#chraeon

Ryu liked to call Hongdae, ANNA LAND, though never to the woman’s face. She was the personification of Hongdae in some ways, more what its values were. Those values she would lecture about oh too easily. Free spirited, living your way, expressing as you see it, all of that was good and suited to a college town but there were things outside of Anna’s view of what the little neighborhood was that served a bigger picture. 

Ryu wouldn’t fight her about the image of her precious Hongdae. No, there was no need to bring out those Annaisms. He was after all capitalizing off of that exact notion. 

What brought the male to the region was neither the woman nor his businesses, even as they were spreading throughout, silently invading. He had just f e l t for it. Yet as he locked the parked Bentley, he had to wonder if it was his subconscious that sent him there, reminding that he hadn’t quite decided how to fulfill that ‘silent submersion’ theme of unveiling the new projects. Hongdae would be painted over in those three colors of the CJ brand, slowly. It couldn’t be rushed. Overnight six coffee shops and four beauty bars wouldn’t just appear. Nothing of such poor taste would ever be associated with that brand.

Yet there would still be an invasion. The millennial consumer would be seduced into a loyalty to the CJ brand, their every fickle desire would be sated and it would happen unnoticed, subtly lingering in the depths of their mind. 

Even as Ryu’s vision lingered, multiple thoughts manifesting for consideration but none being quite right. It would continue for as long as he stayed in the region, in the back of his mind, reminding him there were deadlines, all waiting on his inspiration. His eyes washed over the site before him, knowing what the scaffolding hid, warning of those very same deadlines. 

Then he turned, hooking his camel coat over his left arm, beginning his lazy stroll. The weather was surprisingly warm, a welcomed distraction from all the holiday commotion. His right hand slipped into the pocket of his jeans as he eased away from a couple, arms linked and moving fast, clearly unwilling to break for the man who, unlike them, had no where to be. Easing to the side, his eyes then ventured across the street, memory reminding him of an ally just up ahead. Jaywalking with long strides, he avoided slowly moving vehicles, coming to a halt to let off passengers. 

Somewhere music was being played. A guitar and and distorted vocals, recreating an old song with such unique flavor Ryu hummed along. Even as his movement led him away from the source, he hummed. That leisurely stroll led him past two others, both walking at similar paces. At the sight of blended colors along a wall, he stopped then moved again, moving closer. 

It was interesting. The creator’s vision of humanity was on clear display and Ryu couldn’t help but agree. The simplistic drawing of the human features while the objects they hid beneath were well detailed, it made Ryu smile as his eyes passed from portion to portion, mumbling thoughts aloud as they formed.

“Is that a disco ball? What do these kids know about disco?” “Uhm Jung Hwa?”

( @chraeon ; )

jun doesn’t know if it’s after the sixth or seventh or eighth shot of strawberry vodka that he starts seeing double, all he knows is that his sofa isn’t as low as he thought and his bookcase isn’t as high as he thought and he doesn’t know which limbs are his legs and which are his hands but curiously enough, while he puts his shoes the wrong way and walks out into the bustling streets of itaewon, his brain finds the way to hold onto the small box the whole way, protecting it with his life. 

jun doesn’t know if it’s after the fourth or fifth or sixth taxi passing by him like he’s a ghost that his cheek lands on the smooth and cold surface of black leather and his whole world changes the gravity center when he brings himself up to sit, babbling out an address to the driver frowning at him through the rearview mirror. the street lights look like a picasso painting, something he can’t make sense of, and his headache makes the radio playing trot songs in the background sound like some kind of satanic ritual is going on inside the taxi, slowing it down like time’s about to stop. 

jun doesn’t know if it’s after the tenth or eleventh or twelfth minute that he arrives at yuri’s dorm, dropping a few bills on the back seat of the car and dragging himself towards the entrance, hugging the small box to his chest under his jacket. the security guard looks at him for a moment, giving him the same frown as the taxi driver but pays him no mind once he walks decidedly, like he knows where he’s going (he doesn’t), inside the building. 

jun doesn’t know if it’s after the first or second or third time he knocks on yuri’s door that tears start running down his face, all he knows is that his chest aches and he’s sorry, that he wrote himself the letter inside the box and crafted the coffee mug reading ‘capitalist tears’ himself at some pottery shop he found online, that he can’t forget the way yuri’s eyes close when he smiles or his calloused yet somehow smooth hands and soothing voice at one in the morning.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!!! WHY Y'ALL PLAYIN!!!

The back of his head tickles, like a million fingertips gently tapping him all at once— it’s the bass of a moderately shitty live band that creeps through his skin, involuntarily. Yuri ended up here to calm down, after an intense meeting with a much too apprehensive investor for him to stay comfortable. Somehow (he has no idea how), he succeeded in convincing the man that nothing was wrong, everything was under control. Considering he doesn’t have a single bruise, he calls this a victory of sorts. Maybe that he’d even celebrate, instead. The drummer can’t stay on the beat, but the rest of them seem decent. That’s not why he’s here, the music is just a good distraction, whether good or bad. It keeps peoples’ attention on off-beat hi-hat instead of curiously looking around in the bar. It fits him perfectly for when he doesn’t feel like cramming himself into a dorm full of testosterone-driven bulls.

A creaking sound appears from nowhere, making Yuri turn his head. He doesn’t do it too quickly in order to not seem frightened, nor is he. Keeping an eye on what’s around him is the only way he can relax, it’s happened too many times that he’s relaxed at the wrong point in time. They can lure in every shadow and crevice, but honestly he doesn’t care enough to stay alert every second. If they want to find him, they will. The sound comes from the chair on the other side of the table. Since the place is quite packed he just assumes that it’s someone who stole the seat just because there’s not much to choose from. Yuri decides it’s nothing important, so he doesn’t remotely even look in their direction, not at first at least.

The longer they remain in place, he can’t help but to look. It’s a male, seemingly well below middle aged. Probably a little bit other than himself. That’s all the information he can gather for the few seconds he analyzes them. The posture isn’t in any way suspicious or alarming, though there’s just something that is. Could be the fact that they’re looking right at him. Not meeting the eye contact, he’s fascinated by their hands instead. They’re completely still, not even a flinch. Hands are pretty good at revealing a state of mind. His hands tell nothing, not even a whisper. Therefore the line comes as a surprise, disregarding the fact that he had a set of eyes staring him down for a minute or two. Whoever he is, he seems too calm. This time, he looks up, giving off a quick glance before a lackluster smile. “Is there something we should be talking about?”

Music hums on skin and that is the only comfort that puts his heart from his throat back into his chest. Anxiety melts off between trades of handshakes with strangers and clapping hands on his back before he’s offered a drink. Shakes his head just to ignore the cold sweat waiting to happen. The decline is met with an elbow in his side and muttered--tight ass, and he slaps their touch away with a laugh when their hands assault the same place. Their conversation is all strangely repetitive and numbing. He can’t be bothered to stay too long and no one stops him when he disappears with a muttered ‘more drinks!’

The job sometimes is merely enticing a client with topics they’re interested in and planting subconscious triggers. As long as someone is open-minded or horny enough--swaying their decisions usually works. Luckily the band is alright, and ears do not tune it out as he waits for the right target. Scanning the crowd with only miniscule details and a bad driver’s license photo to go off of, there is that nagging suspicion that they might not even show up tonight. Sometimes even old socialites break a routine of predictable bar hopping and he tries not to think about how disappointed his employer will be. Distractions, distractions, distractions.

No one is interesting enough in here to consider talking to except for the man sitting alone. It’s not odd to go out alone--but one man is still enough that he takes out his sketchbook and starts to draw. Maybe they’re sad, or just broke up with a girlfriend--looks put together enough to be a heartbreaker. They do not seem so simple or tragic, but his pencil flows easier with a story. Minjae even grows curious enough to claim the seat in front of them and settles in easily. It’s always interesting how people prove him wrong and he smiles when they’re so stiff.

“Plenty to talk about.”

Choosing now to reveal the sketchbook, he swivels it so they can see the mirror of their own portrait. Charcoal, no colors, and he swipes two fingers below the line of a cheekbone to finish shading. Fingertips are now stained black, sides of his hands dirty like he’d shoved them down a chimney. His nose itches and he swipes at narrow bridge of skin just with his nail, sniffing. He cocks a brow.

you love me so much you tagged em twice <3

she thinks this is how it’s always been. 

she renders herself an anomaly amongst the majority, carefully hidden into the folds of the every day. she’s never had to force simplicity, finds herself accepting the things that time erodes; memories, until those too, fade away.

it’s her father’s voice in her head first, then the feeling of wearing a coat with cuffs drooping past her knees. his rugged breathing, the stale stench of his cigars and vodka throughout the house. his thick fingers wiping the lipstick stain off of his shirt, or her slender ones rubbing off the nicotine from raw skin before her brother comes home. she really didn’t think he would mind.

she learns to conceptualize what she can’t see. school teaches her about the human body, its anatomy a plethora of sinews, vessels and veins, the four chambers of the heart. wonders how something strewn together with such complexity could be destroyed just as easily. she thinks about the rhythm of her pulse, racing and perpetual; she’s never had a single moment to slow down. did she ever really try? everything is fleeting. she must be too.

“i don’t, huh.”

she’s gripping at a small cup of tea, jeju’s finest, hot ceramic a pleasant burn against her fingers. something about yuri has her looking up for a moment too long, eyes hovering over his before they drop to the corner of her napkin. then to the wisps of hot air rising from his cup.

is she truly ravaged or just calloused to these turn of events?

she laughs, bemused, careful not to betray the curve of her lips with the words that leave them.

you noticed.

not-doing-too-good starters / accepting! / @chraeon

the nightmares are getting worse. even when he jolts awake, gasping and trembling, he can still hear the crunching of her bones, the mangling of her throat. he can feel her flesh twist and tear, what it feels like at his fingertips and buried beneath his nails. when he sits up from the pavement, he can still feel the phantom lingering of her blood across his face, how it had burst from her snapping joints and showered him in brilliant red. when his eyes fly open for the second time in the same night, skin stained from yet another nosebleed, he gives up on sleep altogether. she will not grace him tonight.

the hour hand is nudging at three when he slinks into the diner, past the dingy glass door and beneath a rusting bell. it hardly chimes when he enters, but it may as well be a siren in the silence that has been otherwise undisturbed. he hates it. the sunken rings of lavender beneath his eyes appear almost turquoise beneath the green-tinted lights, but the melancholy he wears must not be an uncommon look for late-night patrons. the woman behind the counter greets him without missing a beat, unperturbed by the listlessness of his gaze; as awful as he looks, she has probably seen worse.

his muscles groan in protest as he retrieves what litle cash he has from the pocket of his jeans, straightening out the wrinkles and creases before counting the total, twice. it isn’t until after his gaze floats between the plastic-covered menu on the counter and the bills in his hands, then back to the menu again does he place his modest order for a single serving of french fries. he is as slow to move as he is to speak, but the server doesn’t seem to mind. there are only two other people in the building, not counting the pair in the kitchen, and they look just about as close to death’s door as he does. there’s no rush.

somewhere between the sizzling of oil and the traffic signal switching from green to yellow, a voice cuts through the music playing from an old radio in the kitchen. how’d you get a bruise like that? it asks, and the weary-eyed boy has to wait a full twenty seconds to make sure the voice is speaking to him. he can’t count even with all the hairs on his head how many times he’s turned to answer a question, only to realise it hadn’t been meant for him. they’re always for other souls, contained only in the glimpses that he can catch of other worlds, other times. so when it becomes clear that, for once, a stranger is speaking to him, he glances at their shoes, then at the end of the barstool they’re sat in. they must be asking about the bruise on his jaw, the one he’d gotten when he–