" killers "

SUGAR, WE’RE GOING DOWN

jung jaewon smelt of mint and fruit, yet krystal finds it hard to shake off the stench of soju emitting off him. as always.

“what is it? you don’t come by at this hour unless you want something—and if you really want something, i believe your best chance at getting it is a few doors down.” 

admittedly, the icy tone that curbs her words, sharp and cool like she’s always been, is slightly tinged with a harshness that can’t be ignored. and had krystal been more herself, been less aggravated, she might have been able to reel it in a notch. 

but what was the point in hiding anything when it came to jaewon?

he’d know she was off just as well as how he’s always known that she was selfish. they were all fucking selfish.

that’s life, isn’t it?

there are no expectations. no midnight magic to save his soul; no matter how much he’s always thought of her as his saving grace.

jaewon’s never been religious, in any case—h y p o c r I s y stared him in the face for far too many years as a child. . .

an adulterous husband on tuesday and faithful father on ash wednesday; a devout mother and an angry, curled fist in the same sunday.

and while he has no taste for these rituals, he indulges in this simple act—coming to her door.

from time to time.

a little hungry for warmth and the sight of a familiar face among the oddities of sunhwa. ( and of course, he’s one of those strange things; lurking in the dark, intoxicated and jaded and fractured into a thousand tiny pieces. )

he’s a simple boy tonight, though.

a simple soul, possessed of simple desires. jaewon doesn’t give a second thought to her tone; lingering instead on the words that flow so easily from parted, pink lips. the third year watches her, catching the glimmer of a distant light in her eye; the furrow of her brow that betrays her ( and the faintest of shadows lining the undersides of her eyes ).

soft fingertips lift, almost as if to smooth away the expression before he thinks better of it and slips past her. jaewon s l i t h e r s inside, “i want to sit down.”

. . . and nevermind that he could do that in his own room—that he could do far better to rest his weary mind and body. it’s a thin excuse; translucent under even the slightest examination.

not that he cares.

“how long have you been studying?” because it’s never a matter of what jung soojung is doing, but rather how long she’s been ignoring the world to do it. his body turns as he steps inside; a smooth but loose movement that sends him swaying on his left foot and tipping into the edge of her bed.

things are in his favor when he finds himself actually sitting, he supposes.

“or maybe I should just ask how much you’ve got left?”

for the millionth time, jung jaewon finds himself lost.

. . . and what was the point, really? of trying to find his way back into the light?

the truth--ugly, bitter; so much so that it a s p h y x i a t e s--is that he enjoys living in the dark, leaping from shadow to shadow as the hours pass and the lips and fingers colliding with his face grow ever stranger; ever more unfamiliar.

he thrives on the pounding of his heart; half terrified and yet longing for each warm touch as if the next--even if it wasn’t this one, or that one--will finally reach beneath the surface and pull him up;

out of the depths to which he’s found himself, drowning in the bottom of a bottle.

but no hand grasps him; no kiss revives him.

and at the end of the night, even the most adrift soul must find a place to sleep. he stumbles, headlong into the warm, hazy lights of a campus gone dark for the night--headed for the certain heat of his room; his shower; his bed. the prospect of a lonely night stops him short, however, dripping wet in ill-fitting pajamas--

he’s clean but e m p t y; smelling of pear body wash and spearmint toothpaste.

there, he makes an abrupt turn for the door and starts the short journey to the next building over; unmindful of the hour, or what exactly he intends to do in his less-than-sober state.

instead of thinking it over, he takes care to find the right number and knocks--this time around--a gentle rapping of worn knuckles against the door, “soojung-ah, it’s me.”

. . . and he works his hardest not to slur her name, treating it with as much care as a careless boy like him can possibly muster.

heartbreak.

a feeling more familiar than that of air filling his lungs; than the feeling of grass between his toes or the smell of rainwater in the spring. it’s a dull ache; an old friend that visits nightly to remind him of how dearly he’s paid for his own shortcomings.

it’s never been anyone’s fault but his own.

jaewon revisits the alleyways that became home last year--carves perfectly shaped spaces for himself to reside in, until his heart stops collapsing in on itself. and of course, he has help--he has old vices to warm his blood; make him feel like something wanted. as if he hadn’t been left behind again.

damn her.

he didn’t need this.

soju. vodka. whisky and rum. the syllables tumble from glistened lips; slender fingers grip the bars. he has the taste of lip-gloss on his tongue and no idea where it came from--a taste of cherry to hide the bitterness; the burn of reddened shoulders rubbing the inside of his t-shirt, marred with drag marks;

artificial nails, artificial love.

jaewon makes his order and checks his phone again, already knee-deep in the warm, hazy tide of alcohol. his thoughts swim, clouded with a slow burn that drives away the anxiety. his stomach stopped sinking after the third sip, his heart slowed after the fifth--by the eleventh, the third year is comfortably numb.

able to smile. able to laugh.

after stringing a few clumsy texts together to one certain jung soojung ( old, reminiscing things that belie a longing for things long departed, more than anything ), he looks around again--hoping to catch sight of the statuesque figure that is his date for the night, “goddamn, jongsuk. where are you?”

pale fingers run the length of his jaw, fingernails catching on the first hint of stubble to appear at his cheek.

@yfxtaehyun

"what the fuck did you just say?”  — “you heard me. why? wanna fight me, kid?”

truthfully, he doesn’t care.

the exchange remains on the outskirts of his already dwindling focus, as a distant echo of familiar voices. jaewon stares dismally into the bottom of his bottle until there’s nothing there; no glimmering liquid to assuage his pain—his worries.

what he does get for his troubles, however, is a body shoved into the table he sits at; knocking over a perfectly good, untouched bottle of soju. it shatters when it collides with the polished floors, and all of his peace shatters with it. a bubble popped, a mosquito suddenly buzzing in his ear.

nuisances.

cheong ryong hadn’t gotten any worse, but it sure as hell hadn’t gotten better. in the dim, warm light, he steps around his table and into the mess of rowdy seniors aching for a fight. ( and he sympathizes, perhaps. deep down where his reservoir of rage ripples beneath the surface. ) before he takes two steps, the first punch whizzes past his ear; a body stumbling to the floor—

bitching about a bloody nose.

his voice raises above the rest, firm hands already grabbing for tensed biceps and dragging, “get it together; you want to be tossed out on your ass?”

out of the bar. out of cheong ryong. out of sunhwa.