he shall appear –
8 years ago. young and 20 with @chaoticreds‘ queen of hearts, katherine.
violence made this whole thing real, like the cracking hit of broken glass over the edge of the worn, sticky counter, or the resulting blood splayed and sprayed on gin-and-vodka floor. it wasn’t junho’s adding to the dripping liquid, half from red and half from golden brown, and he certainly didn’t hesitate crouching down and searching the older, burlier man’s pockets for money to pay the bartender back then, and take some for his own. the glass could have cut his throat; he was just too fast right now for death and, at the moment, there was some odd satisfaction that death would come nonetheless when he was old and slow, and he would become young again when that whole affair was done. the curse made it so. violence made it real.
as real as it was, he shouldn’t have been surprised that a red-clad foreigner waltzed her way into the dingy, less-frequented bar. a real western melodrama, he was demanded and he sat, listened and waited, idly rubbing the layer of bandages over his knuckle-white hands. seola had given him enough of an earful about the whole affair, and he didn’t need another. “you’re telling me that was your left hand man?” out came the incredulity, drowned sooner rather than later by a swallowed shot of rum on the rocks. he raised the glass between them idly, one arm extended over the table in the booth, holding it between her face and his. the only difference between his drink and the tall meal in front of him is that the one he’s drinking is cheap. both foreign, either way, but junho isn’t one to judge. he wasn’t always from here. “you gotta choose your men better, kiddo. blood on the dance floor is a shitty song, not something to live by.”
