SON OF THE SEA.

apparently, the scent of chlorine sticks to whatever surface it can. never before has she had to think about it, but ever since she started ‘meeting’ sang like this, it’s been too intrusive to go unnoticed. made worse by the way hannam’s illustrious swim team parades around school, wearing it like a personalised cologne that only they can afford. it’s probably the worst, the saddest, gimmick she’s ever had to deal with: a bunch of speedo-clad teenage boys thinking they’re top shit for flailing about in a pool that hasn’t raised an olympian since... well, ever. 

in fairness, sang had the decency to try and wash it away. always doused himself in something that nearly covered the sterile smell. still, it lingered. like an unwanted, unseen, third wheel. she’s almost used to it now. the way it clings to his knit sweaters and stains her sheets for a night or two after he visits. sensory reminders of things like that are a bit like feelings to her. yes, dylan’s sense memory has become interchangeable with her emotions (for efficiency’s sake). how else could she look so put together with an entire empire beneath her?

these minutia all pass her by as she waits for him to get changed. waits. usually, she’s the one waited on, but in this instance she makes a sacrifice. to seem like a dutiful friend, and to have a moment to collect her day’s thoughts. if she’s going to fill his ears with complaints and borderline-bullying, she ought to do it in a sensible manner. after all, dylan is a woman of grace. 

“oi aquamarine, the day isn’t getting any longer!” she shouts it through the open passage to his changing room, happy to embarrass him if it speeds things up. 

her stomach rumbles at the thought of a caffeine fix enjoyed over light conversation about who ruined her day the most. usually, it will fall to the actions of her two best friends. sang will try to reply with a quip about it and she will immediately shut it down, reminding him of his place in her well planned out life. his place as a secret, and confidant, but most of all, his place as a supporting character.

a recurring rebound that was never supposed to end up in her storybook, but will remain well hidden until he leaves. 

below cut tw: mentions of prescribed medication, injury 

“Sorry, that’s kind of presumptuous, isn’t it? But is it something similar to that, though? Maybe? It doesn’t have to be, actually. I’d still think the same regardless: That it’s very pretty, very detailed and that you’re very talented. I’ve never really tried painting something like that before.”

@thdylan / 2014.

life has felt like a constant rough patch lately. her mind feels split between a thousand different tasks, none of which mean anything to her, as winter approaches. the school year has felt so beige thus far. just different shades of brown, orange, and black shrouding the school gardens in the season’s inevitability. she can’t remember an autumn she’s ever enjoyed. it’s such a medial time. neither here nor there in its weather or mood. just a mess of soggy leaves and overdressing for a chill that never comes. 

but there’s no time to dwell on her distaste. her myriad of daily duties includes parading around the school just to be seen by as many students as possible. with the newfound identity of rough-and-ready queen bee, dylan has found a lot more pleasure in this part of the job. being seen and, by proxy, admired, is one of her favourite indulgences. when she can’t eat chocolate for fear of her mother’s diet plans, or her love of shopping sprees becomes a chore, this never feels old. after all, the last week had been spent hermitting in the art block. slaving over her art made for the perfect excuse to bathe in her empire. 

for every greeting so far, she was surprised most by this one. and not only because they bumped into one another. because dylan knew this boy. before she can even begin to smile cordially, the metaphorical flood gates burst and suddenly she’s being overwhelmed with information. funny - she’d never seen him as so much of a talker. well clearly, he’s excited. and for some reason it doesn’t bother her. it’s not that nobody had tried to sweet talk her about her art before, they definitely had, but not with as much gusto as this (admittedly adorable) kid. 

she waits for him to finish, lips pulled slightly upward in amusement as he stumbles over his own words. once he does, she takes a silent in breath and gestures for him to do the same - in jest, but also just to make sure he doesn’t pass out from exasperation.

“i’m not sure if we’ve been properly introduced; i’m dylan, or yoona, whichever you prefer. i tend to answer to both.” she shakes his hand firmly, assuringly. “i get very... immersed when i paint, so i haven’t noticed. likely for the better. i can be stand offish when i feel watched. its a reflex more than a choice.”

thats not an exaggeration. she had rained hellfire on a senior who’d been looking over shoulder the entire year before, tearing his final project’s canvas in half and forcing his teacher to fail him. nobody knew about that, though, so best to keep her anecdote vague. 

“well observed. it’s going to be a landscape of a clearing near my home back in switzerland. holiday home. it’s up in the alps, and around march time, it’s like eden. a paradise. i don’t know if i’m going to paint flowers, because in truth, the conditions can often be too harsh for something so dainty to thrive up there. but it’s also not going to be an exact image. it’s more of an inspiration. the theme for my portfolio this year is fae. a big part of portraying something fantastical in art is the detail, whether to make it more or less realistic. figuring that out is a skill that took lots of practice to acquire.” strangely, she’s shared more with this strange underclassman about her work in these few minutes than she has her best friends over the past 6 months. best not to think about it. 

there’s nothing like the smell of sea salt to stiffen her upper lip. she stands toward the widening horizon, cheeks pulled high and teeth bared in a childlike smile. the sounds of a storm echo before her, bare feet flush against the pebbled pier, covered in water and frozen still. 

the island is not a particularly beautiful place. it’s kept by a village of fishers and their wives, flaunting the affairs of their children that left long ago. the streets are narrow and every home smells like smoked fish, washing hung out on the line at all hours of the day. a decade ago, her father brought her here to meet lee bul (an artist whose exhibition they’d visited a year before). 

they stumbled upon her work by mistake — in a small museum in bern that happens upon their itinerary. but once dylan reads that placard about studying in europe and establishing her studio back home... well, any hopes of making an academic career out of her brilliance was lost. 

༉‧₊˚✧ the bitch is back ! it is i, jane, and this is my devil spawn baby dylan. you might remember me as stalker-turned-beekeeper-jaehyun’s writer, or the general menace i was on the dash. now i serve you cheshire cat and misandry on main! anieway... below the cut you can find an abridged bg on the hills’ queen bee — trigger warning for mentions of death and physical/psychological abuse. please like this post for a msg about plotting <3