ouchie.

her lips part, tongue at the ready—then stops, suddenly suspicious. “wait,” rohee glances up at him, bony elbow finding his ribs with little difficulty. “what is this for?” can’t trust anybody in this crew to do any sort of favors for free. rohee herself wouldn’t, anyway.

it goes like this: you pay fifty dollars for a watermelon thats just shy of ripe, lay newspapers down on the floor of your kitchen and split it open with the biggest knife you own. the length of your arm, your father’s hand guiding you. a once a year kind of treat - a one time treat, really, but natsume remembers the promise just as well. the way the juice ran down his arms, the way it was so sweet, the cold making his teeth ache. the seeds never grew in his stomach but he likes to think they’re still stuck in him, waiting to sprout. maybe then his body will be useful for something.

this is a different kind of rush. bought with his own money, a knife just as big. somebody else’s house, people he doesn’t know all that well, but. kindred spirits, maybe? 

they all drift apart. he crack one of the halves into quarters, the sound of the shell splitting loud and satisfying in a way he can’t describe nor replicate. like a watermelon? like something sweet. a sound that beckons the family. share me. there’s a little of me here for everyone.

“i can’t even say your name? how should i address you, oh goddess rohee?”

he stretches his arms out, durian covered plastic gloves held to the side as he does a small bow. 

“why would i have to sneak this in? this is our house. bring whatever the hell you want. not like hyunsoo is gonna do anything about it.”

he’s a right to a certain extent - it’s absolutely certain that he’s going to get chewed out for stinking up the place, but that’s a problem for the natsume of the future. right now? he sinks his teeth into the flesh, eyes falling shut at the tangy flavor. nothing like it. best of the best.

he coughs, nearly chokes. natsume whines, taking a step away defensively. “am i supposed to eat this whole fucking thing myself? don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“ what the fuck are you doing here ? ” taeyoung opens the door only a little, revealing one-thirds of his visage through the gap and clearly not inclined to invite his so-called teammate inside. “ lower your fucking voice, don’t make the neighbors go investigate. ”

they’re all so fucking pretentious - from rohee to zhiruo to jinil. the self-importance, the i’m so bad and i love it, that constant need to assert themselves as the smartest person in the room, the one that’s always above everyone else. except it’s like a dozen of them and natsume puts up with it, finds it amusing even, but there’s something to be said about the fact that they’re all like this and they’re all emotionally stunted. mental illness.

where is liying? does she only do relationship counseling or can natsume bribe her to organize a group therapy session?

it’s like this: you see these faces every once in a while for a couple of years, you get close, closer - never too close. never allowed in. he’s alright with that, mostly. there are things in himself that he’d never let another see. but the look in taeyoung’s eyes - fleeting, but present. natsume knows it, the way it burns all too familiar.

living like this: it’s the loneliness that’ll kill you first, long before any bullet gets the chance.

you don’t always have to cope though. sometimes alcohol is enough, money is enough. coasting through with the things that numb you is enough, if only to check things off the bucket list of temporary pleasures. but everything catches up with you eventually, the way that natsume catches up with taeyoung, slurring and drunk, banging on his door in the middle of the night.

natsume whines. “don’t be a bitch man. let me in.”

“hey!” he calls out. metropolitan dialect mastered, there’s absolutely no flavor whatsoever. daimu catches up to natsume (well, nemo), legs of a one-seventy-four centimeter’d body catching up behind him. “whaddya think?” now he’s out of character, wakayama creeping back on his tongue. he’s working on it. “the suit’s kinda roomy around the arms, but that’s a good thing, ain’t it?”

eight in the evening, summer sun crawling downwards like it’s got something left to prove. it’s not the overhead heat that kills him so much as it is the way the concrete radiates, makes the air taste wet and the girls prettier. all this neon: it’s got a way with making him dizzy but still able to tap his credit card on the first try. no such thing as broke in a place like this, not when money materializes before him like smoke from the mouth.

a little early to get sloshed but by the time he stumbles out of the bar the sky is purple, cloudy, reflecting the thousand lights shining up at it. where’s the moon? a million faces grinning, corners of the mouth going up up up, chemically whitened teeth that scream look at me.

the night’s only just begun, and he makes his way east, stops only for the vending machines to get a couple more drinks.

there’s a line he really doesn’t want to be standing in for a club he’s going to just walk past, but he’s still waiting on daimu to turn up, fashionably late that kid. he’s old to get in on his own - if natsume remembers right - but the parlor upstairs is a members only thing - fancy shmancy, the food is fucking fantastic though.

he whistles. “look at you!” he’s never been so proud. really, never: not like he knew daimu all that well when they were little but in the short time they’ve gotten to know each other natsume feels like he’s practically raised himself. might have, with all the unsolicited advice he’s thrown his way. seems like daimu’s taken some of it to heart.

@prnatsume

half-past three a.m., almost four. oh, that’s the sound of her phone ringing somewhere on her nightstand. a sleepy smack of the lips, the fleeting thought of if they really need me that badly they’ll call again. heejin tries to go back to sleep, she has a seven a.m. pilates session tomorrow (today?) and maybe she’ll get a pedicure afterwards–oh, there goes her phone again. maybe it is important.

her “hello?” goes unanswered, the line quiet save for the raucous sound of laughter and something else in the background. what a waste. and she rolls over, maybe now half-awake and scrolling through a handful of recently sent messages. oh, natsume.

he jin

he i jin. pls pio ck uip

fuck. 

the world spins, or he does - either way, something is moving that shouldn’t be. it’s his stomach, as it turns out, and he rolls over, throws up. the acid burns on the way out, worsened by the bloody nose. he thinks he must have broken it at some point, but he’s not quite certain. 

you win some, you win some more. he should have lost, but at least they let him keep his phone. 

“heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeejin.”

to concede is quick to pass, a small smile gracing his lips instead. natsume ain’t wrong about sharks if anything else, nor about wagyu being rightfully expensive. still helps to know he’ll sleep just fine tonight, frugal, fit. unscary. he can’t say this is a bad time.

“if you kind of like all fish, we should have some added to the lineup here.” half joking, seeing as how they’re both wordlessly content with what they already have. to each their own about what, exactly, but that’s the charm, baby! dongseon uses his tongue to search for any minuscule pieces of food stuck between his teeth, uses this time to sit on that question.

nothing so far. maybe something in his back molars, but toothpicks will be of better use later. “anything but a shark.”

“don’t mix your meats,” punctuated with a glass of water, ice cold. everything seems easier in organized chaos of a barbeque place. relaxed. “it’s not good for your stomach. plus it doesn’t taste good, y’know?”

it’s a personal preference, but he’s also rice. something something proteins in your gut, enzymes. he hasn’t been to school in over a decade, christ. 

natsume picks up another piece of beef, eyes the way it glistens, fatty and delicious. a hundred grams is worth what he makes a day, but that’s what the club is for, right? live a little beyond your means. a lot, in his case. “i get the feeling you don’t like sharks.”

savors it. chews. swallows. what’s better than this? he calls over a waiter for another round of beer. 

the snapping of a latex free glove coming off her hand isn’t nearly as loud as the specific brand of chimes alerting her that someone from the president’s club is calling her. it doesn’t usually ring this time of day, as the majority of them have day-jobs or other appearances to upkeep during the week, but she tosses the non-specific glove into the garbage next to her lab table anyways.

a slow exhale prefaces her swiping to receive the call. she doesn’t even bother greeting him, or even acknowledging him. knows that once he hears she’s picked up - he’ll tell her everything she needs to know immediately. some old dogs can be taught new tricks. chew them out hard enough and they will.

“30,000 pieces of artwork.” she states, phone held to her ear. “out of 30,000 pieces of hokusai artwork, you land one of his shunga pieces for me?” but the prospect is interesting. there’s always some talk of various hokusai pieces turning up in the most interesting of place - hell, monet had about twenty-five of them.

then, because she’s in probably the best mood she’s been in a while, she pinches the bridge of her nose. hokusai pieces aren’t usually forged, people usually go for the bigger, euro-centric artists, and there’s only about eleven of hokusai’s erotic pieces out there, so she throws the dog a bone as a reward. “how horny, though? cause if it is not borderline scandalizing it isn’t his brand.”

“yuuuuup.” he pops the syllable, leans over and digs around for his lighter and an ash tray, located in the mess on his floor. ah, if only she could be here now. maybe then he’d clean up. probably not. 

“engorged penis and everything. lots of pubic hair. beautiful pussy. just stunning.”  erotic art doesn’t really do it for him. he doesn’t care much for art in general, and he never really paid attention in history class. he knows this: you get invited to a big game, you have to know when to tap out. keep your money and your head. get extra lucky, the way he always is, you get a tour of the mansion. gorgeous stuff - some famous architect. a collection of statues in the garden. 

some disturbing pussy print art hanging in the hall. he knows that’s what’ll get zhiruo’s attention most.

“couldn’t get a picture of it, but i found a pic of it online. not the same but you know ‘many times’?”

@prnatsume

on any other weekend, establishments like these are swarming with customers. they’ve got the seasoned veterans: old men with leathery skin, loose coats and a keen sixth sense. boring lot, but good for business. then there are the yuppies, twenty-somethings strutting around in packs like they own the place. sore losers. still good for business. maybe even better, if they’ve got loose change rolling around in their pockets by the fistful. 

dad’s taught them the fine art of observation. small details are just as part of the big picture, like the amount of hair gel slicked through crop-cut hair, or the brand of perfume clinging to fresh-pressed linen. indicators of class, age, bad habits and good. all it takes is one look, he’d say. just one look for you to start assembling the pieces. know thy enemy, or however it goes. proverbs aren’t exactly her thing.

he sets his cards down, takes out another pack from his jacket blazer, offers politely to the geezer sitting next to him. refused, thank god, and natsume waits while the dealer sets up the next round. 

corner of his eye, pretty lady, pretty face - oh, fuck, ow. 

cigarette ash on his hand, sputtering up pathetically. thanks sebin. real smooth. he gets a couple of stares, but it’s not like he hasn’t been ogling every woman here so far. nothing unusual on his end. 

unfortunately, liying’s always been open to bribery with food and wine, even if coming from him of all people. “surprised to see that you cleaned up for once.” she mutters as she eyes the lunchbox in front of her, tentatively unclasping the lid only to lean back in her seat. “where’s the wine?” still, she will not be swayed so easily by the likes of him.

natsume puckers up and blows a kiss. a woman angry is still a woman acknowledging his appearance, and if liying really didn’t like him she’d have put a restraining order on him years ago. or had him killed. whichever’s easier for her. 

(thinking that it might be the latter is weirdly a turn on).

“i think your receptionist likes me,” he showered, after all. natsume knows how to clean up, even if liying doesn’t know how to appreciate it. “you think i have a chance with her?”

loyalty be damned. he still has a chance with liying, obviously. temporary distractions. 

sitting up, lanky legs bent awkwardly. why the hell is this couch so low? whatever. he opens the lid, takes out a couple boxes of food and cutlery sets, before he unzips a bottom compartment, pulling out a chilled bottle of pinot. ice packs babyy.

“oh,” he mouths. is that why…? vague hand gestures here, all in his head. doesn’t really like to think about work outside of work, and yet.

nemo like the fish, huh. but liying is remy like remington.. hm.

and then he laughs, still polite. “not at all. i mean, there’s the whole thing about fish getting into trouble but not in the same way marlin and nemo do. sharks are there, too.” they have to be. dongseon’s brows furrow in a beat. “kind of tired of the way sharks get antagonized though. they’re just big and have sharp teeth?” takes a stab at some marinated ribeye, tossing in some mushrooms and onions onto the grill. “loser sharks exist as well, hello. the hell are hammerheads, huh?”

natsume flips over all the meat, a little clumsy, but he gets it done. slides over a couple of pieces onto dongseon’s bowl. he likes it, right? he doesn’t know anyone that doesn’t like wagyu. 

he nods. “you mean why its my name? yeah. kinda. sounds cool though, doesn’t it?”

he shoves a perilla leaf in his mouth, follows it with beef and ssamjjang. chews. swallows. delicious. maybe the koreans are onto something here. “sharks are antagonized because they’re scary. not deep.” natsume’s not particularly scared of sharks, but then again, he hates the ocean. doesn’t everybody? all that blue. “but hammerheads are cool. stick out from the rest of the crowd, yknow? i like them. though i kind of like all fish.”

there’s some reward in being truthful, no? just as much as there would be if you were to be dishonest and get away with it. what does natsume deserve, exactly? dongseon can’t talk (he might actually make him believe he legitimately can’t), what with where he’s personally come from. to nobody’s surprise (he’s nobody), he’s grasping at straws.

what a show! whatever that was just now. wasn’t a show more than it was a vulnerable time, he figures. so, so, dongseon it is. he looks him over once, resuming his meal in the midst of deciding—but only after he’s offered natsume some water to chug down. “you ever watch shark tale?”

“shark tale?” natsume smacks his lips together, savors the texture of the meat. it’s delicious - definitely out of both of their budgets, but money isn’t worth anything if it’s not spent. he’s vaguely conscious that dongseon doesn’t seem the shopaholic type, but that’s what he’s here for. spoil the kids. find out what they like. figure out if you can become it.

“is that like nemo? i’ve seen finding nemo. great movie.”