#thread:sungmin

park minjoon can barely recall half of his days in childhood outside of music or study or arguments or structure and routine (easy to follow, easy to forget). perhaps that's for the best. so many things for him are just completely compulsory, easy and readied like a machine.

there were things that didn't prescribe to that. kang sungmin was often involved in them, when he stops to take count— he has nothing else to do but stop and take count today, after all, he's stuck floating in a hazy memory. well, it's the present, but it feels quite the same. deja vu. another gala, another reveal of a business deal his father crafted for the mythical elite of the world, all together too eager to be perfect. he had been to so many of these fucking events in his life that he can hardly stand it.

the only thing that's changed is that now perhaps that he, statistically, entirely, thoroughly, could do the job of the house jazz band standing on that stage over there about 200 times better. he grimaces a bit at the pianist. he downs a crystalline glass of alcohol. he spots sungmin...

he spots sungmin.

his legs couldn't carry him quite fast enough. (it's a faux pas to approach sungmin right now; after all, they are mortal enemies to most of the stuffy old bastards in here, when all that's considered is prospects or the potential rings on potential fingers).

joon pulls up and straightens out his white silk shirt with idly fingers, a grin painting over his face as various assholes watch him approach like it was their business. "they're insufferable tonight. well, every night but tonight is something else." he tells sungmin rather than any sort of polite greeting; he skips that in favor of the check in. "perhaps to do with my cornering yerim on the floor a few weeks ago?" he shakes his head as if he'll never understand it.

he glances around but specifically avoids the far right of the room (where his father had last been spotted).