@iridescenuous ; kiyong & taewoo, 6:45pm

the apartment they’ve been renting out feels more cramped than usual, though kiyong can’t put into words why exactly it does. maybe it’s just been too many days spent trapped behind the thin walls, listening to the clatter of the neighbors next door. it’s been a while, long enough to try and lull kiyong into a sense of complacency, long enough for the ghosts of his past to find him and continue their lifelong mission to haunt him into insanity. so maybe it’s paranoia that makes it feels like there’s static fizzling up underneath his skin, is the voice in his skull that tell him to run. a low whisper that builds into a scream the longer he stays put.

half of kiyong’s things are packed, and the rest are piled haphazardly around the room. not that he has much, can jam it all into a backpack on a moments notice and take off running toward a new town. it probably isn’t much of a life, but it’s all that kiyong can stomach at the moment. staying in place, trying to build up an actual, meaningful life feels impossible, and the restlessness in his bones refuses to allow the possibility. that, and not all the demons of his past are dead. it’s not just memories that keeps him awake and worrying late at night.

kiyong’s attention pulls up toward the door when he hears the click of a lock, taewoo’s face following the noise. there’s always a spark of relief when he sees him. the one consistency in his life as of late. not that taewoo should ever really be defined as consistent. but he’s there, and he stays with him based off of a deal that most would probably scoff at. “where were you?” kiyong questions out conversationally, taewoo had been gone from the bed when he’d woken up and he hadn’t bothered to text him. “got my last paycheck,” he tacks on, has all the money to his name currently tied down his a rubber band in the bottom of his backpack. 

cont. @iridescenuous

“i can’t tell if you’re baiting me, or if that smile you’re wearing is just genuinely fucked.” the words flow between them after a beat of observation as moonsoo watches the corners of hanjun’s lips twist up into a smile that looks like a warped rendition of enjoyment. moonsoo’s honestly not sure he can even imagine hanjun wearing something that’s a shade of carefree and content. but then again, he can’t imagine that look on himself either. perhaps it’s no surprise that they flock together when the feathers they wear are so very similar (even if they’d both be loathe to admit it). 

"am i one too? but you’re such a delicate thing, hanjun. the whole image of it is fitting, isn’t it?” it lilts out like a question, but the entirety of the statement is formed into bait and an educated guess that being called delicate would piss hanjun off, lays it down at his feet and follows it up with more. “like a bird. flying away from all your problems. what’s it matter if you can heal when you’re always darting off. afraid of the pain?” moonsoo lets out a coo of a sound, like hanjun might have been a particularly well behaved sparrow, lifts a hand to tuck two fingers under hanjun’s chin in a similarly demeaning motion before he pulls his hand back along with a laugh - smart enough, perhaps, to realize that hanjun might try to break them.

"it is easy, my life’s easy. you call me typical, but so are you. hide your envy, songbird.” moonsoo drawls back unbothered. his statement is filled with the truth and lies all at once. a puzzle that moonsoo has yet to piece together even inside his own head. getting things done is easy for him, carried out through orders on the back of others. his life is easy, molded so by commands that fit whatever flights of fancy he’s busy chasing after. and, then, it’s not all at once. it’s a burden, a shackle that he drags around with him. baggage of a past that weighs on frail shoulders. a guilt that whittles at the bones of his ribs as it makes a home deep in his chest. it’s easy to become a monster, though perhaps it’s not quite as easy to live as one. and maybe whatever part of him that still cares, still aches, will one day be devoured by it as well. truth be told, he’s not entirely sure if he wants it to happen or not.

“who says i’m a puppet? they’re scared of me, and puppets aren’t feared.” it comes out as a statement. there are no questions lining moonsoo’s words. he’s entirely sure of this. he can see it in their eyes. the knowledge of it is built on orders and extreme displeasure when he acts on his own whims during missions and does as he pleases. it solidifies when whatever punishments are supposed to be enacted trip up and into scoldings of how he ‘really needs to be a team player, you could get someone hurt, moonsoo.’ like he might possibly care. they’d gone out of their way to dub him the devil though, so maybe they were expecting it. the only thing holding him back is his own suspicion that they have a fail safe in place, one that involves removing his head from the rest of his body.

he turns his face in toward hanjun’s palm as the other pats at his cheek, flashes him a smile that’s far too cocky to be pleasant and bats his eyes. an infuriating look, but most everything moonsoo does has a tendency to be infuriating. a knife finds its way into moonsoo’s hand soon after, heavy and cold - though not unfamiliar. he’s been with the arc for far too long for it to be anything other than near-nostalgic. “do you? well now i’m curious, what do you know - what’s my favorite color?” the words tumble out snide as moonsoo buries the tip of it closer to hanjun’s stomach. “why should i believe you’re telling me the truth if i don’t order it? hardly anyone does.” moonsoo retorts, and this is true enough. it’s an easy lie to see through when you can demand the truth, and it’s something that’s moonsoo’s simultaneously learned to despise and use. nothing hurts as much as the truth. bone aching and debilitating. 

“the fun of what -- sadism? i’d say i never took you for the type, but i guess that would definitely be a lie.” he decides as he watches hanjun’s face contort. the knife slides in past the resistance of muscle, and his hand is painted red and warm by the time he pulls away and takes a few steps back. hanjun’s laughter chases after him, and moonso’s face molds into stone. blank-faced as he swipes a red streak of blood across the thigh of his jeans. hanjun’s voice breaks through his own manic laughter, and what he says manages to shake a laugh of disbelief out of moonsoo as well, matches the leaves that tremble unsure in the wind.

“you really don’t know me.” is the only thing moonsoo matches him with. another truth; moonsoo’s sure his hands will forever wear red. like if anyone looks too close they’ll see blood caked underneath his fingernails, brittle and bitter from a past he’ll never be able to wash away.

he lets out another sharp burst of laughter as he sees hanjun twist the blade, an amused glint in his eyes as he watches him stumble his way to the bench. follows after him in measured steps as he tucks his hands back into the pockets of his sweatshirt.