@epnayeon​

In some moment between the years, between the first word he'd spoken to her and the way he speaks to her now, all crass, no filler, Jongin's come to romanticize her. Not in the pattern of beauty, nor in the nature of grace, but rather a stretched and tired metaphor. The image is worn, though steady: Nayeon, in his eyes, is a rich soil, ideal for planting.

Because, even if his crafted personality denies him the right of leisurely gardening, he can do so with her: each insult is a seed, each leer a splash of sunlight; each lewd comment is a trickle of water. And the effect is maddening, dizzying -- a hobby in itself. Though he never questions the power of her presence, the way it intoxicates him, heightens his senses. He thinks only in the budding annoyance that flickers before his eyes, that grows beneath her; the way his words, calculated and sharp, prune it in such a way that it becomes exact. He shapes the silhouette, gives it form; he breathes life into his own creation in another person.

But he becomes so drunk on adrenaline that subtlety, the touch of finesse, is lost on him. He sees only her eyes -- the possibility of pain, the sublime of her wounds. The petals he imagines populate her bones.

He becomes so ingrained that he forgets that too much sunlight burns, that too much water drowns, and that excess mars the nature of flowers -- they wilt, they twist, revolt under the hand of the gardener. Soon he forgets his surroundings, as does she, and their argument becomes mutual, shoots upward like a heated breath.

One moment he feels weightless -- a kite plastered against the crisp blue of victory -- and the next he's at her side, both of them mulling in front of the library. Anger simmers at the base of his chest, beneath his ribs, hiding from his breath; instead what comes forth is the playful child of amusement. Even now, he looks to tease.

@epnayeon

for someone who so often strove to be good, to make good marks and prove himself to be worthy (of what, he isn’t entirely sure), his current topic of discussion is wildly out of character. yet, in spite of the negative connotations, hongbin finds himself excited, skin sparking with anticipation, adrenaline already pulsing in his lungs even though they’ve yet to do anything yet. 

he lifts his gaze from the textbooks carelessly strewn about on the table he and nayeon were currently sharing. the library was, of course, the perfect meeting place to explain away why they were speaking in hushed whispers. to the average passerby, it would simply seem as though they were being studious and respectful of the library’s rules. which isn’t to say that they aren’t being studious, just... of their plan for tonight, rather than of the material neither of them have actually taken in, regardless of how many times their eyes have raked over the pages- unseeing. 

“so,” hongbin starts, licking his lips. “i know you somehow manage to balance good grades and these little... adventures about the campus, but seeing as how i am not quite as skilled at rule breaking, you’ll have to teach me.”

there’s a smirk pulling at his lips that clashes harshly with the lackadaisical slope of his body against the table, the perfect portrait of a tired student trying to get a jump on the new year. from behind, at least. he’s thrilled, to say the least, to have finally found someone to help him learn to loosen up a little bit. 

sure, he has asher, but mostly they talk shit and hongbin scolds him for being a bit of a bully, but they never really get up to much. he supposes it’s relatively perfect that he has such a clean record, no one would suspect a thing. 

the sky is finally beginning to streak with hues of gold and pink, the time made apparent by the soft glow filtering through the library’s windows. it’s getting closer to time, thank god. hongbin might be excited, but his nerves certainly aren’t made of steel just yet. he’ll pretend for the sake of his pride that they are, though.