#servares

did they really have to get here so fucking early? holed up in this prison of a ballroom, forced to wait—just sitting, and what? staring at each other?

the soles of his shoes kick at marbled floor; such a pristine reflection stares back, and taesoo bites back the urge to spit at the sight. uneasy hands fail to calm his uneasy heart—shove themselves into silk-lined pockets as he paces. his self-designated corner for the night seems to shrink with every passing minute; maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him—constricting him and confining him to this feigned closeness with the other six.

taesoo doesn’t speak much—if he had a choice, he wouldn’t at all—but silence beckons small talk, and when he finds himself unconsciously orbiting closer to the others, shaky eyes and dry throat struggle through striking up a conversation.

“they could’ve at least given us the luxury of pre-gaming before this whole shindig,” he greets; his voice is airy, at a volume just above a mumble. “i mean, what’s the point of all us being sober if our beloved regent’s the only one who’s goin’ to be talking anyways?”

it’s a mix of a challenge and a complaint—hyuk’s one of the more amicable virtues and, if not, at least the most adaptable. taesoo’s pessimism isn’t too quick to annoy, too easy to criticize with hyuk—and for that, maybe he should thank the other guy once in a while, for not perceiving his unhappiness as downright ungrateful.

god was bullshit. there was no god, no one did anything for some god that sat on his throne up in the skies, that was bigger than the universe, that was stronger than any human being.

god was false, an excuse for many-- “i did this for god” they’d say. “god told me to”, others would reason, yejun’s face would always be blank, expresionless as he never felt this special connection with the god everyone spoke about. and a priest was no better.

many were corrupt, many sinned just as much as any ‘normal’ human that walked on earth: hyeonju was just as bad, if not worse. yejun sighed, finding it strange that the male laughed at him, in his face, as if he was some child that barely understood anything [ maybe it was the case, but he refused to let it be that way ].

Brows furrowed as he plucks his feet up off the ground and brings them onto the bench, head tilting back to look at the sky, watching as a flock of birds sweep their way across the sky, his fingers instinctively moving his charcoal pencil across the paper that was settled against his knee. Automatic drawing was the bane of his existence, but the assignment was to find something and draw it without looking at your paper. Repeat and repeat until happy with something.  ❝ I’m starting to think this teacher must enjoy my suffering, ❞ he says casually towards the other sitting on the same bench as him, a smile forming on his lips at his own jest, not daring to glance over at the familiar face at his side for fear of losing the image he had tried to burn into his mind.

Father forgive me for I have sinned. For I have sat in the seat of sinners while I, myself, am a child of God. A mission unlike the commoners, one meant to cleanse the Earth. Father forgive me for I am God.

The air of churches make her uncomfortable, the floors are too hot even against the soles of her flats and yet here she is sitting in the aisle, eyes raised to the man on the cross. Fame and glory rested in the arms pinned against wood, yet a stake through her heart would bring her nothing but cheers. A death mourned while another celebrated. There is no reason asides from the incessant headache pounding in her head, one that seizes to exist the moment she steps out of the institute, that gives her reason to believe in Him. To believe that above her, pulling her strings like a puppet is a man whose existence is up for debate. Her jaw clenches at the thought, and she rests laced hands on her lap, senses wary of the items surrounding her that could spell out her death.