sensitive thug

( * god, he was good at that. at being known, but not obvious. one of the many things jaebum couldn’t really wrap his head around, not even for the seizing moment where he swore that he knew the feeling that had encompassed him moments before. the tense muscle in his chest, the beating turns into violent thuds, and his fingers tap and twitch - for what? seeing jiyong smile more in three minutes than he’s seen in three years? )

( * he can’t bother to say the first word most days, both of them knew that. it wasn’t jaebum’s place to have the grabs at the first breath. but today, something  - maybe the warm sand and the cool sea breeze -  enticed him to be daring for once. ) 

(here’s the secret: none of that shit worked.)

when he’s young, he’s confused; such contrasting paradigms. that he’s invincible-- on top of the fucking world-- that he holds so, so much power; empires at the palms of his hands. but he’s not big enough for it; he’s destined to fall. he first sees it when he’s five and kang jihwan is taken away (calamity courses through his veins, you see; it runs in his blood). he’s five and he doesn’t know anything about anything but he can see the disdain in his grandfather’s eyes. he holds so much, but he grows into nothing but disappointment. his father’s fall from the top is nothing but a precursor for the rest of his life-- it starts with little white lies dripping from his lips as casually as tying his shoes. he starts to blur the lines of morality with a simple lick of his cursed tongue and his damned reckless tendencies.

(when he’s five, he runs naked at ra ra’s very important gala and splashes away in the fountain when he shouldn't)

(when he’s nine, he cries about jihwan in front of the one person he shouldn't)

(when he’s ten, he starts a fire in the kitchen and blames it on the one person he shouldn't)

(when he’s thirteen he takes some pills other than his own that he shouldn't)

(when he’s fourteen, lips that he shouldn't kiss touch his own)

(when he’s fifteen, he finds the laminating press hidden away when smoking a cuban in jihwan’s study when he knows he shouldn't)

there are too many things that shouldn’t. kang ji yong shouldn't hold too much responsibility in his palms because it’ll crush him; slip right through his wretched fingers. and when the pressure rises, he’ll fall. isn’t it a fact? isn’t that why he spends his nights on the roof; contemplating, wishing.

he’s a hypocrite. a goddamn phony. the first thing he feels is a lump in his throat when he sees the boy reflective of himself. he thinks that maybe there’s not much to anything, but when he sees himself in the boy he feels sad. sad enough to sit next to him in consolation. is this what i look like? he can't help but wonder when he smiles at him. for some ludicrous reason unbeknownst to kang ji yong he wants to save himself. just once.

“pretty rich coming from a high school student, don’t you think?”

he snorts; the kid can see right through him. they're only sixteen, afterall. he doesn't know the meaning of life but he likes the way his words sound so earnest in puffs of the chilly night air-- muttered under the smog moon with nothing but street lamps as consolation. and he’s earnest, he’s never been so goddamn earnest in his life.

they say that misery loves company and ji yong confirms the silly hearsay with a warm smile directed at the kid-- unwittingly his body leans closer to the other. maybe for warmth, maybe for a connection. he says he likes it; ji yong’s comforting words (he thinks he likes it too. the comfort of not having to deal with the impending reality of their future or the weighted pull of the past).

“no,” he laughs, listening to his words; a jumble reflecting his emotions. “you’re a mess, a goddamn mess.” he shakes his head lifting his hand to pat his thigh with a small smirk. he’s just like him: starts off in earnest and covers it up with a joke, afraid to slip up the fact that he holds it all on his shoulders like atlas. but for some ludicrous reason ji yong wants to listen to him; to catch the slips of his tongue and let him know ‘hey, you know what? you’re not alone! you’re not alone! you’re not alone!’

“that’s okay, though.”

and it’s so nonchalant he could kick his own phony ass but he hopes the sentiment is conveyed. he really, really hopes that this kid gets it; gets him. because right now he wants nothing more than to hug this beautiful, poor stranger-- why is he so fucking emotional?

정신 차려, 강지용.

the other kid’s words trail off and it seems to splice the chilly air with a mix of warmth and something else entirely. warmth because, well, he isn’t sure (it’s fucked up, right?). something like he says the things he wanted to hear; he acknowledged the air beneath their dangling feet instead of ignoring it like ji yong would have. he wants to tell him that he’s so much stronger than him, even though he’s supposedly the one who was going to jump.

instead, he’s dumb:

“hah!-- that’s funny”

he looks down at his hands on his lap awkwardly, unsure of how to react. his words would’ve disturbed any other sane individual but ji yong sat here knowing the boy’s thoughts, and he felt a warmth gurgling at the pit of his stomach (it’s fucked up, right?). he turns his head to face him again and thrusts his hand in front of the other for him to shake. “i’m ji yong. kang. ji. yong.” he sounds out every syllable slowly, crescent lids blinking.

(  oh  )

(  shit  )

but, some things never change.

he sits in class with his morning yakult between long teeth, the small plastic yogurt can dangling dangerously at the other end of the straw. he’s chewing on it absentmindedly, head tilted to the side as he looks out at his favourite tree, whatever assignment ssaem had left them to work on completely forgotten on one side of his desk. the only proof of kang ji yong’s grades were tucked behind said assignment-- away from prying eyes-- The Notes. the ones he supposedly didn’t do (as any good-student-of-sunhwa would tell you, for kang ji yong slept through most lectures like a cat). he did them. always; on lazy afternoons and late nights he can’t sleep.  still, he’d rather be out climbing trees.  his thoughts lead him to shuffle the notes on his desk, surfacing as he distractedly looks out the window. there’s movement beside him, and then proximity as his seatmate pokes his head between his desk and his face.

아이씨, 진짜

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