#tempostart

              holy child    ,     fallen one      :     there is that awful smile on his face. the smile that is not kind nor gracious or god-fearing or obeying. this smile    ,    the one that he fell with it is a catastrophe in disguise     ,    a beginning hidden within an end like a geode.      ❝    come on    ,    im bored.   ❞     his smile could burn entire civilizations to the ground    ,   turn the purest of saints into sinners   ,   make the sky rain down gray ash. everyone thinks that he is holy    ,    but when they see the serrated curling of his lips    ,    everyone knows that he is lost. the baring of shiny whites is a promise             this malicious grin promised nothing but hell.     ❝   wont you please? i promise it wont be too awful.    ❞     he knows that those who fly too high fall the farthest     ,     he had felt the wind rush by him when he fell. as he fell    ,     he realized that he was meant for so much more. 

Sungjae has been driving for over two hours if the led numbers from the digital clock he’s looking at is correct. He only looks because he is abnormally tired from the long trip. He’s not even counting the other three and a half that took him from Busan to Seoul and back. Buses take a little over three hours, he took half the time, went and came back. His mom is happy, that’s all that matters, especially after so much insistence that he’d visit. She was never shy enough to not mention the fact that it had been three months since he last saw her face to face. ‘Busy’, he’d excuse himself, but only half-truth in his words. No dad in sight; ‘off working on his things’ she says. Sungjae kind of knows what those things are, but also kind of doesn’t want to know.

The light goes from red to green at the intersection, someone honks at a ‘distracted’ driver who clearly crossed the red light on the other side which is frankly quite a typical occurrence. 

The next time he stops he does so at the side of the curb. There is a 7/11 a few steps away and his stomach has been grumbling nonstop. It’s late and there’s nothing but happy drunks and people going to the next club to drink some more. He just wants noodles, really, but he still needs to wait a few minutes before his company arrives, so he steps out of the car, adjusts his jacket in a way that makes him feel warmer. And waits. 

It’s not something he ever saw himself doing in life ( it’s more surprising to him than the fact he’s ended up in the kings ) , but he isn’t going to complain ; he’s technically not supposed to , but at the same time it’s not like he’s watched like a hawk either , and it’s not like he has an addiction , or so he’ll claim — and being a bartender meant he had access to countless high-dollar spirits and liqueurs , and he’s not going to pass up on the opportunity to drink for free and that’s a fact. Still , sometimes he really fuckin’ hates coming into work and so he shows up as a customer instead ( put it on my tab , yes I’m going to pay it  , no you don’t need to double check , who even are you again ? ) , and tonight is one of those nights. He’s bitter over losses and last night his impromptu challenge against some hellcat was met with him tasting defeat — a flavor that was becoming way to familiar. It’s crowded and seats are few and far between , so he’s not surprised when the stool next to him is soon filled , but it doesn’t stop him from fixing a glare on the figure. ❝ Fuck off , that seats taken. ❞ Yeah, by his impossibly large and extremely damaged pride.