` luminosity ;; sunggyu + sehun
Sunggyu used to have an old bag of a history teacher in high school. She was about the height of a small child, had a horribly raspy voice, and was absolutely obsessed with little cliche phrases. 'Every cloud has a silver lining,' she would tell her class. 'You can't have your cake and eat it too.' Now every time she was about to spout one out, she would get this particular somber look on her face as if what was coming out of her mouth was the most profound thing ever to be said half a billion times. 'Good things come to those who wait, children.' As soon as the look surfaced, the entire class would collectively groan and sink down in their desks. People would exchange resigned looks with their neighbors, and it felt like for once, everyone was united in the hatred of 'always go the extra mile.'
Now the point of all of this is not that baggy old history teachers are horrible, although they are. The point is that Sunggyu sat in the very back of the room and was able to observe all these things going on. He could see the mutual exasperation being tossed from human being to human being, and it struck him as strange. When did old ladies acquire the power to cause such connections without even meaning to? Now there were powerful people everywhere in the world, and a Korean history teacher in a slightly crummy school was at the bottom of the ranking as far as influence goes, but how many powerful people could force mutual suffering on as many high highschoolers day after day as she could? The highschool version of himself turned to his desk-mate to see if he too was under the influence of this woman. He couldn't remember what his findings were..
These were the sorts of memories that he played over in his head when he woke up with wind in his face and gravel in his hair. He was on the roof of the high-rise apartment building just across from his high school, the sanctuary of his adolescence. A quick prayer of thanks was given that he hadn't wandered off of the edge before collapsing. Even when his body failed him, it didn't completely throw itself away. Such things could barely be said about him when he was sober, though that must be the case with everyone. Not bothering to get up or try to leave, he filtered the gravel covering of the roof through his fingertips, doing what he saw in romantic movies with snow scenes. What was it called again? Snow somethings. He looked around the space, his mind almost working to fill it with another person from the images in his memories. "How d-do you do?" He mumbled to his nonexistant company. "Fy-fine night to be out, r-right?"
