#ryuination

﹙  JEALOUSY MEME. //  ACCEPTING. ﹚          —— @ryuination

                   《 ※ 》     HIS EXPRESSION SCREAMS skeptical. Not only that, but it didn’t help that her expressions weren’t exactly on par with her words either. Arms are folded over his chest while he studies her features even more, watching how each muscle moves and how the wrinkles in her eyes or the corners of her lips slightly twitched. Bull shit. ❝ Look, your face says otherwise. Your body language says otherwise. ❞ Sangcheol’s head drifts off to the side, both thinned brows arching while dark irises continue to dance across the frame of her face. Why was it so hard for people to admit that they were jealous, though, he’s always wondered. Or rather, why was it so easy for people to get jealous ? There’s a fuel, he knows that much. And it probably stemmed a lot deeper than just the surface. To which he wasn’t certain if he wanted to delve any further than that. 

( ✶ ) Hamilton Sentence Starters  ― status: accepting! (but slow)

Many things in life know neither beginning nor end. Nobody knows how they ever came to be, or what the world will be like once they cease existing. On a very big, mind-warping level, this can be said about time. About any form of life, or even about myths. On a very different level? The relationship between Casper and Haru. There’s no way he can recall how it all started, much less does he understand how the friendship lasted or what exactly ties them together. What he does know, however, is that there is always alcohol involved when the two of them meet, and perhaps that is as strong of a bond they’ll ever form. They don’t meet often, nor do they know much of each other—a silent agreement between those whose pasts should not be revealed. All jokes and teasing and a lack of gravity and serious conversations (not what he needs right now, but what he wants); he doesn’t waste a single opportunity to crack another joke or two.

he should talk. and somewhere in the back of his mind he’s laughing at himself. because isn’t it always the ones who think they should do something that don’t. the ones that think they should stop drinking while staring down a bottle. those people are afraid of baring what’s left of their soul to the world, dae’s more afraid of baring what’s trapped up top. the same top that she taps so fondly and he’s pushing forward a grin.

see control is a funny thing. doesn’t always know how to stay within his grasp but yet he functions on it, needs it. his mother says he gets it from his dad, he tells her she shouldn’t make insults like that.

ironically enough that’s the only thing that could make daehyun’s control over his emotions slip. he’s not sure if it happens before he sends the message or after but he’s sure the moment he sends it that he’s lost some of it. the mask, the skin. he’ll pick up a bottle and do tricks with his emotions. pretend he’s not drinking to get rid of thoughts and just drinking to drink. drinking to have fun. because people do that right? he’s not getting shit-faced to numb everything that’s irresponsible.

and what’s there to numb? the constant buzz in his head, not like needles but strings pulling apart at tissue - the echo of his parents words that have been on constant repeat. a reel meant for torture and a test of endurance. sometimes getting shit-faced numbs nothing, and sometimes it numbs everything. he’s been out all day and haru’s the first number he dials when he reaches.

“i’ve been talking all day,” words come out carefully, maybe they’re curt and maybe they’re just tired. “and I’m honestly real tired of it.” yeah tired.

There’s a building a couple blocks down. There’s nothing terribly interesting about it other than the fact that it’s always looming overhead, a landmark she’s designated to map out the rest of the streets leading to it. This is her excuse when someone asks her how she seems to know the city inside and out. It’s easier to justify. Easier to lie than say that forgetting comes harder, that every fraction of existence has made a home inside this hollow body of hers. Like a lighthouse to a ship that’s lost its way, she’ll laugh when they stare, uncomprehending.  

This is not her home.

This is not his, either.

His company’s easy, undemanding. Weeks feel like days, days, weeks, but in the end they’re still the same people, unmoved by time, rooted in unfamiliarity. This time it’s three– weeks, not that she’s noticed, before he catches her on the streets.

“Haven’t got anything to say to you.” The dismissiveness neatly masks how pleased she is to see him– she doesn’t say it, of course. Some confessions are meant for hearing; others are meant to be swallowed. There’s a kind of boyish egoism that she can make out from that expression of his that prompts her to choose the latter. Feet shuffling against the pavement, her elbow greets his side (none-too-gently, because he doesn’t deserve much hospitality at this point). Accusatory. The half-grin on her face says otherwise.

Surrender comes at the next block. “What, can’t find someone to play with?”

daniel recognizes her in about three seconds. the way she sometimes stares down at her own feet or the sidewalk beneath her in order to not have to look him in the eyes. sometimes she tries to gain her trust enough to receive a glance for longer than a few breaths. it usually doesn’t work. the little grin on his face is weary, so he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his chinos instead. the smile still tugs at facial muscles, but he looks down in an attempt to mimic her. the prod at his side is enough to tell him she’s still in the mood for games. a shrug at the retort, a long stride to appear in front of her. he walks backwards half a meter before her like a middle schooler trying to gain the attention of someone he likes by being annoying. that’s not necessarily the case here, but it’s a game of theirs. it’s their way of being nothing more, yet nothing less.

by the time he turns around to walk by her side, making sure he’s not too close or too distant. she reminds him of the hot sand on brighton beach back home. slightly too warm to be pleasant, but enough to keep him from entering the water. she’s the tan that etches onto his arms, but washes off within a few weeks when she’s not warm enough. there are times when she hides behind the clouds, refusing to come out. whether it’s feigned stubbornness or not, he never can make clear. when he thinks he’s solved the mystery, she changes her mind once again.

“i’d rather play with you.” he responds, grabs a hold of her shoulders gently. he expects nothing less than for her to try to halfheartedly shake his hands off, or worm her way out of the loose grasp.

“but it’s ugly.” is she whining? she can’t tell.  she can’t even decide if the ceiling’s the floor or the other way around, whether gravity’s got her tethered down or if everything just sticks to her with some kind of magnetic pull, or whether jennie can tell that she’s absolutely out of this world at the moment.  all plausible, none expanding beyond more than a figment of her imagination. (thanks, jae!  you’re the best, jae! she really should give him more credit for all the shit he gets her).

so here she is like a child to a foreign toy, heartbeat thrumming all over and tongue between her teeth as fumbling hands grasp at the photo.  no matter how much she turns it, won can’t help but think that there’s nothing nice about how it’d turned out.   too much light.  too washed out.  too fuzzy.  too colorful.  after a while, she starts running out of words.  

“we like pretty things.” it grates like sandpaper, her voice against the pallid sky and the noise that surrounds them.  the world continues to turn but she holds herself still, eyes fixating on the face that watches her.  and she watches back.  “but sometimes we want things to stay ugly, don’t we? we’re narcissistic. we want that confirmation– something more horrible must exist.  it has to.” silence.  and then the spell’s broken, and she’s falling back onto the grass with an audible thump, the glossy paper trapped between her chest and hands.  “how’s that for a soliloquy?”

a muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of her right eye, her mouth formed a rigid grimace. with arms folded tightly over each other, she tapped her foot and all the while stared at the other female. standing around didn’t help with the restlessness so she decides to sit, but it only does so much. at the time of being on edge, the victim becomes an innocuous non-living thing we call the plastic container. like hail on a glass pane, the drumming of her fingers against it was as relentless as it was loud. each click of the french polished nails echoed the tumultuous thudding of her heartbeat.

when she initially feels satisfied, she tries to keep away from noticing the details. if it was curious for won at best, it was nerve-wracking for a perfectionist such as herself. not one bit does it show. for the friend, there was only the front of a poker face which was in obliging thought, for the sake of won who was immersed in the happiness and buoyancy of her nature. “you’re narcissistic.” she says in jest with a suppressed smile and a fond shake of her head. her book cover-worthy blurb distracted her from her brief episode of agitation.

“what am i, your mom?” that’s the first thing she says, exasperation pinching the corners of her mouth into a grimace. but there’s no menace behind it- she’s got fingers twisted into his sleeve, steps directed with intention.  there’s a method behind the madness (more method, not so much madness.  not today, anyways).  it’s not the first time he’s had to play victim to her whims; certainly not the last.  has the school always been this big?

eventually the winding hallways come to a forgiving end and linoleum tiles give way to concrete stairs, then a door that’s reluctant to budge.  she has to give it several good pushes but it gives in with a whining creak, and lo and behold!- paltry wind, an orange-red sky, and the biggest smile she’s given him today.

“i’ve been wanting to come up here for ages, y’know.  you’re the one who goes here, so if we get caught-” she blows a kiss his way and spins off, arms outstretched, face alight.  “i’ve got a back-up story.”  

“little sister.” he protests in his monotonous voice as they make their way to the restricted area. she might as well be with the way she was grabbing onto him. plus, jaebin was easy to tease and manipulate but if there’s anyone he’ll willingly allow to, that would be her little sister (maybe lucy, but he doesn’t suspect she would pull something like it).

foreshadowing.

so many things can warn us of the future. it comes in ways ominous, mildly suggestive, or sometimes merely obvious in hindsight. but the possibility for him to chance upon wayward characters like haru was never mentioned. in retrospect, there was one obvious clue he shouldn’t have missed (but this is jaebin we’re talking about): her name. who names their baby girl haru? did they think she’d live for just one day? was she only important for the day of her birth? being dopey and all in his case, might as well be futureshadowing. better yet, foreseeing his death if these ‘fateful encounters’ continue to ensue.

luckshadowing.

can jaebin really be considered unlucky? try a sort of turnabout luck; something bad happens to him, but ultimately that bad thing winds up putting him in a better position later. it's not straight up good luck, but it's not entirely bad luck either (who knew even in this sense he’d stand in between?).

combine those two and voila! you get a scenario with his initial bad luck leading him to a sunset view with the most headstrong girl he knows.

on that note, it seems he still has no control over the cycle of inconvenience. so he needs to figure out how exactly he could convince her to back out of this instead of opting for a back up story. “back up story?” he speaks nervously, voice breaking, corner of his lip turning up to a comical twitch. 

“what good is his advice if it’s not taken literally?” break into the industry. knock everyone off their feet. be a pinnacle, tire out on a pedestal. if daehyun didn’t take the advice literally he’d probably be a little too tame and fit right into his father’s mold. specially crafted and yet as mundane as the rest. what fun was that? 

it’s only when he’s a little tipsy that he ever speaks about his father, and it’s only around certain people that he dares to. 

it’s because, sometimes daehyun speaks his father’s name and people clam up. shape their responses for their favor. he doesn’t think it’s as serious as all that, nor is it necessary. he just speaks of normal father-son mind shit, he doesn’t need the titles attached to it. he prefers to deal with that sober.

he’s not too tipsy right now either having only downed enough shots to make his goofy grin permanent. 

it’s been about an hour into this session, this heavy heart and loose lip session where he’s felt his own buzz come and go and felt the need to chase it. where he can’t get that pleasant warmth just yet and settles for cheap body heat in a small space. shitty dorm light filters through his fingers that try to grab at that pretty haze it makes when the eyes are a little too tired to work. “let’s go then.” it prompts him to stand up, more stable than he’d thought, lighter when he’s got a can of beer in his hand and one hand in his hair.