#laurcnt

pictured: a band of mismatched delinquents with their scuffed knees kissing the ground. outside the thunderous pulsing of their hearts caught in the ridges of their throats, the deep inhale, exhale of laboured breathing echoed within amusing turned sinister masks, they can barely hear a thing. they blink purposefully to rid themselves of the sweat that stings their gaze, that which is attuned to their leader lest they miss her decree. here, she balances an oversized firearm in one hand.

oh darling, what are you doing with that thing?

she lifts a gloved finger to her lips, nerves dictating she forgets the comforting smile she had once practised in the moonlit mirror, and precariously, she pierces three paramount digits in the air.

three,                                             two,                                                                                          one.

nowadays, heists are a popular theme in blockbuster pictures. it’s the adrenaline, the naïve questions of will they or won’t they, the thrill of coiling grubby hands around that which they have no claim over and defiantly calling it theirs.

call it a robin hood sort of justice, whatever the word means now.

and no matter how it starts, it always ends in the same way. that is, be it through the shrill screams of the masses turned hostages or the suspenseful music building as the burglars traverse behind walls and beneath ground, in the end, the vault will always open to endless bars of glimmering, consecrated gold.

but what of its appearance in the moments leading up to its reveal? that is, before the chaos. before the crime. while its shine is still concealed in the void of the vault.

( suppose it’s muted. suppose it is almost dull. )

this is how our golden boy is found, as he trades in his commanding presence for the obscurity that accompanies blending in with the night. he’s leaning against a brick wall of sorts, and the way in which his head turns haphazardly towards the road as he bounces his left knee betrays his purpose:

he’s waiting for something.

see, jaehyun may be a lot of things, but like his father, a lot of these great things can come quickly undone at the threat of his impatience. and here is his impatience now, lending itself to his rapid footfalls as he races towards sera’s image in a passenger seat. she doesn’t notice him at first, instead turns to the man who’s driven her home, and he watches through tinted windows as she leans into his warmth, into his lips.

han insoo.

like a child of summer doused by ice and water, he comes to a startling stop. and again he waits, though this time, he hardly knows what for. perhaps he doesn’t care to admit it.

“so it’s true,” suppose with all this waiting, his would be a tone of irritation, but it’s short of that. instead, it’s more the melancholic sort, his words ferried out in something akin to a sigh. he offers himself a moment, perhaps steals a few more, before he progresses to the next stage of…

( you know. )

here, anger is a twisted puppeteer with an overabundant number of strings attached so carelessly to his features. and so they morph into something ugly, something almost indescribable, and the words spat from his mouth is so filled with hate, as though she means to cause him harm, as though she had spent all her years sharpening her tongue just to sink them into the flesh on his back, as though she means something more to him outside of being just friends— “insoo, sera? really?”