palimpsest

“ter…” kiel sighs. jesus. his hand flies up to his face and sweeps over the bottom half, fingers pinched at his own chin. “remind me how long you’ve lived - ‘lived’ - on mother earth.” both brows raise at this speculation, surprise subtle but all the more there. “wow, we.” his brows knit together, his tongue resting flat on the roof of his mouth. we. (?!?!) it’s what, april now? something’s months from today, but he can’t quite put his finger on it here. lmao, sike! but huh, life. for this long at that. “i digress.” he takes the whisk from the bowl, slipping the handle through one of his belt loops. the utensil only seems useful as a fashion statement at this rate. “it doesn’t matter if you don’t know what shortbread is or isn’t, but the part about baking it sucks.” i wouldn’t know.

and quite frankly, he hadn’t wanted to. capitalism aside, all he’s comfortable with is knowing that the stove doesn’t quite work like the oven does. everyone’s aware of that to a degree anyway, right? plus, it’s already hard enough to boil eggs without refusing to remind himself that yes, eggs can burn (then what the fuck are they liquid for? water is wet too. fucking asshole, nature sometimes).

please tell me that makes two of us (even more than we already are).

but anyways, baking. obviously he’s considering it now. how about a multiple choice affair? going once, going twice…

“can’t believe you had to think for the sentiment,” he says in jest. “says a lot.” pursing his lips, he looks at the Love of His Life, taking a deep breath in and out of his nose before looking back down. “you didn’t even kiss me.” like honestly? what the heck. kiel’s bent over the counter when he flips through the cookbook mindlessly, ignoring that he has to actually settle on a recipe for them to get anywhere with whatever this daunting task wants to really be. “i can’t believe i have to ask.” he’s nodding to himself, all of these small, seemingly unaffected movements at a time. disbelief’s a childish motif. “but it’s cool, y’know. you’d rather make cookies than love.” or some gay shit like that. this guy nods some more, the corner of his mouth twitching as he pries his attention away from the book.

kiel takes his boyfriend’s hand in his, fingers lazily intertwined midair. “say that thing again.” he looks up at him from here for the nth time, never tired. ankles crossed, free hand tapping on the side of his face. dreamily so. “the part that came after ‘baking’.”

terry sighs, shutting the cookbook in defeat, pages unevenly sticking out from the side. dust particles float, visible from the light coming through the window. he should really do some cleaning while his siblings are out. once tanya is living with his husband-to-be, they might as well be staying in a pig sty. the thought makes terry want to stab himself with a mop. not that his siblings are ever messy, but living with 5 other people, it’s bound to be inevitable. 

it’s a fleeting thought, however, as he squeezes the other’s hand, only because kiel is around. he’ll figure out how to work a vacuum cleaner later. unless kiel is willing to ride around on a broom, the suggestion remains at the back of his mind. figuring out how an oven or stove (”i-is... is there a difference?”) works is futile enough... especially since kiel is right. terry had an inkling that something was off.

“sorry,” he starts, smiling sheepishly (guiltily). he steps toward the other, taking the whisk, and putting it aside. at this point, baking might as well be off the table until panic sets in. for now, fingers replace the whisk handle in kiel’s belt loops, and tugs lightly. he presses a soft kiss on the corner of the other’s lips. “we can make love in the kitchen.”  and by love, he partially means cookies... made with love, as the pretentious like to say. his grin widens. “i love you.”

terry probably doesn’t know this, but he’s a goddamn hero and a lad in distress all at once with this fire fiasco at hand. and though it seems that pyromania has no limits despite not even coming in motion yet—it’s all theoretical… physics? no, just theoretical—there’s no real problem figuring it out along the way. that latter part’s an answer to a question he knows will never be (properly) asked, but it doesn’t take away from the whole “i really am glad to be here” sentiment even if the request for him to come over had sounded more desperate than anything else. no (real) “i’m glad you’re here, too” in return:

1) yet, and 2) for the right reasons. at least for now.

“why are we here again,” kiel mumbles absentmindedly, looking up at the ceiling as he hugs the flour to his chest. it’s to avoid having a solid paycheck by the end of the month, he reminds himself for the nth time, directing his attention soon to the cookbook lying pitifully before them. raising his voice to a normal volume, he then says, “i can’t believe you actually have one of these.” he only smiles a little at this, coming forward to set the bag right beside the book and put the rolling pin aside. far, far aside. “we’re not making shortbread, so we don’t need this.” unless.

“turn off the oven for now if you’ve already started preheating it.” he turns his head enough to make sure he has terry’s attention here, resting both hands on the edge of the counter before decidedly leaning forward and propping his elbows in place instead. kiel has his chin on his palms when he eyes the pages, fingers tapping lightly on either side of his face as he squints at the text. he’d left his glasses at work on accident, this obviously not the other’s problem because we’re not following this shit. “we’re gonna buy cookies straight up from the nearest bakery or store.” he’s already pushed himself off the counter and collected his keys once he’s suggested that much, surrendering to the outside that awaits for them to embark on a journey of domestic shame.

“first of all,” terry starts, waving the whisk in front of the other’s face, rolling pin far from reach now, which is slightly disappointing. he felt safer knowing he had another weapon in hand. “i don’t know what shortbread is. i just assume everything needs to be flat before shoving it in--” and another wave of the whisk, now toward the appliance - still turned off. “--there.”

i also have no clue how to turn that thing on, he wants to add, but saves himself the shame of admitting to having absolutely no culinary skills whatsoever, to the point that it’s almost comedic. the creator - god, maybe - made him a complete joke, so a big fuck you to the higher-ups for making him a total embarrassment in front of his boyfriend.

( but, also, thank you for aforementioned boyfriend. )

“i’m broke, remember?” he finally puts the whisk down, into the nearest empty bowl. he turns, leans back against the counter. “and, anyway, we have resources.” he gestures toward the cookbook, in its poor condition, missing pages included. tanya hasn’t touched a cookbook in years, and julie’s the only one who ever bothered making cake - or anything edible.

cha bitna. twenty-two. occult writer & paranormal researcher.

momo wonders for a split second where yeon manages to get the money to keep bailing her out, but she’s more thankful than curious. after all, they break into banks all the time - mostly at momo and chaeng’s suggestion, and to yeon’s dismay. momo isn’t sure where all her money goes, but she thinks it’s time to refill her bank account. 

( plot twist: she doesn’t have one. )

the sun is setting by the time she reached the auto-shop. arms stretched above her head, wide grin on her face, she greets the other employees who are beginning to clock out with enough energy that shouldn’t be allowed at the end of the day. some of them sighs at momo’s sudden, and highly exhausting, presence, but that’s something she never notices - or cares for. 

( ”here she goes again.” )

“lookin’ busy there, puddin’,” she starts, approaching her favorite co-worker. she leans against the edge of the car, arms crossed over her chest. “you up for some excitement tonight?”

an exaggeration and a vision that  might actually prove true. he can’t cook to save his (or anyone’s, for that matter) life. agreeing to bake for julie is a mistake, and he still, with a rolling pin in hand, and a whisk in the other, wonders how anyone in this damn family could ever leave him alone with a running stove. but desperate times call for desperate measures, he guesses. 

everyone was in an even messier rush this morning. a toast was shoved in lance’s mouth as he fixed his bag, and julie ran out the door still holding a mug of coffee.

terry just so happens to have a day off.

( “i have a paper due. you’ve got to help me.”

“sure, anything.”

“anything?”

“anything.”

“i need you to bake a hundred cookies. thanks, t. you’re a lifesaver.”

“wait --” )

naturally, the first thing he does is call his boyfriend.

“no ramen today,” he starts, narrowed eyes studying the cookbook on the counter. he hands kiel a bag of flour. “just burnt cookies.”

supposedly that says enough on how iseul sees it. the nonchalance of the reply he gives, anyway. ironically, it bothers him. but he’ll put any lingering feelings on the back burner for now.

inguk purses his lips together, squinting long and hard at the door to make sense of it being as close as it is. it, too, is literally right there, knocking only ever being imagined. silently he wishes for anyone to barge through the door if it means avoiding this kind of air for the rest of the night, burdens gone with the wind outside. hell, he could walk through the door himself. tell me to wake the fuck up. alternatively: knock me the fuck out until i get my shit back together.

(what exactly is your deal right now?)

fight or flight’s never been this extreme for something so harmless before.

“i’m…” i was pretty high on the mutual energy we were sharing just now. “not in the mood for those kinds of vices.” at least not today. not anymore. his head bows, eyes half-focused on his bare palms that rest in his lap. inguk doesn’t look up. “even if it’s been a while, i can’t say i’ve missed it.”

anyone who knows him just as well as the next person in this room would call bullshit on him with his packs of nicotine every damned day. to be fair though, most of that’s been consumed out of mere habit. smoking’s not an entirely bad one if he’s gotten used to limiting himself more and more by the week. he doesn’t have to ask himself why that is. however, he’s not so fond of accepting it either. coming to terms with it, even acknowledging it. the likes.

it’s not you, nor me.

(i don’t know what the hell it is.)

he only looks at iseul from here once. no one says it’s a glance, though. “you think i’m susceptible to asthma or bronchitis or some shit for my drug consumption since the ninth grade?” there’s a small huff of air through his nose at this remark, the corner of his mouth quirking up just a little. shifting himself onto his knees, he supports the rest of his body with his hand on the couch as he gets up, snatching his glasses from wherever it is they’d last been placed. once they’re back on his face, he offers a hand to the other, a fist resting on his hip meanwhile as he glances out the window beside the front door. “because chronic lethargy aside, i’m sure you’d smoke my ass in a 5000 meter relay. long distance running.” he scoffs at himself trying to recollect things he doesn’t know in the first place, flashing a grin at the attempt. “whatever it’s called.”

and so he sits on his heels, watches inguk rise from floor, and curiously eyes the hand being offered to him. for a moment, iseul wonders how they even ended up in the position they were in prior to this. he doesn’t linger long at the initial thought, at the realization that daily events just seem to breeze through when inguk is involved. however, iseul does suddenly become hyper-aware of the passing days, and it terrifies him.

he anxiously chews on his bottom lip, accepts the hand, finally - after a 10-second interval that seemed to last like an hour - and pulls himself up and off the floor, mutters a quiet thanks as he dusts himself off. the other’s comment induces an amused snort. “only because you smoke too much.” he takes a step forward, rests both arms on the other’s shoulders. “anyway, leaving the house was just a suggestion,” he says. “if you wanted to race instead, you could have just said so.”

( not that he would have agreed due to aforementioned chronic lethargy. )

he gently knocks their foreheads together, pressing a gentle kiss on the corner of inguk’s lips before he pulls away. there isn’t much to do at home, save for lying down - a favorite hobby. but iseul, sometimes, craves for the change and excitement he’ll definitely regret once he does get the opportunity to step out of the house, or from the comforts of his (or inguk’s) befroom. anyway, inguk’s presence is enough to quicken his heart rate, and knock the air right out of his lungs.

i love you i love you i love you - maybe that’ll get my blood rushing. 

not that iseul hasn’t said it before (multiple times in fact), but the results = nothing.

( not that he minds. )

figuring out whether iseul is serious or not isn’t so hard these days. sure, he sports the same frivolity and sleepiness in dual power with just about every answer, but what’s really fun about the lack of change on his end is that it’s up to inguk every. single. time. every single time to give into it or not. if he could win a dollar for every time he’s chosen to do the former, he probably could afford dinner and a movie - twice. in a goddamned row. back to back.

“isn’t your mouth swollen enough?” he quirks a brow at the other, incredulous and amused all at once. “public restrooms aren’t exactly romantic if you’re gonna settle for less, you know.” inguk laughs breathlessly at this, tapping the other’s hip lightly for the both of them to rise off the floor. when he’s properly sitting up, he scratches the back of his head, shoulders gradually slouching forward. locking eyes with iseul for a brief second, bags slightly heavy under his own, he eventually allows himself to study him from the top of his head to the juncture between his neck and shoulder. maybe his breath hitches at the simple sight. maybe it doesn’t. he’s too busy trying to remember how to breathe to tell.

inguk’s mouth does that thing again, then. hangs open as if to say something, only to not have anything to spare at all. all those years in debate in his younger years seem to have been all for naught if the cat’s got his tongue like this now.

“hyung,” he starts, not quite sure how to finish. he’s not focusing anywhere on iseul’s person anymore, fingers grazing absentmindedly along the shabby ends of the carpet. they tug at the threads, but he’s careful enough to not pull anything out. just like he is with everything else, only ever worried of beating his own record and nobody else’s along the way at this point in life. the silence doesn’t last for too long, somehow enough for his gaze to be something more than a fond gesture upon focusing it back where it belongs. glasses aren’t necessary when he’s already got it memorized, but fear and desire play tug of war somewhere in his chest. urging him, almost at a loss, to not be so confident and comfortable with what he already has right before his eyes.

either way, he’s gotta get theirs both to meet to even begin hoping they’re on the same page.

“what is this?”

“it’s called romance.”

he’s forced to sit up, then. hates the concept of having to get up completely, calves burning from training too hard for competition season. although, staying behind to run more than enough laps the other day probably has something to do with it. this makes him want to stay home, but the idea of having an exciting weekend for once as opposed to knocking out early (and sneaking into inguk’s bed in the middle of the night) sounds rather tempting.

the couch is literally right next to them, despite one of the throw pillows finding its way on the floor prior to this conversation. just minutes ago when words were held back in exchange for mouth pressed against each other and whatever exposed skin their lips could find. iseul initiated it, of course. he considers it a hobby. so far, inguk’s giving in to these random bouts of self-indulgence, so iseul can’t exactly complain. or feel shame in any sort of way. 

at least, not yet.

he leans against the side of the furniture, throws his head back to rest against the cushion. “there’s nothing else to do,” he explains, a small whine. except study. the thought makes him laugh inwardly. not like we did much of that this week - or any week. although, he’s mostly serious when he does ask for help in statistics, or any mathematical subject for that matter.

dinner and a movie does sound rather tempting, however, and also easily accessible in the comfort of their own home. it’s a sight innocent enough when the rest of the household get home. iseul knows (re: hopes) that halfway through, he’ll be on his knees between inguk’s legs.

so, there’s that.

he shuts his eyes, lets out a sigh. “when was the last time you went to a party?” he asks. “our captain is holding one, and he lives just a few blocks away. said i could bring a date.” iseul keeps the fact that the track captain punctuated this with a wink. whatever that means, iseul has only the slighest clue. “so, yeah, maybe this could be a date.” a pause. “or we can do body shots here.”

       The cessation of the rain should’ve made things lighter, should’ve lifted the weight that drops down on her in the same way the droplets did a while ago, should’ve stopped the torrent that’s inside her, but as much as how easy it is for the rain to drown her in her emotions, it is the opposite of how it can be eradicated from her. She hopes it is as easy as how the sun peeks once more, illuminating and shunning away the murky clouds until it leaves no trace of the storm on the sky ( only of the dampness of the earth, and their eyes ). But it isn’t.

      That’s the thing when you feel everything. That’s what happens when you always bottle it up. ( It’s never a good thing. How many times have you been told about this, Haebitna? )

      Her eyes did not shed any tears, not like the woman beside her, but it felt heavy. It felt heavy seeing the sadness of another, and it felt heavy to feel her own. It felt heavy and arduous to pull her lips into her usual smile. It takes a few of her courage to do so, a tight smile – barely a smile. Out of courtesy. Out of need.

      Haven’t we all? Of course. Everyone may come to a similar situation. But this was something new to her. Something unexpected.

      Like the way she voices out her apprehensions to a stranger.       And like the way she feels she could tell her everything. No reasons. Just because.

      “There’s a tea house nearby, we can have some nice cup of tea while we dry ourselves.” Haebitna stands up, her umbrella on one hand, the other one extended towards the other.

      ( an offer of warmth – the least she could do, that one thing she’d always try give )

      “But, is it okay for you to skip your meeting? You said you have one in a while.”

lithe, perfectly french-tipped fingernails dig into the hem of her skirt. she never looks any less than perfect, especially in front of strangers, and so the mention of the meeting makes her heart stop for a quick second. she lets the other’s hand linger in the air for a moment, waits a bit , let the stranger decide that hwami isn’t worth offering a hand to. but there’s a  foreign feeling of dread looming in her chest that the other girl might realize she’s wasting her time, and actually decide to leave.

after all, they all do.

for the first time in awhile, hwami lowers her pride, and tentatively takes the other girl’s hand into her own. she pushes herself off the bench, staggers slightly as her head begins to spin - from crying too much and too hard, and for forgetting she’s wearing five-inch heels, an intimidating weapon turned into a sudden weakness. but she catches herself on time. no need to embarrass herself even further.

“screw them,” is all she can say, muttered under her breath, letting the other lead the way. she keeps the stranger’s hand in her hold, just in case - a temporary safety net, in addition to keeping her from stumbling on the wet, slippery sidewalk. hwami hopes this girl doesn’t mind, follows as they make their way through sea of people heading the other direction.

they’re probably waiting for her. she’ll probably get in trouble.

“by the way,” she starts, giving the other’s hand a gentle tug. “i’m hwami.”

( just this once,) to hell with it.

“seems pretty juvenile to me,” he responds with half a mind, pinching the bridge of his own nose. “closets are more universal for that kind of thing.” all the more fitting, never quite exciting. reality seems to be what it is more often than he’d like.

this is one of those times when it’s off the grid of the norm. what he’s truly fond of, at that.

a low hum buzzes in his throat - half in response to the question, the rest to everything else happening. inguk closes one eye as he peers at the ceiling, mouth agape in the midst of searching for the right words. on autopilot, i do want to is the proper answer. possibly the only, but the tentativeness of the next question makes him think otherwise for just a second. makes him wonder if there are any real downsides to doing what they probably should do, especially by his constant companion’s request. he already knows there are downsides just being here alone at home. both with, and without you.

tongue in cheek, he stretches one arm above his head, throwing the other one lazily onto iseul’s back. “i don’t know, my dude.” inguk fake yawns, both arms now joined together around his friend’s shoulders. “sounds like a date to me.” the corner of his mouth quirks up at this, eyes closing once again as he draws one arm away to prop beneath his head.

his voice is soft when he peers down at the other. affectionately is not really a secret. “but it’s cool with me if it’s cool with you.”

“or the back of the library?” a light, amused snort follows. “classy.” 

he’s one to talk, however.

with a heavy sigh,  he drops all his weight on top of the other. iseul’s head finds its way onto inguk’s shoulder, face still buried in the crook of the other’s neck. his favorite spot, if anyone asks. (thankfully no one does. rather, no one asks for details.) he relishes in the other’s warmth, prior plans of heading out dissipating along with his consciousness. it’s easy to fall right asleep here.

he probably knocks out for a whole ten seconds - a talent, feigning thought as he spaces out and dozes off - before he shifts, lazily drapes an arm along the other’s waist. “you’d be disappointed,” he mutters against the other’s skin.  “no dinner and movie tonight,” he admits, sparing the clock across the room a quick glance. “just tequila shots and loud music.” that is, if the plan comes to fruition. otherwise, they can spend another night staying in, and lounging about. somewhere more comfortable then the floor. granted, majority of his person is on inguk rather than the carpet.

“either way,” he adds. i’d blow you anywhere if you’d let me..”

“uh huh.”

it’s more ticklish when iseul parts from his neck as opposed to when he’s buried in it. which is why you should just stay put, he wants to protest. but then inguk sees him as is from down here, and smiles. unapologetically, somehow gratefully. he lets the question hang in the air, feeling just the same when he does.

because this should be enough of an answer, right?

inguk brings his left hand up to brush away his constant companion’s bangs, index finger slowly tracing down the slope of his forehead, nose, mouth when he’s finished. “no,” he, too, answers simply. fights the urge to allow his grin to grow, mindlessly outlining the shape of iseul’s lips as he knocks a knee gently against his hip. come back down. 

some things should really go without saying.

“don’t believe me?” comes in a teasing tone. “i mean, you’re irresistible, but.” i’m a lazy fuck, is what it really means. he attempts to playfully bite the other’s finger, before he asks, more as an afterthought,“did you want to makeout under the bleachers instead?”

how thrilling.

you wouldn’t be the first one.

he buries his head in the crook of the other’s neck. there’s a faint sound of keys jingling that’s beginning to ring in his ears, but that’s probably the lack of sleep (only nine hours!) attempting to pry himself off from the other in a panic that doesn’t occur. not that he cares at this point. the rest of the household can stop and stare for all its worth.

(he’ll regret that decision, if ever.)

“they canceled.”

a quick response. simple in its own right. only because talking isn’t entirely necessary with the way they’re all loose limbs and bodies pressed together on the floor (which, thankfully, they’ve cleaned prior because a vacuum cleaner holds more power than the pen.) 

the lack of space in between is as comfortable as it gets, only because iseul is on top, and his constant companion is soft and warm beneath him. he likes it this way, iseul thinks. rarely pays any heed to whatever his constant companion thinks of the way their arms and legs are sprawled in awkward positions with no intent on moving. right now, it’s not as much twisted.

this is the only way iseul can pretend their hearts are beating in time with each other, and so he listens instead to the sound of inguk’s breathing instead of coming up with a proper, verbal reply, if only to clarify that: i actually skipped, is more the truth. but they canceled, anyway, an additional note. a team member told me. 

he lets the words float around in his head, saving them for later, because he likes to pretend he’ll remember then then even though he never does. the ones that do manage to come out are muffled against the skin of inguk’s neck, so he doesn’t bother, refuses to pull away. they’re not important. you’ll never understand them, anyway. 

arms are on either side of the other’s head when he pulls back.

“would you have waited for me?”