#hypesboy

           “listen, lo, i —” he sighs, both hands up in defeat from where he’s laying on their couch, tv still quietly playing his movie in the background. “i didn’t mean that, okay? i didn’t—” no, he did. maybe not to the vicious extent at which his complaint about always having to clean up was murmured, but still. the words were still said, and arlo still heard. 

[ sms -> glubglubglub 🐟 ]: :( [ sms -> glubglubglub 🐟 ]: a smaller bartending kang said this is what i look like [ sms -> glubglubglub 🐟 ]: [image attachment] [ sms -> glubglubglub 🐟 ]: just got my ass handed to me on a wednesday at 4pm

tae liked to think he was pretty good at listening. following directions, even. sure, it depended on the situation — but we aren’t going to get into all of that. no, right now the only thing that mattered was staying still and keeping his eyes closed so he didn’t mess her up. “if i look good we have to go out later.” here’s the thing — he knew he looked good without makeup. so with it? surely it would get him the attention he loved.

it just, you know — had to make it through work, first.

luna loved a good girls night in as much as she loved going out — she did! food, and talking. movies, or catching up on their tv show. baking a cake, maybe. or even just laying over top of one another as they scrolled tiktok. it warmed her heart right up.

however.

she looked up from her phone with a look of pure disbelief. why? well, because she didn’t believe it for a second. here she was with her phone in one hand while the other was digging into a bag of chips, big messy bun on the top of her head — slippers. mismatched pajamas. under eye masks and a pimple patch.

"anybody call a doctor—i'm a thousand degrees in love."

        you chose... this!

the thing about recovery is that no one ever mentions how long it takes. even after the fractures have mended and the scars stitch themselves back together, there are nightmares to deal with. nobody told jiwon that he would seize with panic at every crosswalk or float up, up, up and away from his body when someone’s voice reaches a certain volume. everyone has moved on from the accident, but jiwon just feels... stuck. some days, he still wakes up in tears, screaming into his pillow because the mere brush of the sheets over his leg feels like a blowtorch to his skin. four years later, he’s still lying to his therapist about how he’s getting better each day.

it seems appropriate, then, that jiwon finds himself in a darkroom with blair, developing photos that will immortalise even the most trivial moments. (his therapist, however, might argue that it’s highly inappropriate.) part of jiwon isn’t sure they can be trusted to be left alone here, but their mutual friend—a very much professional photographer—had taught them the basics, left a checklist of instructions, and gone out in search of inspiration. or something to that effect. truly, the worst he and blair could do is completely ruin the photos they’d taken over the past week, but jiwon feels so out of his element here. it’s an awful lot of waiting, turning, pinning, and more waiting... although he should be grateful, jiwon can’t help feeling like he should be moving.

“...does it say anywhere on that list that we can’t eat snacks in here?” spinning on a stool, he pouts a little and just barely refrains from poking his fingers into one of the stop baths. “i didn’t realise it was going to take this long to get our pictures out.”