@arcjihoon​ ; 11:45 pm, moonsoo’s room.

moonsoo knows he's not the easiest person to get along with, to even want to be around. it comes with the territory of who he is as a person, and who he's twisting himself into with the aid of his newfound abilities. control placed in the hands of someone that's desperate for it doesn't often lead to the best of circumstances. still, there are some that are capable of putting up with him, of looking past the selfish manner in which he lives by. that doesn't mean it's not for lack of trying (conscious or not), and moonsoo has an uncanny ability to pick and prod until eventually something gives. until eventually it all collapses and people pull themselves away from the chaos that he is. 

a self-fulfilling prophecy, and moonsoo can never seem to curb the destructive tendencies he has. can never seem to stop pushing people away, separating himself from the mentality that nobody really matters, that everyone can be bent to his will like marionettes. 

jihoon is among them, a sardonic streak to match moonsoo's own, though perhaps not quite as pointedly cruel. it seems to be an unmatched specialty that moonsoo possesses. they're friends, the sort of friends that drink together, the sort of friends that keep each other updated about what's going on in their lives. more specifically, moonsoo had been aware that jihoon and areum briefly dated, that jihoon wasn't entirely over it. more specifically, moonsoo is the type of friend that didn't give that a second thought when he was placed on a team with areum, and they got more than a little close. after all, his own needs are ranked far above jihoon's. it's how he compartmentalizes everything, anyway. so self-centered that he doesn't pause to think if jihoon will care, just carries on like normal. lets jihoon into his room to drink and marathon their way through a collection of torrented movies. 

But even the lunar tides grow worn and weary, constantly kissing the rubble that dusts the surface of its mate. Why do you think there are footsteps, and not feet, left?

The capacity at which humans can tolerate stress tends to be overlooked. And though experts claim martyrs and miracles, what deems these humans competent enough to be granted even just a moment of immorality which reigns a cut above the rest? Is it simply Darwinism? Are these individuals the fittest amongst their species? Or perhaps, have they been naturally selected to not succumb to destruction as their fellow humans have? They say a battle of mind over matter, mind shall overcome.

But does the mind really overcome?

The reverbing hums that regurgitated amongst the cacophony of insect chatter spun and manifested through the canals of his ears, forcing him to partake in drinking the accumulating resonance that clamored in the gray matter that sloshed through his skull. As the spinning needle conducted by a symphony of cicadas blew their impromptu through his flesh, the rise and fall of his chest began to subside. Each breath that caught in his throat manifested careful consciousness as he finally managed to slow the pulsing that throbbed at his neck, sinking its teeth along his veins before swallowing the calm that would soon swim through his blood.

A chill kissed at his nape as he felt the foundation crumble beneath him.

The walls are shifting with an eerie silence, slicing through predetermined patterns as they danced amongst the plane to reveal onyx barricades draped amongst a coal mezzanine. The amount of clairvoyance that is revealed deceives his eyes, offering fog crusts amongst the obsidian labyrinth. Tilting his head back as his pupils adjusted to the change in light, he was met with infinite obscurity that conjured a feeling of anxiousness in the pit of his being.

It takes a slew of miscounted minutes before the process of his nerves wakes through his bones, nipping at his stiffened muscles to rotate his joints forward – as if each segment of his body were not his own, but one piece of a whole tempting him to bring them all forward. And he hears the crack of his own exhausted voice slip through his parched lips, move. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, his aching arches force him forward and through the halls of the plagued embankment that has him trapped between it.

And he counts each steady step to keep himself focused, his eyes locked on each foot setting itself in front of the other.

One, two, three.

It starts to feel natural, comfortable even, as he continued through the passage while the walls felt as if they were engulfing him deeper and deeper into its belly.

Sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven.

And he wonders if there is a sudden incline, peering behind himself only to see the same trail behind him as is forward. Yet, his breaths are getting slower, steeper as if each one were desperately begging to escape.

So he speeds up.

Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty.

Acrid, copper tainted bile formed in the back of his throat as he finally noticed that he was not responsible for the anxiety that began to consume him.

The walls were getting narrow.

And he stops counting.

A sudden flood grips around his throat, delving him into the sapphire brine that cages him within itself. The blood in his fingers escapes as he feels his vision disjunction, seamlessly revealing a path to the surface above him with cement licking at his ankles. And when he opens his mouth to utter a scream, a breath, a word – it’s gone.

There isn’t even a puddle around his feet.

The rest is left to his body as he hears the stammering steps propelling him forward, aiding him in an escape that would hopefully allow him to regain his sanity that has been forfeited once more to the single thing that kept him hostage. And he’s panting until he sees the vague outline of a figure, forcing him to slow but not quick enough as his body slams into the other

@arcjihoon  – past

Thoughts are not always clear. Sometimes they're fragmented, broken up into jarring, disjointed pieces. Sometimes thoughts overlap, blend together into something wholly distracting and headache inducing. Sometimes they're things Romi's not supposed to hear. Sometimes they're things she doesn't want to hear. Jihoon's head has, of late, been radiating thoughts that have kept her away, attempting to skirt outside of his periphery until only the diluted remnants of what had been tumbling around his mind manage to find her. 

It's not that Romi dislikes him – how can she, after all, when they're together – it's just oh so difficult to compartmentalize everything, to forgive every errant, angry thought. Every question of whether or not they're getting a little too close when Romi leans in and cards their fingers together. Every compulsive, fleeting notion of doubt. Every drunken, muddled murmur in his own mind about how maybe he needs to put the brakes on things before he gets in too deep. Romi can't blame him, she's not sure she would want to drown in herself either. But that's the problem, a curse that's wound through her powers. A hidden ability, one that keeps others from getting too close. Romi's sure she's destined to take up knitting and live in an isolated shack up in the mountains with fourteen cats, it's probably only a matter of time. 

But not yet, not when she's still attempting to make things work. But it's hard to keep pretending she doesn't see the doubt, hard to keep pretending everything's fine. Hard to keep pretending she's happy, now, with her hand resting on the handle to Jihoon's door. When his thoughts carry a lewd daydream of a girl that's definitely not her. Normal. It's normal. And it is normal, but that doesn't make it all any less painful when she's forced to listen in. She'd already gone through it all once with her ex, and it's hard to even remember why she thought it was a good idea to try it all over again with Jihoon.