#chrsummer21

there’s an expected sense of quiet in the air that comes hand in hand with the early morning, muffled conversations in the glamping tents and the waves against the shore being the only audible noises in the dark. yet there’s a certain irony in the way that the clock on his phone reads 04:02AM in bright, white numbers, as though it’s reminding him that he should be asleep right now, but hansol thinks this is the most awake he’s ever felt for a long time.

from here on the shore, he can barely tell the difference between where the sky ends and where the sea begins, had it not been for the faint glow of the moon luminating the ill-defined ripples of the water, a picturesque photo definition of the word serenity. it’s too pretty a sight to share alone, especially on a night where hansol wants to be anything other than lonely, and it doesn’t take long for him to decide what he wants to do.

he drops the cigarette and digs it into the ground with the heel of his foot as he makes his way back inside the tent, pushing the hood of his jacket down. it’s easy to spot him. hansol thinks it’s obvious how he stands out even against a crowd of people, let alone a tent full of barely fifteen people. sunan’s back is turned to him, and he takes advantage of it to slip behind the other easily, voice low and quiet.

“gotcha.” he murmurs against the other’s ear, in case there are any curious people listening in, grinning as his fingers clasp around sunan’s wrist and turns him around. the cold metal of the other’s cartier bracelet leaves goosebumps against his skin, but hansol doesn’t let go. 

   it’s much later in the night-- you couldn’t call it the end because well , parties didn’t seem to be doing that lately.. it was always one day of drinking bleeding into the next and to be fair , she had participated just as much as the next person. not tonight though. tonight it was about just enough alcohol in her system to keep the fun going while rounds were made to greet anyone and everyone. 

    earlier in the evening was when she first stumbled upon a more than just greet and go kinda friend.. nabi had been a few drinks ahead but nothing too crazy and after all , it was a party --- so they caught up , laughed , possibly had a shot together and went their own ways. it was simple , but any moment shared between the two always sat so fondly with her ---- no one could quite put a finger on it , but they worked. despite the ever conflicting personalities.. they worked. 

     flashback to the first time they met , to the way jamie was being.... jamie and in all her jamie-ness , she didn’t mind the rather stoic response to the hand she extended for friendship , rather just adjusted to it and perhaps tried toning it down to avoid any awkward uncomfortableness --- but also her brain wouldn’t catch up sometimes in front of a gorgeous woman and the cheesy , flirty and totally unnecessary side would show up... hey , at least it made her laugh and henceforth , the bar owner would do anything to make her laugh. 

    the crowd was thinning out , people stumbling their way around now as the music didn’t seem louder like it did before ( or maybe she just got used to it ) , she bid farewell to the group around her after making sure they found their way back okay before footsteps made their way to the nearest bar for a nightcap when a known voice rang through her ears. 

It’s a long abhorrence, scalding, one he nurses to a malleable perfection. Its particular use, however, was still undecided. Still as debatable as it had been since its inception, somewhere along his adolescence. He recounts himself almost festering amidst his unlit bedroom, this resentment a type of possession asphyxiating him tightly, cutting more deeply each passing schoolday. 

He suspects it’s because he remembers his original foray into the highschool. Still young enough then to be unassuming, innocent and openminded. A new attendee: he wanted friends, he had to reach out to make them. He ensured his own amicability, words fumbling, smiling nevertheless. 

A vulnerability. His hatred begins when he makes himself weak and doesn’t assess it as weakness. When he tries to reach out and doesn’t dismiss the thought as pointless. That moment recycling itself: stood stupidly at lunch period, working a wasted hope for social acceptance, maybe. 

Haseok tramples that.

The figurative stampede persists unrelentingly in a resounding murder. It’s repeated by the day, any mutual period change that might see them beside each other in a corridor. It never ends, evidently. It’s just a long pause, resumed when the superyacht they’re aboard proves uncomfortably small somehow. Small enough that they overlap, a brief collision seeing Sunan’s drink poured over Haseok’s shirt in a generous douse. 

“Fuck!” Glass put aside, hands padding about for some kind of tissue. “No, it wasn’t fucking deliberate. Don’t start with me, either. You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I care enough about you to try and ruin your fucking clothes at a party.” Venomous enough for a partial lie. “Maybe if you fucking moved instead of just fucking standing there — !”

this is a lesson in slippery slopes, she thinks, an entirely intentioned step into sungho’s personal space at the bonfire, and then into his bed, and now she’s got a warm body flush against hers and nowhere else to go. no—she supposes it started with accepting that invitation, when the other had still been just a friendly senior, comfortable and familiar enough to be free of second-guessed motives. look at where that got them. the tips of her hair brush his cheek when she pulls back and looks down at him, lips bruised red and tender. a tongue darts across the seam of them, somin laughing a little at his expression after, leans back in—

and startles almost clear off the bed when the room shakes with thunder. somin glares at the uncooperative weather. she props herself up on an elbow against the other’s side, probably digging unrepentantly there. “ugh, hasn’t it rained enough?” she complains, when a second roll of thunder definitely does not make her jump again. the air’s been staticky and damp with the storm the whole day, ocean roiling in agreement with its mirror above. beach plans ruined, it’s been too unpleasant all around to do much, but at least somin’d found something else to keep herself occupied with.

the late afternoon sun casts an orange shadow through the venue and she is filled with nothing but contentment at the vision that greets her. hours worth of planning, directing, and organising had led to this ─ a party decked out in shooting star’s decadent lush. of course, only the best for the best as that has always been aera’s mantra when it comes to customer service. even more so, when said customers were people she used to brush shoulders with in high school.

( underneath all that lies the bigger mantra that she absolutely cannot fail under the scrutinising eyes of the people she went to high school with. there would be no words of disappointment shot towards any parties assisted by her business for as long as she’s the one helming it. )

“somin,” she approaches the younger girl, a smile poised on her lips. “i just saw the pictures you posted on the events’ instagram stories. they look so pretty!” obviously, she cannot relish in this success all by herself. aera was grateful for the help she was able to get and given somin’s eye for detail and her sense of creativity, she knew giving her free reign over social media managing was one of her greatest decisions yet.

he’s in a drunken daze. except he’s not drunk, just dazed and confused with two hands full of alcoholic beverages that he maybe took one or two sips of ( and gagged ). it’s not an odd sight for anyone who doesn’t know him, which is quite a lot of people-- but for anyone who does, hamin looks like a ( dead-eyed ) deer in the headlights, his awkward hands glaringly obvious. not to mention he’s still so out of it.

the sight of his sister trying to whisk by sort of grounds him, pulls his head down from where it had been floating up in the star spotted clouds. a glance at his smart watch shows that it’s ass o’clock, and any respectable person would be catching their beauty sleep. not the youngest two jin siblings, apparently.

“hey,” he calls, and his blank eyes narrow in scrutiny, the corners of his lips barely quirked downwards. she appears energetic, as she always does, hair flying around her as she walks afs if she’s in a hurry-- and he just knows that something is up. though, with his glazed over expression and rumpled clothes, hair sticking every which way, hamin is not quite sure he’s much better.

he ignores that fact though.

the next song that comes on the playlist sparks a burst of energy in haseok’s chest; it elicits a flutter nestled in between two quickened heartbeats. the partygoers around him were dressed to their tens, just as they’d all been back in their earlier high school days. when he was drinking, haseok found himself hyper observant of those around him, what they wore and their drink of choice. how seven years for him made such a difference seeing the faces of those he’d hadn’t seen in almost a decade. it’s no surprise, though. at the end of the day, they’re all the same as they’d been years ago.

a red solo cup to match his crinkled ralph lauren polo makes a perfect sight for someone looking to find the asshole of the party. haseok is left with his hair overtly tousled and flattened from the slight july humidity. his complexion had become sun kissed from spending too much time in the sun that afternoon, day drinking from the early afternoon hours until his drink in hand. though the nam family by default had invited all of the jin children, haseok was grateful his parents had chosen not to partake in the festivities — the last thing the eldest jin child needed was forcing a front in front of his parents for the umpteenth time in his adult life.

though, the next worst thing that could possibly happen at this party is running into ryu kitae in a moment of insobriety that haseok certainly did not call for. haseok nearly collides with the other male as he rounds the corner, the red contents of his solo cup sloshing upward in a trajectory aimed directly for haseok’s white slacks. 

haseok’s brain doesn’t register it, not until he’s lifting his head to glare at the other male, clothes completely untouched. nobody else is around to notice or care about the situation — another thought that comes to haseok as he is widening his eyes and furrowing his brows, visibly clenching his teeth in his exponentially growing fit of anger.

“you fucking idiot,” the solo cup is tossed aside to give haseok room to dramatically gesture to the small stain on the bottom hem of his pants, “you made me spill my goddamn wine all over myself. what the fuck are you doing standing around a corner? and why the fuck are you even here?” he already knows the answer to the latter question, it’s for hayoung, so god, why the fuck does he always manage to find where he is?