#type.thrd

               [w]hat is the point in worrying oneself too much about what one could or                could not have done to control the course one’s life took?                                                                                        --- k. ishiguro ( @creunxce )

                                                                     ♚

he’s drunk---or, if he’s not yet, he’s getting there. firewhisky coursed through his veins, along with the overwhelming amount of courage the drink brought with. he’s swaying, empty shot glass in hand. fingertips run over the rim, pads of finger ghost along the curves of the glass. he’s stalling.

                                                                                          ---for good reason, though.

a clear of throat. a scratch of neck. elliott baek watches eunice eom from across the way; she was just as beautiful as three years ago, maybe even more so. a sigh. the grip of his hand possess the sides of the glass, his other reaches for the near-empty bottle of liquor. a pour of red, then gulp---that familiar burning sensation greets his lips, and he grimaces. here we go.

                               intoxication keeps him unaware. keeps him deaf. keeps him                                bold. he approaches her, and the devil on his shoulder mocks.                                 took you long enough.

“eunice--” he hopes his voice is loud enough, is above the booming music. “can we talk?”

           there aren’t many wounds that ever heal            all the way, and there are some that hurt more with every day that passes.                                                                                  — j. abercrombie ( @idjunhai )

                                                                       ★

how could you do this to me?

the words ring loud and clear in her ears---albeit, from her own mouth, but still; nonetheless, she is met with silence on the other end, must deal with the static and muffled sound of breathing instead of a straight answer. and so she scoffs, can’t help herself from the (understandable) frustrated huff that parts her lips, stems from the base of her lungs until it reaches caught throat and dry tongue.

and then, she repeats herself. “how could you do this to me?”

for the sentence is shaky, yet laced with emotion---something she has far too long hid from the person on the line. and she knows the risk---has lived her whole life knowing them, remembers full-and-well that she was born into risks---of threatening to deal with this situation herself, to confront him head-on.

and she’ll admit, she’s never been more terrified in her life.

but twenty years of settling into fear---into tolerance, into obedience---has slowly reached its ends, has gradually faded as a stronger mindset infiltrates her head, her attitude, her well-being. which has led her to here, hidden corridor in the kbs building to make a phone call---one she would never expect to be answered. so she clenches fist, silently heaves a deep breath and starts again.

“father--- how could you do this to me?”

before she knows it, before she can understand it, she’s crying; soundlessly, she stands there, petite frame shaking as she blinks once. twice. and the tears fall, slowly but surely, down porcelain skin and quivering features. it’s salty, she thinks, daring to sniffle into the microphone at the thought.

and then it hits her, it’s salty.

the cries grow louder in volume, thumb barely hovering the ‘end call’ button as vacant hand rises to rub at two clouds of hazel; she’s hot---humid even---and she feels as if she can’t breath, as if she’s drowning, as if she’s caught in a storm. for lightning bolts and rolls of thunder consume her being, have her body act as if the ground right beneath her is quaking; her legs grow weak, and she’s suddenly stumbling to the floor, grip on cellphone being replaced with the sensation of the cool tile as she hears the clank! of metal upon impact.

                                       "simply to endure,” she says, “is to triumph.”                                                             — p. mccormick ( @iddaewon​ )

                                                                    ★

she should’ve said no.

should’ve made up excuses, lie---something she does best---to avoid this, to prevent this from happening; and it’s victim-blaming, maybe, because this is her own goddamn fault. she digs her own hall, shovels away dirts from the side with every shot of soju downed, feels herself sinking deeper and deeper the more dizzy her head gets, the more the room spins around her.

she’s drunk---incoherent, completely not the same from her usual self, and yet, she still knows, she should’ve said no.

because then, she’d be at home right now---sober and in the right mind, bedside table light on as she pads away through pages of script, forgets to glance at the clock every now and then to notice that it’s grown late, that the sun is threatening to rise as birds emerge from nests and settle into chirping.

but yet, she’s still here; company dinners are not foreign at msg entertainment, no, but her presence at them might be---she only remembers their debut celebration as the last time she’d seen so many faces, and since then, her attendance at such gatherings has only dropped off in heaps; she knows, full and well, that these events aren’t worthy of her time, yes, but still, persuaded she remains as she strolls into local restaurant, finds herself to be seated within a cluster of middle-aged men for politeness and civility are enlaced into her veins too well, allows them to pour her drink after drink without a moment’s protest (her tongue is bleeding, from biting it down for so long) and soon enough, she’s tipsy. 

though, she’s not complaining.

because, from the second she sits down, she notices his face---bright and clear as day; for how could not? when it’s still so vividly ingrained into her mind (and heart)? so she drinks, yes, in hopes that she can forget, for blurry vision and shaky head are all she needs to do so---to let go of these feelings.

she excuses herself, muffles out the protest and cries of the men who plead for her to stay---the very ones who she’s witnessed eye her chest and throw questionable remarks in her direction---as she forces glass door open, sighing in relief at the cool air breezing past her face.

                         so we make deals, with ourselves and with others.                          lies we agree to. compromises we pretend are victories.                                                                                                 — c. priest                                                                   ★

( + idol star athletics championship with @idchansu. ) she’s going to kill whoever decided to put her in this event---because, have they seen her? a girl who’s practically born into four-inch tall gucci heels, ban hyera isn’t exactly the ideal candidate for the sixty-meter sprint.

why couldn’t they put someone like jowi in this?---make her put those long legs of hers into good use for once, hyera laments but knows full-and-well that it’s too little, too late to be complaining now, no, not when she’s already standing at the starting line with others clad in gaudy primary-colored shirts, jumping and stretching and acting like this god-awful event’s actually fun.

she glances down at her own yellow torso, hides her disgust behind curtains of brunette strands, averts her gaze to her teammates next to her---to her left is some guy she’s probably never spoken before in her life and, thus, irrelevant, and to her right is---

oh, fuck.

and then she’s swiftly turning around so that the approaching figure is facing her back instead of her front, clenched fist rising to softly pound against porcelain forehead---maybe she should’ve read the list of competitors for each event, maybe she should’ve actually paid attention; because if she did, she wouldn’t be in this predicament---or, at least, she could’ve properly mentally (and emotionally) prepared for it.

“fuck,” the mantra is audible now, though hushed and under breath. “fuck, fuck, fuck.” how does she get out of this---in a way that makes logical sense for the occasion? should she feign sickness? plead for the person next to her to switch lane spots? which would be the less suspicious, the more natural?---who would’ve guess that ban hyera, someone who prides herself on being in a constant state of levelheadedness, would be crushing under such unexpected pressure?

                  ... i was mortified by the prospects of becoming hopelessly trapped in                   someone else’s story.                                                                                            — l. shriver                                                                      ★ ( + with @idnamjoon. ) she’s getting tired, fed-up with the same old, same old of performing on music shows. how many times has she sung---excuse me, rapped this song now? hundreds, thousands? much more than she could care (or want) to count?

and so, she’s exhausted, much too fatigued and much less concerned to care anymore, to---what do they call it? trying your best? and so skin-colored microphone acts as more of a decoration of aesthetic, of expectation than of actual utility, dons itself onto her flesh much like the mascara coating eyelashes or bracelets dangling off wrists.

her eyes gaze at the ground more often than usual, her expression falling periodically more than she’d generally allow---she’s lip-syncing, of course, and doing an average job at best; maybe it’s the lethargy talking, or maybe it’s an omen that she’s reaching a breaking point.

nevertheless, a sigh of relief parts her pink-stained lips when the director calls cut! and the staff shuffles to their next task; the smile fades off her features, and it’s no surprise that hyera’s the first to make a beeline to the stairs once the stage lights dim and attention is brought elsewhere. hollow heels against concrete steps, and her hurriedness leads to an accidental bumping into one of the members of the next group on standby.

                in another place and time, she might have felt differently, but thinking                 along those lines was pointless now.                                                                                    — n. sparks                                                                       ★

( + detail your character doing a variety show appearance with @idxrmn. ) this is why she hated the entertainment industry---because they never fucking tell you anything in advance.

she should have said no, passed the television appearance onto a different member of cherry bomb!; she’s flattered, yes, that she had been the first one the production team approached, but still annoyed, nonetheless. in retrospect, she understands the logistics of such planning, of course, but what is so hard about, at least, relaying the names of the guests to each other? 

they’re all adults here, they’re all professionals; aren’t they well-aware at this point that that type of information is kind of crucial in this decision-making process?

and yet, kicks and screams she does not, no, when she steps foot inside the building where this week’s hello counselor would be recording, instead makes a straight beeline to her own dressing room before pausing for the briefest of seconds to grimace at the sign across the hall that proudly had ‘han roman’ scribbled on it.

fuck. she’s going to puke.

and the thought persists, obnoxiously so, into her getting her hair and make-up done (she swears her own reflection in the mirror is mocking her, shoving it in her face that it doesn’t have to deal with this dreaded situation like she does), into mic check, into filming even. she’ll admit, yes, that she’s in a daze---blurs out her surroundings, mutes anything and everyone within a fifteen-foot perimeter until she hears the call from the director and the shuffling of seats beside her in alert of a ten-minute break before resuming the recording.

it is then that she realizes that she’s been holding her breath this whole time. did they really have to sit him beside her? have the theme for the episode be surrounding that of relationships? maybe this is an act of god, she wonders, a punishment of some sorts for her past ways or past life or past ... mistakes.

she pinches herself, mentally slaps the palms of her hands against her cheeks in an attempt to wake the fuck up. get yourself together, hyera. her refusal of addressing him, even turning her head in the slightest to face him, is going to bite her in the ass after this, is going to do the complete opposite of what she desires for her image and reputation. your popularity’s at stake here. and she sighs, hates the part of her that knows those words are right---

                                     do all (lovers) feel helpless and valiant in the                                      presence of the beloved?                                                         — j. winterson ( @crsunmi )

                                                                    ♚

it was getting to that part of the night---when rather than being at a party, one seemed to be living inside it; consumed by the bright lights and champagne bubbles that decorated the hall, the intrigue of anonymity kept partygoers bolder than usual. 

the vivacity of the masquerade reminds him that it was, though unseemly as such, a beast of its own, snaking and heaving in upon itself, where one had to keep moving or risk being caught in the coil---or, even worse, spat out---and so move elliott did, lips dawning a more saccharine grin than usual. 

he was the kind of content that was tolerant of the unexpected but begging for the familiar; his lady in red was vacant by his side, mingling with those he was well unacquainted with (considerate of his disdain for strangers and small talk), so silver mask and black dress shoes led him to the perimeter of the room in search of hues of purple and white, of someone who entertained loneliness far longer than needed to this evening.

                                                                         ( ravenclaw reminded slytherin of how he                                                                            needed to dance with hufflepuff at least                                                                            once, painted a picture of her attire and                                                                            demeanor for future reference---as if he’d                                                                            ever forget. )

outstretched hand reaches through the crowd---manages to find her, even with half of her features obscured in the darkness---and exaggerated bow before her makes his jaw surrender, letting light laughter loll out before his throat clears and his back straightens.

                                   you can forget that other people carry                                    pieces of your own story around in their heads.                                                          — d. caletti ( @crsydney )

                                                                     ♚

how does one heal a broken heart? tape it back together---the broken pieces, that is---in hopes that the mismatched gaps and misshapen shards could somehow come together to be whole again?

                                                                how does one heal a wound you can’t even see?

for one can cut the body, and it will heal---but do it over and over again, in the exact same spot, and you will scar.                                           the heart cannot be so different.

leaves behind a section that’s all bruised and battered, purple and dull, to indicate faint heartbeats and slowed breathing. in order to heal, you must first hurt---disinfect the cut with the bittersweet reality of what it means to be lonely, bandage it up with denial and disillusion, and you’re well on your way there. elliott baek was well on his way there.

                                                                                                                          maybe.

through ancient columns and dimmed hallways, the slytherin finds himself in an uncharted territory of navy and gold. his own emblems, entwined with emerald and silver, contrast against the decorated patterns of the wing, and, for once, the upperclassman scowls at the natural attention by those passing by.

fret not, for he didn’t just venture into unwelcoming land without a mission in mind, did not forget to scan the crowd for five feet and four inches of raven hair and contagious smiles. ( her presence always found elliott easy, little hummingbirds for a voice echoing within the four walls, accompanied with that bright ray of light that always seemed to appear whenever she stepped into the room. ) he spots her, and for a second---just a second---he thinks:

                                                                                                                         what if?

lets the question motivate his actions, push him through the rows of students to lead her to the side and away from the pack of changing classes. determined gaze turns mischievous grin, and elliott baek knows no fear.

                                               “syd---” he starts.                                                ( since when has he said her name with                                                  such gentleness? such tenderness? )