#w.cv

it’s getting late into the night, the formality from dinner dissolving as the alcohol soaks in. dongha’s leaning against the cool, cool wall, feeling stifled in his well-pressed suit. his tie is too tight. his head is swimming, just a little, like all the blood in his body has migrated up to his cheeks. but it’s in a good way?

he tries taking a step. not in a good way. dongha’s not — he’s not gone, yet, but it’s a close thing, his inhibitions lowered and his limbs loose. he’ll just make it over to the bathroom, take a little piss, splash a little water on his face, and everything will be alright. he’ll get back in control of himself, avoid doing anything embarrassing on his very first night in the society. that’s the goal. maybe talk to a few more people before he leaves. connections. yes. that’s what this is all about. making “friends” in the loosest term of the word.

he stumbles in the direction of the men’s room, keeping one hand along the wall to keep himself upright. there aren’t that many people this way, luckily — most of the food and festivities are in the opposite direction — so no one’s around to see if he trips and doesn’t manage to catch himself in time. 

a laugh. wait. almost no one. it takes dongha a second, but he recognizes that laugh. he hasn’t heard it in — months, he realizes — but he definitely knows it. he finds himself biting his lip, his free hand curling into a fist. his heartbeat gets even faster, a wave of nausea caused more by visceral emotion than his drunkenness rising from the base of his stomach.