the incredulous look on his face, leveled up now from a nonverbal 'what the fuck' to 'what the actual fuck?'. yet it melts into something of intrigue; of wanting to poke the coals instead of letting the flames die down.

"oh?" is all he says at first. lax and satisfied, as if he's had an epiphany and masking how he is every bit, if not more, rattled as he was a moment ago. “have you been keeping count?” his lips pull into a smirk that is both sweet and infuriating. “and why do you sound so bummed out?” she doesn’t really, but that's irrelevant. factual accuracies aren’t of concern to him at the moment.

she’s not looking at him anymore, which is digging at him; no visual cues to tell if she’s being remotely serious or close to backing off. and so he takes a step closer, leans in, angling himself a bit lower and oh so obnoxiously into her line of sight.

“wait. sorry. did you-- i mean, do you want me to?”

seolran makes it a habit not to cry in front of people. especially those she's not particularly close to. the thought of being vulnerable enough to let someone get a glimpse of her true thoughts and emotions leaves an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. despite her efforts, she finds herself in this very predicament. eyes filled with tears in front of an acquaintance? friend? she's honestly not sure how to accurately describe their relationship, but all she knows is that he's not someone she would want to see her cry.

but the scene in front of her always evokes tears: as twilight falls, the timeline of the two main characters intersects. taki desperately running to find mitsuha at the shrine. mitsuha doing the same. it's a love story that transcends space and time.

she wants something like that for herself.  

not wanting to draw attention to herself, she discreetly brings a hand up to her face, wiping away a stray tear. she takes the chance to glance over at jinyoung, wondering if the movie is affecting him the way it’s affecting her. she feels a flash of annoyance when she sees his rather blank stare; leave it to a meathead jock like him to not understand the true brilliance that is the kataware-doki scene of your name.

she turns her attention back to her phone, leaning closer as mitsuha gets ready to write her name down on taki’s hand—and the screen goes black.

“what the fuck?” she whispers, angrily snatching her phone from where it sits perched up on the mini table. she taps the screen with more harshness than necessary, as if doing so would magically make the movie reappear. she knows she's being irrational, but she feels as though the black screen with the empty battery icon is mocking her.

much of the same could be said of another ‘first’ — the first time he is hanging out with seolran outside of very unplanned and unorthodox circumstances. though as he thinks about it more, maybe things weren’t so planned or orthodox this time around either. after all, it is somewhat of the case that he’d stumbled into this hangout while seeking shelter from ‘trivia night’ (which both sounds uninteresting and somewhere he would be totally unwelcome). and watching a movie on a phone isn’t topping any list of ‘best camping activities.’

truth be told, he’s trying to watch this movie, but finding it rather hard to focus. the screen is small, subtitles even smaller. and what he does remember about the plot from watching it a number of years ago just confuses him even more as he keeps getting the plot mixed up with that other movie about the crazy, magical doors… he quickly stops asking her his little clarifying questions when it becomes clear that she is far too invested to entertain him.

plus, somewhere along the way, he realizes that watching her is markedly more entertaining. how locked in she is, how absorbed she is in the story, riding along with the characters in their wave of emotions, even to the point of… crying? it’s not super easy to tell with the dim lighting, so he holds his tongue (for once). she doesn’t seem like she wants to be pestered, and also the plot is reaching a dramatic climax that… all of sudden abruptly ends?

his first reaction is to laugh. well more of a single, sharp laugh followed by a tail of snickering at the situational irony and how suddenly pissed off she got. it’s the aggressive tapping at the screen that really sets him off, turning his snickers into a more full-on chuckle.

“what? portable charger? do i seem like the type?” a rare show of self awareness. he tries to collect himself with a deep breath and rub of the eyes. the death of her phone not only killed the movie, but also the only source of lighting outside of the wimpy string lights decorating the interior, and so he has to stare extra hard at her face.

the second night is much the same, though yerim is in a much better mood today. for completely unrelated reasons, though it carries over into dinner-time all the same. unsurprisingly, she’s in charge yet again, though it seems to be going better this time — whether that is because joon seems to be mysteriously missing or not, she’s not sure. 

that is, until she she spots jinyoung picking up a knife way too large for him to be handling, smiling at her like he wants to carve her open. “put that down!” she chides, taking the knife from his hands with as few sudden movements as possible. “stella is already cutting vegetables, we don’t need two people doing it.” the knife is put far out of reach, before jinyoung gets any ideas to pick it up again.

“hmm, you could…” she trails off, considering what task would be best to assign him, though her expression turns sour before she can come up with one. “what— nothing is wrong with me!” she lightly hits him on the shoulder, suddenly feeling like they’re seven years old again, and he’s just discovered his new favorite hobby: teasing her. 

well in these dinner prep sessions, he’s certainly getting carried. hard carried. and he has nothing remotely resembling 'individual brilliance' to speak of, unless the category was 'being annoying' -- well then yes, he's quite stellar at that.

anyways, his lips turn into a slight pout as he is promptly disarmed of the large, kitchen knife. honestly, what the heck? if he wasn't allowed to chop, slice, or dice anything, what else could there possibly be for him to do in the makeshift kitchen? "i have no idea why you'd assume stella is better at this than me. sexist." he says, clearly joking, though really testing the limits of her patience.

evidently, those limits aren't too far out of reach, because it only takes one more comment from him to set her off. strangely, he feels a bit proud?

"okay, okay, alright. sheesh." he says, trying to play it off. a muffled, meek chuckle follows thereafter. "i take it back then. apparently not in a good mood. noted." a simple 'sorry' would've sufficed.

on the other hand, stella is like an open book, easily readable from the outside, or at least that's what she likes to think. a girl born with a silver spoon in her mouth who thinks the world revolves around her indulging in her shiny and luxurious bubble.

despite this, she's also someone who had her ups and downs, but she recovered and bounced back stronger than before.

to most people, she appears as effortlessly charismatic, with a bright smile almost always plastered onto her face (whether it’s genuine or simply a façade is debatable) as her signature and a name that gets around before she does, which has its downside.

she obviously knows who yoon jinyoung is, but does she know who jinyoung really is? the guy behind the athlete?

nope.

the few things she knows about him come from word of mouth and what she sometimes reads on social media. and considering she's majoring in marketing, she's very aware of the fact his public persona is most likely carefully curated by someone in charge of his public relations. so, how much of that image corresponds to how he is in real life?

their relationship was superficial, mostly made of "hi", "good morning" or "the weather's good today, isn't it?" in the few moments they shared at classes, at the cafeteria or during charity events hosted by lyra's members, the formalities typically exchanged between acquaintances.

"you really think i'd risk my reputation for that?" she grins, a small laugh slipping from her lips. "you're still standing, that means i actually went easy on you. anyways i won't, i promise."

at first glance, stella doesn’t look like someone particularly strong. yes, she's tall and with long limbs as you'd expect from a girl who plays volleyball but really slim at the same time. some of her teammates are definitely bulkier than her. however she is actually strong and totally capable to deliver a powerful spike when needed.

for example, golf? a game, not a sport. bowling? even more so. waterpolo? what even? archery? you're literally not moving. horseback riding? literally it's the horse that is moving. the takes go on and on, and he's managed to make a few 'enemies' out of them; rumors say he's even gotten punched by a certain assistant captain of the archery team, but he will neither confirm or deny. anyways, most of these be doesn't completely believe, but he definitely does to some degree.

now volleyball is a sport that he has zero issues with. good pace, dynamic, a level of unpredictability that keeps things exciting; requires speed, movement, and coordination in several directions; room for both individual talent and teamwork. ticks all his boxes.

"yeah, whatever you say," he responds, his tone of voice suggesting that he doesn't fully believe her — that it wasn't on purpose or that she wouldn't do it again — but the slightly teasing grin on lips signals that he's not actually hurt or offended, even if that were the case. "either way, i think it might've helped your reputation if you were more sucessful in taking my head off."

"hmm, well hiking didn't really seem all that fun. it's just like... scenic walking. and it's a bit early for the lake," he thinks out loud in response to her list of alternatives. "and yoga?" his nose scrunches up a bit at the reminder, a hint demoralized. "well, i tried. not for me." tactfully, he chooses not to mention how he actually just sucks at it.

"but alright. i'm in," he re-affirms with a solid nod. "aren't you like... on the volleyball team though? you don't get bored playing it outside of the team setting?" he's projecting a bit, just thinking about how he doesn't really want to play soccer all the time; or at least not in whatever little free time he has, especially when it's 'with casuals' and it's not actually helping him get better.

she just finished a rather improvised version of a song she wasn't that well familiar with, only because that was the request from someone that passed by. she's reached over the guitar, still resting on her lap, to get to her drink, which is starting to feel oddly lukewarm from the fire, but never the less she takes a generous sip from it. and before she knows it, the seat next to her is empty and filled in again. this time by a familiar face.

"hi." eunwoo is quick to reply back, taking another swing from her drink before placing it back on the ground. no one has asked her about.. the technicality of playing the guitar tonight, she's actually, ever so slightly taken aback by it. "oh, this one?" she asks, gaze moving from jinyoung to her hands as she plays the last cord progression he asked about. "i twist my wrist out a bit more so i can lay my pinky in comfortably." she has to pause the song, twisting herself just enough so he could see exactly how her fingers, hand and wrist laid out "if you have longer fingers than me, you might want to-" and she twists her wrist out more so her pinky coul lay even straighter against the string. "does that make sense?" she asks, looking back at him with raised brows "the pinky is the most annoying, it so short compared to the rest of the fingers so it can be a pain." she grins, a bit lopsidedly, and curiousity gets the better of her.

all this is to say, he finds it pretty funny when she asks whether it's a 'secret' that he knows how a musical instrument works or takes interest in how to play it better. he fully appreciates that she's mostly joking (he thinks), and frankly? he gets it. knows how he comes off.

"eh, not really a secret. just no chance or reason to show it off," he teases back, a little bit of a grin on his face. he could press her on why she'd assume what she assumes, what 'type' she thinks he is, if not musical; but again, feels like he has a good grasp on the answers without having to hear. "but my team is always trying to boot me off the aux. not sure if that means i have crappy taste in music or the opposite."

he pauses now, trying to replay her demonstration in his mind, nodding slowly as he belatedly processes the advice and forces it through the slow processing system that his brain is right now. she's not wrong that he's out of his usual zone of expertise; but he's always had a fair respect for musicians, some sort of kindred spirit. maybe he's being presumptuous, but he thinks they share somewhat of a common experience with athletes; or at least the breed of one that he is... performative, natural, but also hyper-focused on the technicals, perhaps to a neurotic level.

Looks like three months have flown by already.

We know it sounds repetitive at this point, but when we first opened we never imagined the community would grow into what it is today. Thank you for your continued support, creativity, and dedication to making this space thrive. We’re so grateful to everyone who has been with us since the very beginning, and to all the new faces who have joined along the way.

For the three month anniversary, we’re introducing the Scrapbook Meme. Think of it as a keepsake for your muse: fragments, doodles, and little memories gathered from their time at Yeonhwa so far. By reblogging this post, you’re opening the door for others to send you emojis from the prompt list, and you can answer however you’d like: through writing, headcanons, edits, moodboards, whichever way you’d like. It’s open-ended and meant to be as creative as you want!

This meme will run from September 20th to October 4th, which will give you about 3 weeks to reblog. If you choose to participate, please ensure that you send a question to everyone who has reblogged the post as well, whether this be on your character’s account or on anon. Once again, thank you so much for the amazing three months and we hope you have fun with this meme!

sera scans the crowd waiting for the bus, looking for a very specific someone. she’d woken up a few hours ago, with a splitting headache and very vague memories of the night before. she remembered kiwoo, searching for clues, something about stolen magnifying glasses? though as the hours passed, and she managed to get some food down (mostly due to olivia insisting it would make her feel better, and — begrudgingly, she’d been right, though sera wouldn’t admit it to her), the memories started returning in bits and pieces. 

at this point, she’s got a pretty clear picture of exactly who she’s looking for. she’d asked olivia to join her to wait for the bus early (well… more like she’d practically dragged her roommate here), and has been camped out for well over an hour now, carefully considering each student that arrives. no luck so far, but she knows he’s bound to show up at some point. 

she’s scrolling on her phone (only briefly distracted, she swears!), when olivia’s shoulder bumps into hers — whether by accident or on purpose, sera isn’t sure — causing her to look up. that’s when she sees him. their eyes lock from across the parking lot, and sera practically shoots up, nearly dropping her phone in the process (it wouldn’t have been the first time she potentially broke her screen protector). without as much as another word to olivia, she starts moving towards the other end of the lot, marching through the increasing crowd of people. she barely notices any of the people she’s passing, attention solely focused on her target. 

“you!” she calls out once she’s within range of him, running the last bit of distance, accusing finger pointing at jinyoung’s chest once she makes it over to him. “you’re the thief!” her neck arches to look up at him (why is he so annoyingly tall? and she’s not wearing heels for once, making the height difference even more jarring), eyes squinting as she gives him an accusatory look. 

however, the next forty eight hours were unexpectedly pleasant. so diametrically far from being restful, but all in all, entertaining. fun. quality time. questionable moments. whatever. right now, he’s sort of ready for it all to end. after all, all good things must come to an end; and all things come full circle, because forty eight hours later, jinyoung is right back to being one of the least enthused people here.

everything about him this morning screams 'do not disturb'. buried in baggy, black sweats, baseball cap pulled generously over his head and face, airpods shoved deep into this ears, he's contemplating whether he should dig out the sunglasses from his bag too, because how bright the sun is might be pissing him off more than anything else. apt for the human gray cloud he is today.

truly, it's unfathomable that anybody would take a look at him and decide 'oh, let me go talk to jinyoung'. yet, the unfathomable pops up right in his face, looking rather... fierce? angry? upset? for once, he actually has no idea what he possibly could've done wrong, but he doesn't need to hear her to know that he doesn't want to know. her voice is actually pretty fucking loud though; projects and carries itself through his noise cancellation.

with a bone crushing sigh, he slowly and reluctantly takes the airpods out of his ears. maybe a bit delusional, but the first thing he does is look around for a camera or microphone on or around her — you never know these days. or more accurately, you never know with sera. this could be a tiktok prank or an exposé of the mob empire and six girlfriends he never even knew he had.

celebrating around them, music and screeching noise (it could be talent, it could be a choir singing she isn't listening, it's too far, too buried beneath the noise pollution, and not nearly so valuable as straining to hear him). she can't summon a response (calling it speechless isn't right; she ruminates on it).

he starts— her eyes are steady and some of that color shifts from her eyes, softer, easier— there's pause, then he continues, only a second but it stands— her lips go crooked, pressed together to contain some sort of smile. a gust of amused sigh as she finally speaks her mind, finally. "crashing, huh" she repeats, he is kind of like that, isn't he? in a way hard to explain. it comes across light enough, teasing even.

he crashes again; moves on quick and she frees the laugh this time, soft and quick. not making fun... is it endearment? enjoyment. she isn't sure. she blames the floating sensation she feels.

she lifts her hands to wave off the check in, but then he keeps speaking and her palms pause, her head tilted, eyes a bit bright. "i.. yes i have eyes." she doesn't take offense, visibly a bit amused as she scrunches her nose and squints in faux disapproval. "getting a cold, wiseguy— moving closer to the fire feels like dying right now, it's way too hot." she pouts a bit. perhaps because her temperature was already a bit high? felt like overheating.

"oh..." she blinks at him, completely caught off guard. watching him shimmy out already is a hell of a thing. he's always moving so fast, careening through it all before she can get herself together and adjust to him. crashing. she chuckles again, a flush coming over her. "uh. i mean. again it would be polite to refuse maybe but—" she casts her eyes about like, it was obvious— but then she reaches out, palms up, soft glance, "—alright. since you're already so hot." god, she refuses to be embarrassed by saying that (her face heating up hotter, ears going redder, maybe it didn't happen, maybe it was invisibly to him she can't be sure but she can hope).

she looks away for maybe the first time, glancing away as he moves and her thoughts are the ones crashing now. she extends her hand to take it, fingertips soft on the fabric, delicate like it was made of fine rice paper, would dissolve at a touch. she clutches it in her hands gently, unable to resist gazing at it for a second. warm... (she loosely tosses it over her shoulders to try to be normal about it..).

not to mention, he’s having a hard time following the plot. he could in part blame it on the alcohol, but it was also just him and the unorthodox algorithms in his brain.

so she wasn’t cold. but was getting a cold. but thinks it’s actually hot. no, he’s hot. no, not like that. the temperature is hot. yet, she accepts his jacket, because it’s cold and somehow that makes her feel better?

it's not impossible. he understands how fevers work, the physics and basic anatomy of it all. but he's not too fussed with the logic or science of the end result, which is that somehow she feels incrementally better, with the beaming grin on her face to show for it. and somehow that makes him feel a tad bit better too.

the corner of his own lips curl upwards, not too high, loose, or free like hers, but slightly and securely, as if hung snugly on a hook; it's subtle, but stuck there for good. "well, i'm glad to hear. you can hold onto that. i'm sure i'll stay... hot for a while," he responds, his trademark sarcasm laced so finely into his voice, it's hard to tell if he's joking or genuinely so self-absorbed. their eyes meet for for a moment before he looks away, gaze fluttering over to the main crowd where there's somehow even more of a commotion than before. he may just be hearing voices in the wind at this point, but he swore he just heard the words 'capture the flag', and his ears perk up to that like a dog would to the word 'fetch'.

anyways, his attention comes back around, and he sits still for a moment before pressing the back of a hand against his forehead, letting it rest there for a few seconds. oddly enough, it feels quite nice. his hands and feet have always tended to run a bit cold (bad circulation, cold hearted, ‘ice in his veins’ — he’s heard the whole gambit of jokes made about it), while his head was always a bit too hot (this too); and that was even before the hours spent lounging by the fire tonight.

seemingly content with whatever he’s accomplished, he drops his arm and then buffers. there’s a hitch in the way he moves, but tonight, he goes ahead despite it, as his usual inhibitions are melting away under the heat of the flames, usual sense of ‘good’ judgement dissipating away like the wisps of smoke coming off.

he leans slightly forward, brows furrowing as he slowly but surely guides his hand towards her face and lightly lands the plane — the back of his palm — onto her forehead, just as he did to his own moments ago. he lets out a single laugh, very well understanding how futile his means of checking her temperature was.

“yeah, i don’t know… you might have a fever. or you might not. clearly i’m no doctor.” he drops his hand, shrugging as he lets out a long, drawn out sigh. pulling away, he offers a thin smile, slightly apologetic for letting his invasive thoughts win -- or whatever that was.

the thought comes into mind as she sees jinyoung from across the campground coming towards her. though it is quite dark and the only source of light is coming from the bonfire, she could still recognize his silhouette. she didn’t like the look in his eyes and has half the mind to take a step back as he nears. she looks around to see if anyone could be her escape route if he ever decides to enact his revenge.

the drinking games were simple and agatha pretending to be lightweight to ask him to be her black knight was a mere jest. although it soon turned into a fun side quest as he gets farther and farther away from being sober. it was all fun and games until the mention of capture the flag was brought up. when he hit the ground running, agatha fears that she might’ve created a monster. so she quietly slips out of the crowd and head towards the dorm. she’s sobered up since then, only having been a bit too tipsy before leaving, and the conversation with yerim did help.

she returned to the bonfire just as the silly game was reaching its end. she could hear the rest of the student roar with laughter from the woods nearby, could hear the couple of those who stayed by the fire and their light hearted conversation. her eyes a bit glazed from the can of beer she was now nursing.

when jinyoung finally reaches her and poses his question, she couldn’t help the way her eyes narrow— not knowing if his question did hurt or not. she’s leaning more on being indifferent, nonchalant, cool, calm, and collected. but her words seem anything but. “says the one who literally had to seek me out so he wouldn’t be…alone,” she throws his words back at him and looks away, to the bonfire. she takes a sip of her beer and crosses her arms over her chest but didn’t take a step back. open, but guarded.

“where my friends decide where they want to be tonight is none of my business," she notes the flag in his hand, nodding with approval. "but congrats, maybe i should've prepared a gold star for you." her tone teasing but with a bite and oh well, he only brought it upon himself.

“look, i’ve got no problem with being by myself,” he dismisses her claim, choosing to ignore that it might’ve been him that incited this verbal scuffle in the first place. regardless, he’s ready to walk away while the scoreboard is in his favor.

who’s keeping score? nobody. why does he think he’s winning? nobody knows. but then out of nowhere, she hits him with that line — somewhat akin to a blindsided slide tackle — and now the game must go on.

clearly, she is baiting him; unfortunately, he thinks it’s still worth the bite. plus, he simply cannot be defamed like this and be expected hold his tongue. far from the most insulting or childish things he's been hit with (he hears worse on the daily in the locker room), but it's something about the fact that it's agatha trash talking that just irks him in inexplicable ways.

“okay. rude,” he begins, voice oddly calm but the way he stares back at her translates roughly to 'what the hell?'. “strange. uncalled for. unfounded. untrue, actually,” he ticks off with increasing speed as he live processes his thoughts out loud, uncovering more things to take offense to as he goes (mostly to the latter part of her statement).

“and what do you mean that’s ‘too bad’?” he narrows his eyes at her. “do you want me to make more friends? or have more se-- nevermind.” he sighs, abandoning that statement at the last minute. a heroic effort from his brain to somehow finally catch up to his mouth. briefly, that is.

by the time he gathers his wits, he’s somehow holding her beer — or was it his beer now? muscle memory from earlier must have kicked in, because he doesn’t remember asking for it or willingly taking it.

“also i don’t have to ‘exert' effort... have you looked at me? i’m mad cute.” it’s sickening how hard it is to tell if he’s joking or serious; voice deadpan, but his eyes subtly give it away as they dart around, hoping nobody else is in the vicinity to overhear (in fact, he does have a modicum of shame). thankfully they're alone; a dangerous green light for him to proceed.

minhyun should have stopped drinking about three hours ago. not that anyone counted or cared, he didn't either. situations like these were his bread and butter, it was what he knew best. a good amount of tipsy and debatable decisions made.

which is exactly how he ended up playing a game of catch the flag, in the almost pitch black, and most definitely not sober enough to keep up or see properly. he has lost count of how many points they had. were they ahead? were they behind? he couldn't tell, but he was having the time of his life with this game. the university should think of more events like these on campus, he would join without the alcohol involved. 

anyway, this was fun. or it was because he finally got the flag for himself and was doing his best to manoeuvre quietly and somewhat sneakily, around the course and failing miserably. maybe it was all the grumbles and swear words that were leaving him, or the fact that at times he felt like the ground was shifting under his feet- he should have stopped drinking hours ago- but he is doing his best effort to not actually get caught. which, to his credit, he doesn't get caught for the majority of his sneaking around.

he sees someone in the not so far distance heading in his direction, so he ducks behind a barrel, he thinks its a barrel, he can't exactly tell. he stays there, for way too little time and decides he can get back up and leg it. he is, however, unlucky. the person that was headed in his direction hadn't passed him yet and most definitely sees minhyun get up from his hiding stop. it;s a guy, minhyun can tell that much, but he legs it as quickly as his still tipsy state allows him. 

he also makes the insane mistake of looking over his shoulder to see what was up with the other guy, only to be greeted by someone sprinting at what he could only describe as full speed at him. 

honestly he even takes a bit of offense to it. it’s absolutely ridiculous. does anyone ever ask the nerds and valedictorians whether they think it’s ‘problematic to be so smart?’ exactly.

anyways, it’s the people like him (well few are quite as sick in the head like him, but there are some who get somewhat close), the people who are drunk out of their minds, their peer pressured friends, and the venn diagram overlap of these circles that have self selected for this epic and totally meaningless match of ‘capture the flag.’

it’s no surprise that jinyoung is part of it. a prominent figure in it, though at least he’s not the one drawing up plays and formations like it was the finals of the world cup — those honors belong to the women’s football team captain, who he semi-reluctantly decides to follow in her plans.

yet, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t go a little bit rogue in between running the routes he’s been assigned to run. you know, taking a bit more of a circumventing path or going out of his way, just to go send some opponents to ‘jail’. slowing down on purpose to let pursuers think they have a chance at catching him before leaving them in the dust. cruel and frankly a total waste of whatever athletic ability he’s been blessed with, but thankfully hardly anyone will remember the specifics of tonight in the morning; or even in sixty minutes from now.

anyways, he’s occupied going where he’s supposed to go, until he sees some action happening in his peripheral vision. he could leave it to his teammates to take care of but… no, he figures he should go stamp out whatever the opponent has going on. can’t take any chances, can he?

attention turns back to the road ahead, blinker on, ready to pull away from the curb... but not before she turns to hit him with an unimpressed look. "hm, why would you be crashing out..." she deadpans. it's not a question as much as it is a mockery. imogen could probably list a few things if he wanted her to be brutally honest. luckily, she's sober and able to understand the concept of a rhetorical question. she looks away from him with a roll of her eyes, finally planting her foot on the gas pedal.

any request to drive smooth and steady had went unheeded— as it usually does. climbing into imogen's car and shutting the door was as good as signing a contract saying you accepted whatever fate lie ahead for you and miss hot wheels. "did you go out alone?" that'd be red flag number one. hanging out with friends? fine. deciding to get drunk on your lonesome? questionable. it's not that imogen wants to grill him... she just cares. already seen him go down a bad path once. she's not keen on watching it happen again. — alriiiiight, maybe she's being a little dramatic, but better safe than sorry, right?

all that's to say, she must have really stepped on that accelerator. were he not so drunk, he probably would've found it terrifying. now he only finds it slightly terrifying and mostly entertaining, as he gazes out the window, making no real effort to make the blurs of light — streetlights, car headlights, store signs, buildings — any less blurry.

the sudden change in speed and the cocktail of thrill and anxiety as the car hits its stride must have jolted him with some fleeting sobriety. after uncharacteristic quiet, he speaks up, surprisingly remembering her sequence of questions so that he can respond in order.

"no. i never go out alone." he dismisses the possibility so easily, as if she didn’t once upon a time have a first row seat to the most ill advised era of his life (if you could even believe). short-term memory? delusional or in denial? something like that. “i was with a group. but then…” he’s getting flashbacks from the night — rounds of shots, someone falling off the table, the girl he thought he was into until he very much was not, and the group chanting to head to round two, three, or whatever number of spots they’d already hit — and it was making his head hurt. “i don’t know. not important.”

"and no, i’m not in season." his response is followed by a sigh; truthfully hard to tell if it's out of displeasure or relief such is that case. "there's been some offseason training and there will be a pre-season, but we start for real in the fall. when the semester starts." he's really only ever known two seasons: in-season and off-season, with the 'off-season' never being all that 'off.'

“and… i think it’s probably best that you stick to driving. even though it’s not a real sport.” the imagery of the two of them somehow attempting to play soccer does draw a little teasing smile from him though.

oh well. she's given up on expecting the best or even somewhat good. she sat ankles crossed in the summer breeze and her thoughts swam like her head. there was a thousand yards away quality to her empty stare when he'd approached, really. she almost winces (like an echo of that spark he bounced at her in the closet), but she's slightly too distilled and so she just turns a slow head turn towards him. a very soft surprise on her features, "jinyoung... sure. of course." perhaps the fourth time she'd ever said his name, even though they had surely met more than that many.

he may look down toward the ground but garam looks at him. her eyes a focused scan over the side profile of his face, unflinching but easy and lethargic.

she laughs, a bit; quiet sound, light like a sigh. the laugh does carry a slight grimace, the lighthearted sort. (like, ah, is she so obvious?). she nods. "right." oh but then he looks at her and she loses her follow up thought for a second, two seconds, only three. (three is a crowd in smack in the middle of a conversation, holding eye contact however, and she blinks away the fog through her red-rimmed eyes). "right." she repeats, gentler, sheepish maybe. "i don't think you've ever gotten the chance to see me doing well since we met. that must make me an especially pitiful sight tonight, huh?" she doesn't look away because that isn't who she is, her eyes scanning his from this close as though she wasn't afraid (she was, just a bit).

he acknowledges her thanks with a mere nod before addressing what really stuck out to him. “well… you’re not pitiful. may be a tad cursed,” he quips with little smirk. “but no. i’m not pitying you,” he makes clear, sitting up a little straighter. there’s a pause afterwards, slightly dramatic, mostly wandering. because if not pity, what was it? his mind sifts through a rolodex of words that might fit, but he’s never been too smooth with those, and the chances he would start now were slim; whatever wits he had were sloshing in too many shots of whatever the bonfire ‘bartender’ was serving up.

“i’m just--” being nice? imprecise. courteous? not really his thing. looking out for you? cringe. caring? cringe and uncalled for.

“crashing. just for a bit.” the syllables come out with slight hitches in between, as he’s confusing himself too. but he doesn’t explain himself further; he rarely does because he rarely can. sometimes he ‘just’ says things, but it’s not always baseless. like right now, there’s something to be said about how he wasn’t asked to, didn’t have to, and hadn’t planned to be here with her. yet somehow, here he is.

he raises his voice a little in attempts to move on from that tangled mess of a statement. “but wait — you said you’re getting a cold? or you are cold?” his brows furrow, as either way, it was sort of puzzling. late summer wasn’t quite peak flu season (though with rooms of five people each, unsurprising if some campus plague spreads by the end of the weekend) — and “if it’s the latter, have you noticed how there’s literally a fire here? maybe go cozy up to it?” his tone is a little taunting, but he did resist the urge to tell her to go chug some soju instead — a good, ole alcohol coat — so he is showing some restraint here.

the day had unfolded exactly as stella planned: she woke up at 7:30 AM, took a shower, grabbed breakfast, then left the dorm and headed toward the student center to check in and board the bus for the upcoming trip—even if she hopped on the bus a little later than scheduled. after exploring the housing and camp amenities (without being particularly impressed), she finally had lunch with her peers.

after that, she decided to try an outdoor yoga session, wanting to experiment with something new and unusual for her. pilates, for example, was something she had learned to appreciate over time and had incorporated into her daily routine—but yoga was different.

as an experienced volleball player, her training sessions usually involved weightlifting, cardio drills, resistance bands, and endless repetitions on the court. and as someone used to the fast-paced rhythm of a volleyball match—where the ball rockets back and forth across the court so quickly your eyes almost cross trying to keep up—she had always considered yoga slow and boring, despite being an activity constantly recommended by all her athletic trainers to improve her flexibility.

she arrived with the best of intentions, really—but once the session started, she regretted it almost immediately. from the instructor's voice being unusually irritating (at least to her), to a couple of younger guys laughing every time the older man opened his mouth, to a group of girls behind her whispering and giggling nonstop (who knows why and honestly, she had no time for that nonsense), stella wanted nothing more than to leave. but, considering she didn't want to appear rude—she had a reputation to uphold, after all—she stayed and endured it until the end of the session.

once it was over, she packed her bag and left, heading straight toward one of the volleyball courts scattered around the camp. in other words, her natural habitat. having played volleyball since she was six years old, she had spent a significant part of her childhood and teenage years on the court, perfecting her technique and learning how to channel every ounce of energy into the game.

stella needed to release the accumulated stress from that disastrous yoga session more than anything at that moment, and smashing balls was her favorite way of doing it. and so she started, her hits growing stronger with every serve—maybe even a bit too much, considering she was just warming up alone. she hits the next ball with even more force than the previous one and then the inevitable happens: she ended up hitting someone.

oops.

stella finally lifts her eyes from the ground and sees the guy standing in front of her. he isn't a stranger—he is none other than yoon jinyoung, the soccer star. she knows him through their families and word of mouth, and they cross paths sometimes between classes since they're in the same department. the best way to describe their relationship is acquaintances—they don't know each other well enough to be friends, but they aren't strangers either.

but alas, he cannot. instead, he's out here in the 'wilderness,' where there is simultaneously both a lot to do and not a lot to do. but you know, it's day one of the MT, and he figures he ought to find something to do with his time. ideally something non-contact — both in the literal and figurative sense.

thus, he lands on yoga. like alright, it's partially a joke. and it's partially his fault that he has to make some gaudy statement to his teammates about how yoga is 'not all that hard' after only having tried it a few times in the past -- back in physical therapy where it was pitched to him as a means to enhance flexibility and one's ability to find inner peace. who knows about the first, but the latter clearly did not happen.

and clearly he didn't learn or retain much, because despite his irrational athlete's confidence, he's objectively awful at it. not patient, serene, nor graceful enough. his limbs are too lanky, and his focus is shot, motivation lagging. the guys are laughing at him (girls giggling too), and he can just feel the bad karmic energy of the universe building like a giant dark cloud over his head, ready to drop like an anvil the very moment this lesson was over.

shockingly, nothing terrible happens to him for a good twenty minutes or so. until, karma is served in the form of a volleyball, spiked right dab, smack into the back of his head. good thing there's not much in there to preserve.

he whips around like he's been targeted in an assassination attempt and locks eyes with his assailant. stella... okay, he's not quite sure what he's done to earn her wrath (for once, he can't pinpoint what he might have done wrong). but so much for his desire for a peaceful, safe, non-contact afternoon.