#wxkinam

history has this way of repeating itself. see, everyone sees time as a sprinter to race from point a to b, and it is this school of thought that lends itself to deceivingly motivational quotes that incite urgency, as though we’re always running out of it. but junho knows better. and what he means is this: time is a relay on an oval field. the runners may change, but the track always stays the same.

more simply: the invasion of these dastardly witches was only a matter of time. grandmother had warned him of this, had spoken heatedly of their deception and prowess, bound to lend itself to their violation of the treaty laid out by the great fairy leaders. in this way, she had predicted their return, and junho had taken it all in stride. now the time has come, just as she had predicted, and he receives it in his open palm, this baton his hwang ancestors have handed to him. it is in this way that he’s tasked to run the anchor leg of his race, and it is in this context that the thought comes to him: he needs to train.

because hwang junho has been a student at this academy just shy of a month, and he’ll be damned if he disappoints his ancestors by being the academy’s weakest link. no, the anchor leg of a relay is always handed to the strongest runner on the team, so junho needs to train.

it is with this resolve that he finds himself in the specialist’s training pad, and the first thing he notes is that he’s not alone. no, at its heart is son kinam, the dormmate he’d gotten to know back in the pre-enrolment assessment. something overcomes him, this spirit of competition that lands in a wicked smile. junho reaches for the arsenal of weapons arranged neatly along the wall of this room, finds himself drawn to the silver glaives to sit prettily atop its throne. he learns to grow familiar with its weight as he balances it in his hands.

“head’s up!” and he shoots. misses kinam just shy of the left of his head, of course, and he’ll say it’s on purpose. junho reaches for the warhammer next. this, he grips onto with familiarity, like a friendly embrace one pays an old friend. “need to get outta your head, kinam. the witches aren’t gonna spare you like i did.” he smiles, yet it holds a taunt. and like this, junho circles.

here is a testament to her growth: bitna’s not running anymore.

there is this way in which her purple sugarplum heels are planted firmly on the ground and pressed primly together. mayhap, did you observe the tremor? it is but the slightest vibration, the sorts one would glance off a ballerina’s careful arabesque, precisely the shudder of a muscle when held in prolonged tension. this is to say that keeping herself here requires effort, like the purposeful breaths that rise and fall in perfect five-second blocks with her chest, or the way the argument she has with herself is echoed along the furrow of her troubled brow.

indeed, growth is never linear, more an ebb and flow that is hopefully positive in summation.

but the point is she’s here, and she’s tired of running. has long since ran out of stamina, and she suffers now, the burning of lungs. it is in this way that she waits for her cousin, which begs the context: in the few weeks leading up to this moment, it was precisely him that she’d been running away from. see, for the most part, bitna had obtained this fresh start she’d been desperate for, right here in the sanctuary of this great academy. it has been the most needed reprieve, to have so few know of the great song family and her incident to shame them all. so imagine her dismay, when she catches kinam marching unfittingly along the academy’s grand corridors. a pity, really, how poorly a relative fits into her intricate equation.

a factor she’s never considered: she’s been so insistent on avoiding him, that she never stopped to question if he even wished to be found by her. therein lies the thorn. see, bitna’s laid out her reasons for her avoidance, but what are his? what are his? could it be, that he’d been embarrassed to be seen with her? her, the disgraced ballerina who’d tripped and hurled her way out of her family’s craft?

( to answer the question: the taste of her medicine is bitter with a putrid aftertaste, and it is prickly all the way down. )

she hears his footsteps now, the great strides she recognises from the times their families would come together. they once coaxed a smile to rest upon her cherry lips, but now, they only invite the scorn. here, she reaches out from the corner she’s hiding in, curls her fist tightly around his bicep, and drags him through proximate doors into what appears to be a dark, seemingly empty auditorium. bitna shuts the door tightly behind her, then turns to glare at her cousin.

has he ever mentioned that he loves surprises? its taste is sweet like honeyed syrup to spill on his tongue upon the suckle, a sort of euphoric relief to follow the overwhelming spice. like this, life is a thoughtful lover, and tender is the way she decorates his path with flowers rich in nectar, on this road that leads to her, naked save the pretty red bow, an insulting attempt to spit in the face of modesty.

surprise.

more simply, life has this way of surprising him, and it’s always sweet. like waking up to the added digit in his bank account, a pleasant gift from his many lovers. or catching a sordid secret spilled from a companion’s loose lips, at best fodder for extortion, and at the very least, a fun tease to invite the blush. or meeting an old friend, one son kinam, in a place that’s a little too scarce of familiar faces.

ah, but the surprise doesn’t just come in the fact that he’d never anticipated kinam would find his way to the academy, and it’s not just because kinam had never specifically told him that he was coming. though suppose it’s warranted, given beomseok had upped and left with neither word nor trace when it came to his turn. the point is that this scenario particularly surprises him because he’d been told that a fairy like kinam would never come to the academy. it was all but a sure fact then, so much so that the sly bastards they call friends had formulated this bet in the days leading up to his formal departure from the group.

huh, so they lost. all the better. things were starting to get boring around here.

when he approaches, it’s with the confident saunter that’s known to be his gait. the latter’s clearly occupied with his belongings, and suppose it’s in this way that beomseok trusts he’s successfully snuck up on him. he rests an elbow on the fire fairy’s stacked luggage, lets the question fall from his lips in that familiar drawl, “need a hand?”

💧 —— UNSENT TEXT

[ ✉️ ↷ 기남 오빠 ] why are you avoiding me? [ ✉️ ↷ 기남 오빠 ] ???? [ ✉️ ↷ 기남 오빠 ] are you embarrassed of being seen with me? [ ✉️ ↷ 기남 오빠 ] is that it?

💦 —— 2AM DRUNK TEXT