#feyjunho

      Perturbation is an insidious foe, purposive breaths its perfidious accomplice, both unifying a prison amidst the idle bench. She’s bound   —  the thought cues a meager giggle, defused into a despondent hum  —  by an inexplicable helplessness:  tradition’s dictation, defied by her own thoughts. It had been her idea to begin with, hadn’t it? “Why ... !? I don’t actually want to do this.” Her head tucked lowly, obfuscated by the browns of a multilayered coat, red scarf drawn around her in cheap masquerade. 

      “I don’t ... ! I actually do not.” Tiny mutter, arms crossing atop her chest. “I can’t. I have school.” An idea strikes like proverbial lightning. At her feet now, splayed hands beside her and narrating her tirade to the invisible and divisible pieces of her subconscious  —  talking to herself.

     “I still have to complete this semester! I’ll just say that. What can he say? ‘Seok Areum, you are blacklisted’.” Voice deepened, hilariously, by her own impersonation. “Blacklisted for pursuing my education!?” She’s arguing herself ... “I don’t think so! I’ll be more reputable, if anything.” Breathe. “A sophisticated woman. Intelligent and with her own priorities. Smart. Very smart. A sophisticated woman who is intelligent, with her own priorities and very smart. Yes. Plus, if I get hit by a car or something ...” A nod spared for her personal validation, though her verdict was immediately decried. 

      “No, no! I can’t do that.” Head shake! Her footing pressing itself with certainty. “I don’t want to do that, either ...  I want to do this. Beyond that, I need to do this.” There’s a great applause resounding throughout her mind. The public does not know that. “I have to. How bad can it be? He denies me, I leave. Life goes on. And I don’t care.” Yes! Another nod, lips ensouled by sudden confidence. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. I do not care!” 

      Though she’s betrayed again, her heel turning as she chants (to herself, still) and presenting before her the familiar in question. She would’ve thought the situation more salvageable had her arms not swung as she twirled, pivoting through her feigned apathy and colliding with him. “ —  Oh! I’m so sorry!” She thinks him a stranger initially, realizes his identity and dies inside. 

      “Oh!? It’s you. You’re here? I mean, you’re here. Of course. We arranged this spot and I was sitting here,” she sits promptly, “ —  I was sitting here, waiting. And not not caring. Though, if I was, it was because of a phone call that I had gotten. In my pocket.” She draws the device into her hand, wiggling it with her fingers. “My phone in my pocket. Because I hung up. And went back to waiting.” Voice much smaller, smiling timidly with teeth. “Hi.”

      “Tea is a renowned delicacy. A celebrated joy, balanced by nuance and honed craftsmanship, where it is then placed upon the very spine of tradition. It stands unmoved in its regality as it survives unto the next generation, departing knowledge and diligence.” Her delivery is as careful and as practiced as her handwork. The porcelain arrangement between them interrupted by her touch, a keen knowingness that is still gentle. The accuracy she idealizes, she thinks herself able to ensure with how hard she fixates. Her gaze is sharp, too, but she maintains her smile, assembling the teapot’s spout over the open stomachs of patient cups. 

      “I say ...  It is not unlike the tether interlinking familiar and witch. This, too, is an inexplicable profundity,  wherein each fundamental grain serves a blatant purpose. One is incomplete without the other, and together ...  they are surely unstoppable.” As if to emphasize her point, her grip would fortify itself around the teapot. Her eyes close as she concentrates an unseen magic to her finger tips, an intensified heat boiling the contained water. “A simple feat like this is nothing compared to the fruit of thei⸺ .” Her eyes widen with the realization that she had been negligent of the effort she’d put into her mystical exudation. 

      It reoccurs to her only when her hands had begun to burn to a red numbness, though she was unwilling to relinquish the teapot, desperate to upkeep appearances. Her smile persists in attempt to masquerade her pain, gritted teeth and curled lips hopefully suppressing what drops she felt edging her eyes. “Compared ... to the fruit ... of their ... unity. Yes.” It’s a near croak, her hands trembling as she draws equal pools into the quartet of cups. The face of the chaperone she turns to for reassurance is only embarrassed for her, head shaking. She retreats to the prospect familiar again. 

      “Tea also requires patience.” She compensates quickly, hands tucked beside her once the teapot had been settled. “As does forging a deep bond. In honor of this, I will be waiting, but please.” Her incline is curt, professional, accompanied by a nod. “Indulge. I insist.”

“Hey, bitch.” He’s slouched, comfortable in another’s chair, elfish, amused by halfway swiveling, spun ‘round finally to flaunt himself, impudent. “Nice suit! I think it’s so cute when your sisters help you pick out your clothes.” His lean-forward, chin perched atop his opened palm with aforethought smirk. The commentary is deliberate, as though to emphasize luxurious opulence as it draped from him. Loose-fitting silks accentuated by black, cat-eye lens, as unnecessary as he had hoped it would be, juxtaposed to the monotonous, workplace environment. 

“I wish I had that going for me, but you know.” A little drawl in his voice altogether, unabashedly cliché, preppy. “I like to leave a good impression and not completely cede all individuality to the day-in and day-out rigmarole of a boring fucking life.” A smile, acute, applied with shimmering pressure. “I think it works for you, though. I mean ...  Look at you. So gross.” A wink, seat rotated again. His transition is casual, enough to denounce any previous animosity, all of it impermanent banter in his mind. “I actually got that new place and a new boyfriend. It’s kind of incredible that I literally cannot lose, ever. I just triumph again and again in every situation life presents to me. It’s almost like it’s my destiny. I am sincerely just not meant to be like you.” Even turned away from him, the shape of his lips as he speaks is quite obvious. “Enough about me though. What’s going on with you, bestie? I feel like it’s been so long.”

      Her steps are tentative, perhaps the entire route, cozied beside her lover though their intimacy is idiosyncratic with tension, unease a nauseating imbalance she steadies with hand-squeezes, subconsciously. “I know you agreed ...  But, still:  thank you, really, Shinwon. So much.” Thankfulness is a vestal peck and her own indulgent moment to recline her head atop his shoulder, reaffirmed by the frost of wintry, deep breaths. “This is it.” She navigates smilingly, hushed, store door creaking an opened chime and kept agape, genteel.

      “Hey, guys.” A subtle nod, friendly easygoingness, finger-wave to the other couple. “Sorry ...  I was in a rush to get over here, so I forgot to send a text message. I thought about sending it on the way over but  —   ah!” She cedes reluctantly, sighing. “Everything that’s going on has me scatterbrained and nervous. What are we supposed to do ... ?” Volume low, question mostly rhetorical, her answer wordless and in the hands of Shinwon, their fingers squeezing again. She attempts another smile.

      “You guys are doing okay though, right?”

jaeyong is celebrating something, he just doesn’t know what. that’s what he’s trying to tell himself, anyway. then again, he doesn’t need an excuse to go out drinking with friends. he probably should be celebrating his escape from the torture his parents inflicted on him, or the fact that the claw marks he earned on his arm during his hunt for an alpha are almost healed, leaving behind scars lighter than most on his body, both literally and otherwise. 

really, he does have a lot to celebrate. he knows. but why does a part of him still feel empty? it’s not really still. this feeling is new, emerging only in the face of his freedom, equal parts heavy and nonsensical, impossible to ignore or make sense of. he should be nothing but happy to live his life independently of them, but he already misses them. he misses his feeling of purpose he somehow lost walking out the door of his childhood home, boxes in his arms. who is he now? does he even have a right to bear the name song? 

so maybe that’s why he’s drinking. 

it’s after his third tequila shot and the slightest buzz that he spots a vaguely familiar figure sitting at the bar. he can’t put a name to his face at first, or even an identity, it’s just a certain knowing, but not knowing enough. who is he, who is he? ah, he’s got it. that’s jaekyung’s ex, isn’t it? they didn’t have time to know each other well, he and jaekyung breaking up before he established any sort of relationship with the rest of the family. for the best, probably. jaeyong knew first hand what it was like to bring someone from the outside into their world, and all he had for it was crushing regret, and his boyfriend’s new silence and distant gaze. 

then again, without huangjun, he likely wouldn’t be able to go to a bar like this-- likely would be nursing more scars, physical or otherwise, still in the clutches of his mother and father. maybe it’s not all bad, even if it still feels like it is.

jaeyong doesn’t ever need much encouragement to be a nuisance, but alcohol helps. he saunters over to...what’s his name...junhee? junseo? no, that’s not it. junho? ah, yes. junho. he slides into the empty seat beside him at the bar, his typical lopsided smile on his face. “hey, remember me? good to see you again!” it’s not that good, but it’s a little amusing, and jaeyong is an expert in lying through his teeth. “you broke up with my sister. she was...inconsolable, really. i had to dry so many of her tears,” he plays it up dramatically, sorrowful expression on his face, but this comment is clearly a joke. “i think you owe me compensation, don’t you? buy me a drink and we’ll call it even.” he grins, cheeky.