( yeonchella, friday afternoon ) ; ⸺ + lovingly crafted for @0hw3llw0rld .
the loose pieces inside of park minjoon have long been his oldest friends. yes, oldest. they are a comforting, age old rattle between his ribs, chips knocked loose and roaming free with no home any longer. (but pieces are not good company, they are unfortunate reminders, and so they don't count for much, do they?) so he's left with nothing.
well, not true. he's left with her... he stares as he walks. he watches through the crowd as his long legs cut through with a deadly efficiency that takes him there with little time to prepare himself (despite how long he had planned it). she's at the booth. he's a fucking idiot— because now he's about to be at the stupid fucking booth. his heart clanks against his ribs when he stops in front of eunwoo. familiarity gathers and boxes his pieces and puts him together so he can do what he does best; and give her a feather light little sneer.
"they've got you here, huh." not a question, but also a question. "weird place for you of all people." sounds mean, stupid, not the way he meant it (she's too busy for things like this. eunwoo is like him, she's too much like him, right?)
he takes his hands out of his slack pockets and motions over things— he glances at the other faces working the booth as well, some of which he knows— and then he peers to her. the whole of him collides with his plan to piss her the fuck off because while the pieces of him agree, the rest of him tenses for a crash. (he just has to. he has to see it). he opens his fist (it was clenched into a fist at his side), and flips it over with a fistful of money, and stares at her expectantly, goadingly. "well, what are you waiting for? be a good girl." the table could probably hear. good. maybe she'll be embarrassed.
