FEATHERMOON

[ ✉ ⇢ Alienmi ]        ⇢ But that is still an invitation… a very tempting one…        ⇢ Oh, oh! A clue? Really? Odd-colored??        ⇢ Did the susuwataris fall in paint before wandering around??? Σ(･口･)        ⇢ In that case… I’M ON MY WAY UNNI! ᕕ༼✿•̀︿•́༽ᕗ        ⇢ … … …        ⇢ I didn’t know you like puns that much?        ⇢ Will do my best to come up with some then!!        ⇢ But Unni! Be careful! Dust is what makes the susuwatari!         ⇢ … does that mean you have some in your nose right now…? Σ(‘◉⌓◉’)

The employee seems to be taking his sweet time talking to his direct superior - or maybe, Mina supposes, he’s still trying to find them. In the meantime, she doesn’t really mind talking to the stranger - she seems like a fun character, and for a complete stranger, she doesn’t make Mina feel all that awkward.

“Cosmic apple mojito.” She repeats the words softly, only to follow with a giggle. They sounded funny when the female had said it, but even funnier coming off her own tongue; generally Mina is a person that’s quite easily amused. She places her hand next to the green stain on the amp, her laughter louder and more natural this time. “I’m not sure it’ll look good on me, but it’s an interesting color!”

She looks up and surveys their surroundings once more, wondering when the employee is going to reappear with proper answers for them. It’s not as if they’re still necessary considering she’s made up her mind to let the girl have the amplifiers, but it would still be better to have everything sorted out so no similar mix-up happens again. Mina is about to mention something about to the girl, but she’s beaten to it when they ask another question.

“Eh?” She flashes a sheepish smile while her fingers lightly scratch at her cheek. It feels like a strange topic - how does she just talk to a complete stranger about the state of her group? Not that it’s a secret either, especially with their drummer ending her contract early. “It’s just our group has been more focused on the dance aspect these days,” she answers finally, trying to be as careful as possible with her words.

Mi’s gaze follows Mina’s hand as it rests against the black of the amp, the green spot like an odd leftover pac-dot. She’s jokingly half-set on---if she gets the amp back safe and sound---tracing an outline where her fingers are splayed and making a little label: AOA Mina’s hand was here. Just for kicks. Not to boast, of course. “I think your stylist should use it for the next concept,” she mumbles in distracted reply, attention unequally divided between the vast possible color combinations of nail polish and the possible future Mina’s bass-playing (maybe not so vast in options).

She knows she doesn’t really---no, doesn’t at all have a place in saying anything or even asking, really. So much of an idol’s life is already by default thrust into the public light; everything is fair game for news fodder, served up as entertainment for the masses. The spotlight is brutal and undiscerning, she can only imagine. So Mi doesn’t want to be the one that pries beyond what the media already so ungraciously unearths---and Mina seems a little hesitant to answer. She must have to choose her words wisely. As evidenced by the prolonged pause between question and answer.

“Ahh,” Mi muses, without much further elaboration. Maybe she ought to also choose her words carefully. “Maybe then---when you’re too old for intense choreo, you’ll whip out your epic band selves again? I mean---not that anyone’s too old to dance-...I mean, you could do wheelchair choreo too.” Mission accomplished to a questionable degree of success.

The return of the store employee redirects her attention soon enough though---he’s waving a thin stack of papers, triumphant grin on his face as though he’s solved the mystery of the century. “I found the forms,” he declares, sliding them over the counter toward the two of them. “Sun Mi-ssi, right? We’re sorry about the mix-up, ladies.”

[ sms ] WOWOWOW!!! I should have adopted one of Fati’s siblings with him, but since he’s my first cat…. [ sms ] soon I will get another cat!! maybe two!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [ sms ] SUNMI SEND ME SOME PICTURES OF THEM! MORE PICTURES!!!! [ sms ] is there anything you need that you dont have for them? litter? food? toys? fati has a lot of toys he used to play with but doesn’t anymore. he has Too Many Toys.  [ sms ] sunmi let me tell you… don’t buy expensive toys because 100% they would much rather play with aluminum balls and paper bags

( SENT 1:39AM → SUN (SPACE)* MI )

➝ …. BAGUETTAR  ➝ MULTI-GRAINSTRUMENTALIST  ➝ IDK WHAT TO SAY ABOUT THAT EXCEPT ILY  ➝ mine was a shitty pun compared to all your bread ones ➝ SEE I WOULDN’T BE SURPRISED IF THEY WERE BRAINWASHED but like with different things??? o.o ➝ IF YOU DON’T TAKE ME ON A SUGAR RIDE, YOU HAVE TO TREAT ME!!!! okay? :DDDD

( outgoing message: mi scellaneous )

I think out of all of those the pitchfork one is probably more accurate.

But I can’t bring out pitchforks to little kids, I might get arrested or something.

Do they still arrest people for being public menaces?  (╥_╥) 

new year new struggles you mean.

the more accurate answer is what ISNT sprouting on my head anymore .

a barren wasteland. a once strong general. they’ll talk about him in the history books. his loss at the hands of pre-school cuties.

THE GIRL WITH THE PIGTAILS LOOKED SO CONFIDENT.

HAVING FALLEN FROM GRACE A LONG TIME ago, jihyun felt obligated to make the best of her life. considering that she too, once upon a time, had wished for nothing more but leave an impact on a stranger’s life, she felt strangely wistful at the mere idea of moving away from the place she had come to call her home for the past few years of her life. there was no denying that her apartment was nothing akin to the luxury she had been granted whilst living the life of a promising little girl but that was quite alright with her; over time, even she had learned to appreciate the beauty of things she could freely determine and choose for herself. there were no more parents demanding this or that, only her skills, her talent and her determination.

so where did it all go wrong? in hindsight, she felt like she had fooled herself into thinking she could gain love, attention and appreciation from those who would wait for her to spread her wings. the ugly truth was far different from that and in moments of particular loneliness, she ached for nothing more but a chance to go back in time and fix what she must’ve damaged. but life didn’t work that way. now she had this place she fondly referred to as her home and an occupation that allowed for her to give back a little bit of a dream that had been shattered long before she reached adulthood.

snapping herself out of these depressing thoughts, jihyun made sure to lace her voice with as much cheerfulness as possible in order to avoid for possible tension to arise. “yes, if you manage to fix it, and then only. that’s my type of payment and i have to make sure you can live up to your reputation, so what’re you saying: are you in?“ laughing at the sudden shift in atmosphere, she greatly appreciated sunmi’s easygoing ways before thanking her for her kindness. “i’m at home, so you can drop by whenever you want. i’ve done my share of work today and the studio should be closed already.” swiftly glancing over to the clock, jihyun made a mental notice to call the other trainer who was supposed to lock the studio after leaving. “uh, that’s a good question. i think it broke apart but not cleanly, like you said       it’s more of a splinter. the leg broke apart twice in the middle and that thing looks like i could hurt myself if i try anything without knowing what to do.”

Flightiness had prepared Mi for many-a-thing in life. Being a jack-of-many-trades had its upsides and downsides; she couldn’t call herself a master at anything: even the finer points and details and techniques of upholstery escaped her in bouts of fickleness and ensuing frustration (although this year, she vowed to buckle down and tackle them). But on the other hand, she was handy in most situations. Case in point: biking with one hand while on the phone, diagnosing a broken table and prescribing it medicine until she could get to it. Carpentry and woodwork were by no means her area of expertise, but working alongside some of the finest (in her opinion) craftsmen, plus a nosily curious and creative mind tended to earn her more knowledge than she needed for her job. Basic wood repairs, as a result, were not usually a problem.

“I’m in, I’m so in,” she confirmed, laughing, spirits high with the prospect of creative challenge. “I’m gonna fix that table leg even if it means not having my next meal---cooked by you, of course---until two days later.” The banter that they fell into was like the road back to the shop---easy, familiar, as though those long stretches of absence had no effect whatsoever. Mi didn’t like phone calls: they were odd, too distant and too intimate at the same time. But with the right people, they were a welcomed lullaby, an uplifting hymn. “You’re home already? That’s good to know---so, can you give me more details---wait. It broke apart twice?! Yah... where did you even get that from? Is it made of cardboard?” She shook her head in disbelief, weaving between other bikers at increasing speed until the darkened shop windows appeared down the block.

“everyone dies, eh?” he raises a brow, throwing a curious, crooked grin her way as he shifts the weight of the box in his hands to one arm. his other hand reaches out instinctively for her, an anchor to her elbow until her teetering stops and she stands steady on her feet. his hand does not linger, after. instead, he resumes adjusting the weight of the box in his arms and nods his head towards the exit just up ahead. “huh. that’s… surprisingly morbid. but interesting. i always thought you’d be more optimistic than that, little mi.”

the words slip out before he can stop them – as easy as that grin that always finds its way onto his face when she stops by. as smooth as the coconut water that she pours into his shot glass when she thinks that no one is looking. pursing his lips, he stares at her, now, and realizes… realizes that he really doesn’t know very much about her at all. not enough to make an assumption about her, anyway.

                            mi… do you know her?                                                 yeah. yeah, she’s miso’s friend.

it isn’t until a beat later that he finally begins to move, expression shuttering closed as he steps in front to lead the way. “there’s a fine line between something being dangerous or something being entertaining, little lightweight,” he replies distractedly, humming along to the song that millic has left playing on his cell phone, propped up by the open front door. as the exit draws closer, the fact that it’s nearing 1 am – in the middle of january, to boot – becomes startlingly clear. hyuk glances to his side, once outdoors, his brow furrowing when he realizes that the petite female isn’t dressed for the part.

( he considers giving her his coat. but she doesn’t seem like the type to take it. …though – there he goes again. making another assumption. about a woman he doesn’t really know yet. about a woman who doesn’t really know him yet, either. ) 

“so,” hyuk says suddenly, setting the box in his arms down into camper’s trunk with a grunt. he turns and reaches for the box of palm trees in her arms, too, expression unreadable. he always was shit at beating around the bush. “i found out – the other day – that we have another mutual friend. apparently. i think?” he pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a faint shadow of the grin he had offered her earlier. he can only hope that the teasing lilt to his voice takes off the edge, now. “that is – if we’re friends, anyway, lil mi.”

Optimistic. One of her traits by popular association, or popular demand. What everyone tells her she is---so much so that she can’t tell if she’s adopted it because of that, amplified it and played it up when she’s not sure she even knows what the word means, if it’s a defining absolute, or a spectrum. But she takes it anyway, because she knows it’s at least a distant synonym of hope, and she likes to think she’s hopeful. “I’m observant,” she says aloud, more a side addendum than a correction, the buzz of beer thinning any barrier of verbal filters. “And--” she continues, bumping his hip lightly with the drooping flap of her box, “--not that little.”

He’s not much older than her---no, he’s technically actually younger, now that she thinks about it, but when he calls her ‘little’, she doesn’t find herself reacting with any outright complaint or rejection. It’s not condescending. Maybe it’s that aura, that odd intersection of wisdom (’there’s a fine line between something being dangerous or something being entertaining’) and wild, both conventionally associated with opposite ends of the age spectrum, yet transcendent when mixed. She doesn’t know---but when he says ‘little’, she just finds herself following along. “Maybe they have stricter referees then,” she mumbles in reply.

The music seeps through the open doorway and into the hall before the winter air does, each more saturated by the other. They step over the threshold, Mi taking extra care to pick up her feet, so as not to trip---which she manages to avoid with flying colors. He doesn’t speak, so she doesn’t either: the combination of his smooth humming and the soundwaves of song are pleasantly amplified in the quiet of emptied streets, more entrancing than words could ever be---she nearly runs headlong---boxlong into him when he stops to load the truck, and she almost misses the downbeat of his words in her fumbled omo!---Sorry! 

( TXT : SUNMI

is this how lice feel?

…

oh god

I was imagining someone sticking their tongue out to catch snowflakes BUT NOW I’M THINKING OF DANDRUFF AND I FEEL THE NEED TO WASH MY TONGUE

“Sounds like you have sort of the rustic vibe coming from your own decorations– maybe you can add some hand carved figurines? One made of like wood and stuff to place about on the mantles and whatnot.” As she formed a visual image in her head, her eyes would continue to glance around at the shelves and different aisles they would pass, seeing if any would hold such merchandise to fit her own description. Still, the task at hand making this small plant in a homemade fashion was one of the main reasons for coming in itself, that she seemed to steer away from the objective at hand thinking of other things.

Greenery was something that came in ample supply, along with differentiating textures and appearances depending on the type of plant the two would choose from. “I was going to say we could use pine? Sort of like what Christmas trees are, but I don’t think that really fits the image of them, does it?” It felt like a moment of complete blankness, as she couldn’t seem to form an entire image of just what the mistletoe would even look like, which was when her phone came to her rescue as she whipped it out of the pocket of her coat to open up a search engine.

“Hand-carved figurine?” As enticing as the image of small crafted objects lining the flat surfaces of her apartment is, the idea brings back a rather horrendously failed attempt at the same craft from years ago. The end result had been a sadly splintered and whittled away lump of plywood (admittedly not at all a great choice of material) carrying almost zero semblance to the squirrel it was modeled after. “I think... I’ll leave that to the pros,” Mi concludes with a laugh. “Decreases risk of splinters too---I get enough of those.”

 for as careless as woogil had, very clearly, been with the cushions in question, he takes a defensive, almost primal stance against the stranger behind the counter every time lithe fingers dance across the sullied fabric. ironic, perhaps, seeing as how he had been the one to trash them to begin with, and it was he, after all, who had plopped the things before her imploring ( see: demanding ) they be fixed. and if not ironic, simply ludicrous. 

“no.” comes his bark of a response, but exactly to what, even he isn’t so sure. so he thinks fast with a thick swallow, opting to address the infuriating woman’s first question. “no to the first thing. i think?” he’s unraveling, his nerves spiked and heart hammering against his ribs to the point that just might call for some slight concern, and whether he’s willing to admit it or not–and lord knows he is not–he needs to calm himself down in order for any of this to move on.

and it’s simultaneously just that easy, and just that difficult. with a dip of his head, his elbows find the counter between himself and the stranger simply trying to do her job, a sickly grin tugging at full lips to reveal a straight, flawless row of teeth that really don’t belong where such despicable filth falls from. all at once, woogil is a new man, beaming sinfully sweet up at the girl whose name he had failed to catch, or care about to begin with. 

“that’s smooth, really, dollface.” he begins dully, fingers skipping their way across the surface until they meet the crease of the inside of her elbow in what could barely be considered contact. “fascinatin’ way to ask t’come home with me. anyway, do what ya gotta do, reupholster the whole thing. do a good enough job, n’maybe i’ll let you visit, yeah? y’got a name? so i know whose call to expect when it’s done, and all.”

The young man’s abrupt response falls so harshly and suddenly on the heels of her own words that Mi almost loses her place, thrown off by the way it’s nervously blurted out, aggressive as the rest of his words had been but---if she’s caught it accurately---with a sudden volatility and unsureness, as though rapidly descending.

By the time Mi opens her mouth to respond, though, the moment is gone, what Mi has quickly learned is a smile of deceptive sorts birthed from the volatility, covering all traces of the previous uncertainty and locking it away with smooth words. Smooth words, laced with the hints of danger. He’s unpredictable, this man, unless it’s her own anxiety distorting the whole situation. 

But even her own imagined anxiety couldn’t change the fact that his fingers are much, much closer to her skin than what she’s comfortable with, and she has to stop from instinctively jerking away, instead contenting herself with casually pulling her arm back, pretending to busy her hands with finding a notepad and pen on a shelf under the counter. The dull pulse of blood in her chest and ears is a confirmation that given free reign, she’d retort fiercely with bravery she probably doesn’t even have---but again she pulls back, offering him a thin smile, not wanting to disturb the peace of the rest of the shop. A slow whimsical jazzy tune plays inappropriately in the distant background.

Yes, I know I’ve not been here, but I don’t wanna leave things hanging so-

❛ What if I use a type writer? Then what?

NIGHT HANGS HEAVY in the sky just outside her windows, but the room is flush with light and littered with a random scattering of toys. blocks, balls, and cards lay in pockets of the space, a consequence of being tossed around by restless children– though thankfully the mess tonight is lighter than the previous. tuesdays were like that: a lesser and weaker monday as children let the rowdiness and frenzy from a weekend away from friends slip from their grasps and slide back into a stupor of obedience and discipline, as much as five and six year olds could handle anyway.

the opposite was true for september, papers strewn on the desk before her, hand buried beneath locks of her hair and in desperate need of a pick-me-up, or coffee, or both. tuesdays were days spent recovering from the lethargy of mondays but packed with just short the dosage of energy proper to regain her footing. by the time the strength required for this career came, the week was over and september’s left wondering whether a week was too little time or too much. most times, she leans toward the latter. the job doesn’t stop once the children leave; it demands ceaselessly, invariably chipping away at her reserves of energy. and nights like these, she wishes she were younger.

the teacher’s mid-stretch, back arching over the support of her chair, arms extending beyond as her fingers graze the whiteboard behind, when mi’s voice explodes through the barrier and her smack reverberates through the walls of her room. the older’s arms lurch back toward her chest as she caves forward in fear, a “holy shit” slipping through her lips instinctively. ( despite obtaining a job as a kindergarten teacher and supposed role model for south korea’s youth, september has yet to fully shake her swearing habit. fortunately, the majority of her swears happen to be english; unfortunately, the fact was of little difference to unknowing kindergarten students. a foreign word was a foreign word, and a new word was always to be repeated three times after miss nari introduces it. thankfully, such an instance has only occurred once and has been tucked under the carpet quickly and quietly. )

her face reads bewilderment, combined with a dash of curiosity and a sprinkle of mild amusement. eyebrows raised and arms now folded across her chest, she watches mi’s presentation unfold before her, quite unsure where she’d like to begin. “well, first of all,” she starts, lifting her body from her seat, “we don’t give grades in kindergarten; it’s discouraging. the children play more than they learn; they’re still babies, y’know. and second–” she takes meandering steps around the desk to approach mi, head cocked curiously before leaning further for a glance at the clock just beyond mi’s head. “–aren’t you like half an hour early?”

September is like fire. It’s cliche, but true---at least for the time being, based on what observations Mi has gathered. Her flame is bright, shimmering and rippling in mesmerizing waves that catch the eye from afar. Warm at times, a gentle, courageous and bold red that Mi finds herself circling tighter and tighter around, drawn in. Yet at other times, it seems to teeter on a border between recklessness and control, sparks flying, ripples of flame undulating with an alarmingly erratic pulse. Mi has yet to tiptoe close enough to find out whether this is a flame that warms, or a flame that burns and leaves irreparable ruins behind.

Even now, she rises from her seat with an inherent force that seems to fill the room and burst from its seams. Magnetic, electric, with each step closer. Singularly entrancing, albeit at a distance. Distance, Mi knows all too well, translates into all kind of illusions. But for now, she is content to bask in the warm company of a friend.

She mimics September, crossing her arms as well and offering her own knowing grin as the woman approaches. “Okay, true, true---I mean, honestly?---I don’t think they should give grades, ever. But you can still have favorite students, right? And you never said I wasn’t your favorite.” She winks, the expression exaggerated, making her whole face wrinkle up in the effort. Squatting for a moment over the cooler bag, she unzips it and rummages. “I am... but I heard the best students always arrive early to class to do some extra studying, so here I am... wait... I brought something too... for extra cred---ah! Ta-da!” Mi stands so quickly that the abrupt motion leaves her teetering, sidestepping once to find her footing again, but her hands fortunately still hold fast to an old maroon thermos, thrust triumphantly out into the air in an instinctive effort at preservation. After all, Mi has had many close calls with nearly dropping valuable objects, and today, the prime offering is certainly valuable. Sacred. “Coffee for the lady,” she announces in her best waitress voice, presenting the thermos to September with both hands. “Dark roast with three spoonfuls of honey and milk, and!---there’s a jar of honey in my bag in case you need another spoonful.”