melancholia.

it’s been hell of a night.

or at least that’s what he speculates, with this hotel-room spectacle in his current range: disarray of clothes on the floor, bunch of half-burnt cigarette butts (mindfully placed in the ashtray, at least,) unknown liquid patches still damp and drying on the carpet (he prays to satan that those are just spilt alcohol,) and some girl lying next to him on the bed, still asleep and sound.

shit, shit, shit.

when he finds himself shirtless, he immediately flutters the bedspread up to check if the bottom half of his clothing are still intact. thank fucking god. then he exhales a relieved breath of whatever he’s been doubting himself of, his finger tracing along his forehead to mind the ringing headache.

“what the fuck? what the fuck.”

is all he can muster up in a stage-whisper, hands now on sides of his head as he takes another glance at this sleeping beauty on the right. it takes him no more than a single filter of his thought process before he bends down, brushing her unkempt strokes of hair away to take a better look at who the hell she is. it’s almost embarrassing when her eyes suddenly flutter open (might he add, the most spine-chilling moment of his life–) and has him hold back an unseemly yelp before jolting back with a grimace. a grimace of disbelief.

here’s the thing: he’s never really ended up unconscious in the middle of his stealing-sprees, and for once is really, really taken aback. or at least that’s his excuse to his broken disposition of a oh-so-cavalier swinger, taking in the fact that she’s the same girl that basically drugged him last night.

and there goes his self-pride. girls were there to use, not fuck.

god damn it, july.

past the window, there is a red-faced sunset with a soft stroke lavender. the boy, unmindful, moons about how colors and memories can be intertwined and then engraved in the back of your subconscious. a forgotten woman’s voice passes by like the wind, and promises a revisit.

when he looks down at the girl fast asleep, the jitter of his leg gradually dissipates. her head perched halfway on the edge of his lap, she breathes as if there is no dissonance in the world. as she should, he thinks, but quickly comes to the realization that she is, in fact, sleeping on the epitome of calamity. how would god describe him? a washout? the bane to everyone who shares a word with him? a black sheep with a smidgen of hope, perhaps?

the back of his fingers gingerly kisses her cheeks, mindful of her repose. the soft features of her face are paradoxical to his indelicate hands, and it prompts him to withdraw his fingers. it frustrates him, coming to the realization that his head is buzzing with too many thoughts and unspoken words. his boundless perception of life is now overcast, rowdy with everything about and of her.

“i wish you’d just leave me.” he whispers, too hushed to be heard and made solid. “but i don’t want to see the look on your face when i go, either.”

he paints the scene with blues in her eyes. lai, don’t leave me. she’ll cry, won’t she? she’d probably clench her small fists and throw them at his chest, too. it’s only the most appropriate scene to be played, yet he closes his eyes to shut off the preview. the boy wishes for a plot twist.

“..lai?”

when he starts untangling his knotted thoughts, she chimes in as if she knows the amount of unnecessary contemplations he’s collecting. he doesn’t know if it’s the weather that’s gotten cold altogether too quick, or if it’s just this particular day that’s making him feel like everything will suddenly evanesce. ‘everything’ as in her, and her only.

instead of throwing some casual, browbeating words, he blinks slowly while studying her features. it’s all a sudden impulse mixed with irrational fears when he imagines this exact moment without her warm skin upon his, without her in his sight. he leans down to wrap his arms around her waist, picking her up just slightly to lie his head close to her neck. he hugs her as though there is nothing else to depend on, and it’s only the unvarnished truth.

“don’t leave me, ji.”

BOLD any bad habits that apply to your muse

Swearing | Fingernail chewing | Slouching | Slurring | Drinking | Smoking | Drugs | Impulse decisions | Obsessive checking | Bad time management | Slang | Poor grammar | Overworking | Slacking off | Over sleeping | Under sleeping | Skin picking | Poor eye contact | Lying | Rambling | Skipping breakfast | Junk food | Self-criticism | Procrastinating | Day dreaming | Forgetful | Envious | Jealous | Gossiper | Drama seeking | Secret teller | Spitting | Lip licking | Lip chewing | Drinking from the bottle | Yelling | Poor hygiene | Impatient | Hot headed | Biased | Complaining | Scab picking | Cheek biting | Teeth gnashing | Stealing | Scamming | Speeding | Hair pulling | Large ego | Eavesdropping | Exaggerating | Fidgeting | Free loading | Littering | One-upping | Whining | Borrowing without returning | Unnecessary aggression | Talking during performances | Plagiarism | Copying | Glaring | Spacing out | Ignoring | Over-critical | Messy | Hateful | Overly prideful | Competitive

“don’t you know what its like?” her voice is nearly drowned out among the ambiance. this is a shred of vulnerability shared in this transient moment, and it belongs to them and them alone. “to feel like you don’t belong? to leave everything you knew for a restart? but you end up carrying the same feelings over to this new slate and…” she trails off because she’s hyperaware of the rambling. but it felt more like the words were spilling out from her, because there was no where for them to stay, and she was just so full of fear and longing and hazed ambitions that it seemed there was not much room for anything else.

at least she had the strength not to blatantly cry. she had to give herself that much.

“say that this all falls through: life and what have you. i can’t go home. can’t go back there, back to that –” cesspool of occult and oddities? that was accurate, but not something she could say out loud. “anyway. everything is a variable and nothing matters and i don’t have a place to call home. there, is that what you wanted to hear?” this would be the closest she could get to a tantrum, really, her placid nature had her operating at a steady constance because she was taught to internalize and never show your cards lest they be used against you.

she sighs before burying her face into the crook of her elbow.

“tell me its going to be alright. that i’m exaggerating. and annoying. and i need to shut up.”

god damn it. again. 

he’s been sloshing in puddles of everyone’s blues way too much for, let’s see, however long. time’s not a concept to a boy without a home, without regulations. but at any rate, coming back to this scene, he’s tired. tired of inutile sentiments and woes.

“what d’you want me to say? i physically don’t have a home.”  the reply comes without a speck of heed, his eyes occupied on everything around him but her. he relates to everything single word she’s said, unfortunately, but he thrashes them away because let’s be honest: none of it fucking matters anymore! ‘home’ is nothing but a drab, full of carnalities masked away with smiles of the devil. it makes him sick in the stomach, almost making him nauseous with tableaus of dirty pool in head.

he’s never been more glad to not have a home.

( kkt // ㅁㅊㄴ ) 내 맘이야 ( kkt // ㅁㅊㄴ ) 응 싫어 니가 와

asks memes | closed.

he thinks about it. not long, though, because it’s really not a difficult philosophy to fathom: if you were to find a homeless boy (running away from a bloody felony, but no one’s supposed to know!) scraping by on the streets, or a well-heeled businessman who’s made of nothing but fraudulent wealth–––which out of the two is truly bullshitting through their life?

you’re right: there’s no objective answer to this question.

“and?”  july throws a pebble in the riverbank, his tone as bland as the gray tincture above them. there’s no desire to wiretap into kihyun’s mellow confession, because he may well get one of those pro(an)tagonist heart attacks if he were to be asked a question similar to: ‘so what kind of life have you been through to make you say that?’  now that’s one goose flesh and nightmare-worthy thought! so he decides to keep it voiceless. when one’s climate is distinctively similar to the other, details aren’t too essential anymore.

“it’s the same for me. but what matters is that we ‘have,’ not ‘tried’ to. who the fuck cares, we made it through and out.”  he pauses, cloudy eyes studying his friend.  “why, do you regret it?”

the fact that he doesn’t have a home. the fact that he doesn’t have anything dear to lose, and the fact that his future is nothing but a hazy maelstrom. it doesn’t take long for him to self-justify all these factors to stabilize him mentally, because all of this is just fine. he’s fine.

         the demeanor of the infamous lai doesn’t surprise sora in the slightest; in fact, he’s almost exactly what she had expected, based on the descriptions. a bit arrogant, flirtatious, not flat out mean ( at least, for now ), but definitely intimidating. even so, she can’t let that show in her face, or in how she behaves. this is a whole new world to her, but after years of writing characters, she should be able to play one. 

        normally, the writer can be quite gullible, but it’s clear that he’s only denying who he is for the benefit of his own amusement. there’s no way he isn’t lai. but she knows how to pick her battles, and that isn’t important right now.  ❛ i just     heard around that if i was looking for some good solid fun, you’d be my guy. if a girl gets bored enough, you never know what she might do. ❛ a casual shrug of her shoulders, offering a small smile as she regards him curiously. 

      ❛ you’re walking around here alone, doing what? i found what i was looking for     you. and you look rather bored yourself. there’s no harm in having some company, right? ❛

      there’s no doubt he’ll have his suspicions despite whatever she tells him, but it doesn’t matter. sora realizes that she has already piqued his interest, merely due to the fact he’s even still standing here talking to her, and hasn’t told her to get lost. truthfully, that’s what she had been preparing herself for from the get-go.

         the pet names were a bit demeaning, the way he was using them. if she had gone with her initial reaction, it would’ve been a flinch, followed by a protest, but the composure is successfully kept. sora knows his type, and all she’ll need to do is figure out how to come across witty, but not overbearing. guys like him need to feel as though they have the upperhand at all times. yet, as she crossed into his territory, that box was already checked.

“a good, solid fun, huh? wow. i wish you’d elaborate further. and exactly what might you do?”  his tone fills up to the brink with utmost amount of mischief and disaster: the devilry! justifying whether or not he is or isn’t july isn’t his main objective, it’s her reaction that he’s getting in return to whatever (dis)information he’s providing. and to be honest, the girl seems like she’s done her research. be that as it may, it’s all the more reason to cage her in his hands in order to prevent any possible setbacks.

“i am bored.”  he moons through the seemingly languid air, enthusiasm in his voice tepid. july decides not to rush it; he’d rather put the situation into a slow cooker, letting it boil until he deems it’s the right time to open the lid. it’s not like he’d let this get away without having her come clean by the end of this theatrical, anyhow. he knows that she knows. or so he hopes, because if not... poor thing!

“i’ll give you a point for being bold, walking right up to some random dude to ask for their definition of ‘fun.’ that just might mean you want to stride into the nearest motel together. or maybe, you’re more of a hotel sorta girl?”

a note about: the ten year old boy with his father’s jacket, too ill-fitting to be comfortable. the fourteen-year-old fumbling with a cigarette, the twenty-three year old trying to shed himself of his adolescent past.

there’s something about his eyes that betray the rest of his body. 

“i know it’s you. we were in the same class together- you lost my notebook once.” more than that– gangly legs pushing off the swings on the neighborhood playground; the gentle scratch of his pencil against a shabby notebook, her pink elbows bumping playfully against it.  stop worrying, she always used to say, stop thinking.  

(why is this time different?)

“what’s wrong–” she loses two steps, the heat from his palm radiating off her shoulder.  it burns, uncomfortable, unfamiliar.  this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. “why are you acting like you don’t know me? are you mad?”

(why?)

even so, she regains her place beside him.  he smells like deadened fall– smoke and something sadder.   “i guess you really never cared much for our friendship.” it’s said lightly, less of an accusation.  less than she intends for him, even with his hardened expression.  

she ignores all warning signs and grips his sleeve, determined.

“yihyun, whatever you call yourself now– you made me lose my cat, so you’re helping me find him.”

are you mad?

instead of letting the question pass through his subconscious filter just like that, he catches it, thinks about it, then admits: he’s mad. he’s mad, not because she bumped into him, not because she’s prying, but because she made him face that clutter of qualms in his messy mind. out of all the muddy recollections, she’s at least a gem, a periwinkle stone made out of unnecessary zest and a glow.

that, by far, is the uttermost reason why he’s mad.

“listen,”  he starts, shaking her hand off.  “there are millions of people in this goddamn country. d’you really think there would be only one person in this world that looks like me? stop dreaming.”  he doesn’t mean to reel the whole hot-blooded-antagonist-on-the-run sort of vibe, but he does. there’s no way of helping the boy out of that matter, because he, by flesh and bones–––is essentially the epitome of what is considered ‘the great outbreak of a traumatized teenage boy’! and as sad as it sounds, it’s not even a joke nor a movie, because then he’d maybe have some sort of conclusion by now.

he really hopes that won’t take another decade.

“me?”  with a finger pointed at his chest, he leans just a bit forward to add to that gesture of doubt. if this was the usual july, the story wouldn’t even have advanced thus far. but because this scene has busybody1 (jisoo) in the script, he’s staggered both mentally and physically. he doesn’t even know why he’s still standing here, tossing back spineless replies–––yet he already finds himself glancing over the red-bricked walls, moon hovering half-way beyond.

she wears a familiar expression of chagrin on her features, a scowl telling of juvenile resentment that was more befitting for someone in their early teens. her wrist slackens albeit begrudgingly, wielding a weapon that was too blunt to do any damage. haeun hadn’t even intended to go through with the threat in the first place, but yielding at all still didn’t sit well with her. “oh, if only i had known i was in the presence of a main character: destined for much more.” her gaze travels skywards for the sake of dramatics, grounded again moments later with a flat look in his direction. “tell you what, let’s go find a cliff and i’ll kill you how scar killed mufasa. sound good?”