tower of babel

the atmosphere in the dorm room is one that taeyong’s never been in before and thinks would be great if he could get out of. yongha is staring at him with the most uncharacteristic expression ever. he’s never seen his classmate look so anxious and on edge; yongha’s pretty well known even in first year for his bright personality. they don’t share classes, but taeyong’s heard enough from people around the school and he’s observed on his own when they do interact. it used to feel like yongha was on a different level: popular with people, smart and effortlessly going through life. despite them being the same age, taeyong used to feel as though he’d look up to yongha existing on a different plane.

this — whatever this is — makes yongha feel a little more relatable. so the stars in the sky can fall and land on earth, taeyong can reach his hands out and touch if he tries. ironically, yongha’s defensiveness and ‘cornered animal’ vibes make him easier to approach than before. taeyong knows how it feels to be there, to have to build up walls against everyone else to protect yourself. he knows what it feels like to be scared and terrified. all his life he’s been constantly in this fight-or-flight setting. taeyong might not understand why yongha is so afraid, but he can empathise with the feeling itself and he nods.

“i promise i won’t tell anyone but like i said, i don’t really have anyone to tell,” he puts it out there. like it isn’t already obvious to his year mate that taeyong’s pretty much been ostracised and singled out as an outcast in sunhwa because of his circumstances. he’s curious though and that spark, that little bit of connection between them, because of shared emotions and similar experiences, makes him ask the question he would normally have shelved. “why are you doing it anyway?” he can’t think of any benefit to faking a hearing impairment; it’s not like they give yongha more time on tests or any special privileges.

Yongha had asked for a promise, but to what use? He didn’t trust people, let alone himself. And without trust there could never be that sensation of calm derived out of being safe. Taeyong said ‘I promise’, he heard him loud and clear, but that wasn’t enough. Deep down he knew that nothing could ever be enough, not because he instinctively thought that his roommate would end up talking, but because he didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to share. For lack of a better word he couldn’t. You can’t just spill a secret you’ve kept from everyone your entire life. He may be young, so very young, but sixteen years is all he has had thus far, and to him that’s been like an eternity of agony, guilt, fear and resentment. He doesn’t want to open that box, not even peak inside to see whether it’s harmless to do so in the first place. He doesn’t want to, and Yongha suddenly feels more childish than he has ever been in his entire life. There’s something swelling in his chest, something that’s far from pleasant. It’s bubbling, frothing, threatening to erupt. And it takes everything in him to not snap at the other. He didn’t care whether or not Taeyong had someone to tell, it was the idea that he could that was driving him insane. 

Regardless he kept himself swept in the covers, hiding his body and the sensation of his racing heart underneath the fabric. Fuck this. That seemingly innocent, yet perfectly destructive, question was left hanging in the air -- carefully avoided, like the loaded gun that it was. Yongha kept staring at the other boy, without necessarily seeing him. There was too much going on inside of his now very small body, and no matter how hard the tried to recognize and categorize everything that he felt it was too hard to grasp, too much to fathom, and he genuinely felt like he was going to explode. He couldn’t contain whatever was going on inside of him, but neither could he get it out. Not when Taeyong was still in the room. An urge to grab him by the neck and drag him out hit Yongha so vividly that his heart skipped a beat, and instinctively his already balled-up fists clenched harder on the insides of the cover, his nails threatening to tear through. He felt sick, scared, angry and trapped: not a good combination when you had no outlet for it. Maybe his face had turned a shade paler, but his breathing remained under his control and he just looked blank, if anything. The only thing that he couldn’t hide was how his eyes betrayed his every attempt at seeming detached. Yet he couldn’t look away no matter how hard he tried.

”Do I have to answer?” His voice was surprisingly collected and, unfortunately, a lot harsher than it should’ve been. He tried to keep it in, but the ugliness inside of him found ways to seep through, right now in the guise of an accusatory tone. He needed to be a bit mean, or else he’d go off in less attractive ways. He had never felt this full of emotions before, and it scared him how potent his anger was. He was angry at himself for being so careless. Angry at Taeyeong for finding out. Even angrier that he had the audacity to not just ignore this entire thing completely. But most of all he was angry about his choices in life, all of which has led him to this point. He was angry that he couldn’t use this supreme opportunity to get this off his chest, to finally tell someone, because the fear of the repercussions were far greater than the anticipated relief. And that translated into a piercing stare and a voice that would be harsher than his roommate ever deserved. “Are you going to make me?”

⇡ FALSE ALARM

the thrill to nights under neon city lights and a mouthful of lipstick kisses and liquor has been lost a long time ago. there is no excitement, no pride, no expectations of the nights ahead of him; nothing but a dull ache to go back to his bed and shrivel up into his usual miserable, cowardly mess that has him waking up trembling. and you can see how unhappy he is in the empty bottles of alcohol that surrounds him, how he laughs into his glass and the way the menthol leaks out of his lips. despite the unofficial authority given to him by blood, minho has the role of being the mood maker amongst the older members that surrounds him.

even with exams that would- should- temporarily extinguish the vibrant youthful spirit of the student body due to their over achieving nature and cut throat competitiveness, it doesn’t stop him from coming back to the dorms way too long after curfew. a stupid academic move on the surface, but he doesn’t really have much of a choice. but stupidness may be a contributing factor to why he’s ended up this way, why he fucked his own life over and is so inclined to blame everyone else for it. down to the bone of it, it’s he who binds himself down all the way down to the bottomless filth of the gutters he’s been born in.

there’s about three hours to go before he goes back to the dorms, but he’s already sick of the alcohol, the loud music, the mix of cigarettes, all the bodies pressed together and all the bleeding raw knuckles. minho’s lost count on how many bottles had filled his glass to the rim, how many girls who’ve pressed their wet lips against his neck, how many times he’s dipped his head in greeting to those who share a bond. sick, resentful, and bored, minho leaves his table to disengage for a while.

he can’t help but to wonder if this is the life a nineteen year old boy should be having.

there are others his age around. intoxicated and excited chatters yelled over loud music, the youthful rebellion in their eyes, the slight pride of being able to get in underaged. but he understands the sentiment. kids want to grow quickly, race until they die, fuck until they bleed. it might have been a glamorous cycle that minho can see himself falling into if he never was born into it. without a choice, the fast life gets boring quickly. 

so he’s not surprised to see yongha there. he’d noticed he comes here frequently, but doesn’t suspect yongha noticed him yet. he’s also not surprised by this- he always thought yongha was a dumbbass. he hates how fucking tall he is. he doesn’t like him. why? no damn reason. maybe sunhwa is finally rubbing off on him.

their eyes meet, and minho cocks a brow, as if to say ‘the fuck you lookin’ at?’ he notes recognition in yonha’s eyes, scowling when he’s being stared for too long. 

he moves closer.

“can you stop fuckin’ staring? fucking creeping the shit out of me, you asshole. the fuck d’you want?”

It isn’t Yongha’s intention to stare, definitely not an active choice. But his gaze needs to linger on the slight familiarity of the man further down the club, not necessarily with any sort of hidden agenda, but to honestly give himself a chance to remember who he was if at all possible. Because it was hard. There was a tinge of something unsettling creeping down his spine, but it was so vague and diffuse due to how intoxicated he was, so the first year really couldn’t pinpoint from where he had seen the other. But it took a generous amount of minutes to come to that conclusion, and by the time he had, whoever he was had already gotten up and simultaneously broken the trance the tall youth had accidentally gotten himself caught in. 

Yongha didn’t even have to stand up from the bar stool to remain slightly taller than the other, yet for once he was finally facing someone eye-to-eye, rather than looking down at the scalp of their head. Yet that only made it easier to spot the clear annoyance, and he finally realized just how long he had been staring and that maybe, just maybe, that had been a terrible idea of his. The voice, on the other hand, was what made it all click. Suddenly it was clear as day why he had recognized the other, a fellow student. He had no name to that face, of course, but Yongha didn’t need to go through his phone to remember that the man to his side made him highly uncomfortable. A bit less so now, thanks to the alcohol, but he knew a snake when he saw one. 

“Yes, I can.” And he would, like, right now. He remembered who he was now, and he’d rather not deal with this? Every thought of common sense told him to stay put, remain seated and just apologize, but in true thoughtless fashion Yongha decided to stand up -- immediately forcing Minho to tilt his head back if he wanted to catch glimpse of his face. Mistake number one. ‘I remember who you are now and you make me feel small and defenseless so I’ll just leave’ is what he heard in his head, and what he wanted to act according to, so the first year slid out from behind the stool and sensed where the exit was, somewhere in the distance. He was good at running (both his legs and his mouth), but he wasn’t usually drunk when trying to weasel his way out of a situation where he’d probably get hit. 

“I’m just gonna go, okay.”

No explanation, no apology. Just really confident in the way he turned his back and headed towards the door, as if he’d get away with it if he didn’t let his voice quiver. Fake it till you make it was where it’s at, especially in Yongha’s head right now -- who fully believed that he’d be able to walk out of that door and forget all of this happen, just like he always did. As if nothing happened behind his back if he didn’t look back. He was drunk, slightly embarrassed, and convinced that his plan was solid.

⇡ PERFECT STRANGERS

with his fingers still buried deep in the dark strands of hair, woosun’s brow crinkled together in concentration on what was being said to him and half of his mind trying to probe through the roll call that happened every morning. why did he never pay attention? lamenting that he tried to hide as he nodded his head, trying to remember what time he had started his clothes and guess how long he’d been asleep. he didn’t know why it mattered and yet, he wanted to orient himself in one way or another in the moment. “you did?” woosun was surprised, even glancing over to the dryer to double check. more than once he’d woken or came back to find his clothing thrown on the floor or crumpled in the basket. it already eased him, warmed him to seeing the other as nice and friendly. a smile half-pulled onto his mouth as he hears the tall boy speak about waking him and he shook his head. something he regrets when he cringes in more pain and rubs again. “i’m fine. don’t worry! i’ve had worse.” the truth shouldn’t sound so filled with amusement and yet it does.

woosun’s brown orbs were flinched and flecked with pain whenever he touched the more tender spot of his injury, and shaking his head again. in his mind, the other hadn’t done anything and he still couldn’t quite comprehend how he had gone from sleeping peacefully on the counter to on the floor. it could have been anything. that was still hazy. “no, it’s okay! i should be more careful! i’m always hurting myself!” his voice is bright, dismissing any concern or guilt that the other had towards what had happened. when he glanced back up, he smiled at the offered hand and nodded, reaching out to accept it and pull himself up onto his feet. the suddenness of his movement caused the slightest spin to run through him, his lashes fluttered and eyes squeezed shut to shake it off. his fingers going back to the raised bump in the back of his skull and looking back around the laundry room. at least there was no one else in there to see the scene he’d made of himself. his eyes curved into half crescents as he shifts his weight, finally finding himself grasping some semblance of where he was and what was going on.

“my heads basically its own helmet. lots of baseball when i was younger,” he continues to offer excuses to soothe the other boys concern for him. it was nice. it felt good to have someone show care for him. it was if he’d been lacking such affection and he knew why, he chose to ignore why. a tightness in his throat cleared as he kept his head bowed forward to rub in circular motions where there was still pain, finding it fading besides the jabs that came when he touched the wrong place. his eyes running over the other first year and tongue pressing to the inside of his teeth. heat burned in his cheeks as he coughed weakly. “i.. what’s your name? i never listen in class. i’m not very smart.” the self-deprecation is easy for woosun, mouth still curled with a faint chuckle and a state of abashment as he tilts it to look up at the taller male. “sorry.”

It was a relief to hear the boy’s voice soften some as time passed, indicating that Woosun might not be too upset about it all. Which he should be, Yongha thought, but he kept that to himself. Why jinx it, right? At the confirmation that he was fine the first year smiled in relief, but by the time the sentence was finished he had already raised a finger pointedly at his classmate -- by reflex, probably, because he doesn’t remember meaning to do so. “Hey, things are allowed to be bad even if they’re not the worst.” For a brief second his voice had dropped into something significantly more serious, but it only lasted half a moment before he smiled again. The mild self-deprecation reminded him too much of his younger self, and he might as well have talked to ten year old Yongha right now. But now that he, first the first time since... since school starter? Anyway, it took him this brief one-on-one conversation to realize that Woosun put himself down as if it was second nature to him. Did he let people walk all over him just as easily? Screw preserving piece, he’d talk however freely he pleased.

When Yongha grabbed the other’s hand to pull him up, he looked him square in the eye. “I practically poked you off of that counter. Believe me, it’s my fault. You couldn’t have been more careful if you tried.” He was usually the one to default into being apologetic about near everything, but when he met his match he understood how truly infuriating that was. Not as much from him, he was a lousy cheater and a pathological liar, he didn’t necessarily mean anything he said. But Woosun, on the other hand, looked is if he genuinely believed that he could always be a bit more careful, that he had always been through worse so nothing else was allowed to compare. And that’s why he couldn’t stand for it. Regardless he kept the smile, glanced at the other to make sure he wouldn’t fall over, then got himself comfortable atop the washing machine again. Just like that he had decided on yet another mission for his life at Sunhwa (for as long as he could manage to survive it, that is): call Woosun out whenever he’s belittling himself for no apparent reason. As a matter of fact, Yongha fished the phone out of his pocket, accessed his logs and scrolled to ‘Bae Woosun’ before writing just that. 

“About baseball--” the first year perked up, grinning. “Do you get hit in the head a lot? I mean, just in general. I’ve always wondered whether or not stray balls were a thing, and how often you guys put those helmets to use.” That question may or may not have been a diversion, because by the time he had gotten everything out Yongha had slid down the machine, walked over to the sink, run a tower under cold water and placed it in a plastic bag -- currently tying a knot on said bag as he looked over at Woosun, waiting for an answer to his innocent inquiry. His long legs allowed for a very short and efficient walk over to the other, and he reached out to hand the small bag over. “Here, to soothe your head. It’s a bit cold.” He always envied with how much ease people could admit that they didn’t remember things. For them it wasn’t a slippery slope that they had to tread carefully (if they decided to go down it at all). They could just straight out say that ‘sorry, I don’t remember’, and then go on with their lives. It... wasn’t fair, not one bit. Regardless Yongha made it back to the machine and got up for, hopefully, the last time in a while. “There’s plenty of ways to be smart, and few of them rely on you actually listening in class. That’s what books are for, right? Besides, we barely know each other, you not knowing my name isn’t weird at all.” He may or may not say what he himself would like to hear one day, even if he knew that his own case was way more extreme. It was fine if you didn’t remember a random classmates name, who cares. But when you need to remind yourself of your mother’s name each time you wake up? That’s a different story. Regardless, he chuckled softly.

“The name’s Yongha, by the way. What’s yours?” Usually he’d never allow himself to ask for someone’s name -- he, who always bent over backwards to make sure he had everything written down. And he already knew Woosun’s name, he had it saved in his phone and he had looked it up just a while ago, but it felt nice to both show the fellow first year that names were silly things to remember (especially for people you didn’t even hang out with) -- but mostly it was thrilling to finally be able to ask. Such a, to him, loaded question and no one would ever know.

⇡  BEST TO YOU

the response from yongha had not been what jihae had expected, a fact that had twinged through her nerves in the days after he left her standing alone in the classroom. every time she wanted to give in to the belief that yongha might have meant his words ( ‘i won’t fail’ in that determined, all or nothing tone ), jihae had to shake off any inclination to give her half-brother a chance before he even appeared before her again with his attempt to sway her.  thinking and agonizing over her decisions was not something jihae liked to allow herself to do, and she found herself more than once sitting at a bar, scratching at the edge of his name in an attempt to forget that this was not his fault. somewhere deep inside, jihae had considerations and empathy for her half-brother, he was so naive to think he understood, to think he could promise anything that he had. he was naive to think that he could grasp any idea about how to win her over. yet, there was a tang of pity for him, yongha. the poor kid being dragged into this mess because her father was a man who couldn’t let people live, and one day, he would be as bitter and broken as she was. that’s what her father did, break everything to fit his ideal. then grow angry like a child when it didn’t work how it was supposed to anymore.

it was when jihae had begun to linger on whether to make yongha as a fail, due to not attempting his final grade, that she found any remnants of hesitation. if jiwoon could see her now, she’s certain he would be scolding her for being so cruel to the younger. jiwoon would have loved to have a younger brother, someone to play with and take care. but that’s how jiwoon was. warm where jihae was cold. understanding where jihae was impatient. she was straining herself into writing a report for another student when the door was opened, her eyes flickered up despite the throb of the hangover that remained and the stress of trying to get through the last of these before school ended. it was easy to recognize the boy in a glance, too tall for his age in jihae’s mind and she found herself peering down at the canvas he had in his hand. the painting obscured from view. the way he smiled, the way her stood there as if he hadn’t had slept for weeks. jihae had never done that – not once in her school life. everything had come with ease and flippant disregard for her grades. in high school, she’d made others do the work for her; led on the smartest boys in school so she could party instead. suffering never looked good on her anyways. it didn’t look good on him either. 

jihae resisted asking if he was okay.

“it’s fine. i was worried for a while – you didn’t have anything in class.” jihae didn’t mean to jab at the fact that she had noticed he hadn’t left anything in her class for the final, but it had crossed her mind more than once. that he would fail without even trying – had that been her fault? would it have been different if she had encouraged him instead of told him that he couldn’t? she rose from her seat, brushing her hair back from her shoulders and turning her attention to yongha more. maybe she was curious, wondering if he was actually able to pull this off. ( ‘i won’t fail’ ). but she didn’t want to give that away and instead coiled a hair tie around her hair, glancing to the hidden canvas again. “come in and show me what you’ve got,” she agrees, trying to control her tone; not wanting to sound too dismissive, but not wanting to give in to her own curiousity at the same time. it was better to be a blank slate, something for yongha to step into and prove himself. that’s the one thing he had asked of her, to give him a chance. she would give him a chance; one. that was it. even if she couldn’t determine whether she hoped for his success or his failure. 

”I took me a while to get started.” He admitted in full honesty. Yongha had already told her before that he hadn’t been anywhere near figuring out what he would do (even less how he would accomplish it), so it wasn’t hard letting her know that his progress had been delayed. Admittedly she wouldn’t understand why, but at least Jihae, of all people, would’ve anticipated it -- the person least likely to put faith in his abilities. But right now he was a bit high up there, both physically and emotionally, running on empty but trucking through because it had to be done. So he made sure to properly step inside and close the door, all while making extra sure that the painting couldn’t be seen. He wasn’t the type to get nervous. Generally confident and, if not, excellent at faking it. But that’s because he never put effort into things that he wasn’t 100% sure he could pull off. He was confident because he knew that he was capable. But that wasn’t the case right now. He liked his piece, but he had no idea if it would live up to her standards. And that uncertainty is what kept him standing there in silence, absentmindedly gripping and re-gripping the canvas instead of putting it on display. It wasn’t until the older woman urged him into action that he felt his head nodding in acknowledgement, yet his steps were ever so leisurely. This, if anything, wasn’t fun at all. But even so he hoped for some kind of recognition. 

With a deep breath the first year lifted the canvas and placed it on the tripod easel. Even then it took him a few more moments to actually step aside and show him what he had done. But eventually he did, positioning himself beside the piece and letting his eyes rest on his teacher and half-sister alike, anticipating her words and bracing for the impact they’d undoubtedly cause. In front of Jihae was a portrait of a young woman, or more precisely her head with the neck faded and the brown hair blending into the white, unused space of the canvas. Her facial features were surprisingly defined, and he had done an impressive job with the shading. Her eyes were closed and her lips slightly parted. “I--” Yongha had to clear his throat before speaking up, “It took me a while, but I realized that everything can be made into art if you do it well enough. “I made this out of concealer”, he reached out to brush a finger over the tone of the portrayed woman’s skin. “For the shading I used a matte bronzer”, he moved the finger from her jawline to her temple, “and highlighter”, he continued across the forehead and down the bright ridge of her nose. “The lips are made out of lipstick... there’s eyeshadow and eyeliner for her eyes...” Yongha kept on describing the many aspects of his piece and how it had been executed. He may not know how to hold a pen to a blank canvas and make something worth looking at. But he knew how to apply makeup, and he had always been confident with cosmetics, so by using makeup the way he would on someone’s actual face, he was able to reconstruct that into a painting. It had taken so many attempts to get it right, but once he did the result made him prouder than he had been in a really long time. 

But whether Jihae would approve it or not was another story altogether. 

Once he had explained everything around his piece for the exam Yongha fell silent, for once at an honest loss of words. No small talk in the world could save him from the agony of waiting for a verdict, so he remained quiet. To be on the safe side he reached out to carefully hold onto the highest part of the tripod for support. He was deadly tired, and he feared that once he knew whether or not he’d pass her class he’d have to take a seat -- because that’s about how much energy he could muster right now, with stars dancing in his peripheral vision. Instead he kept on hoping that what he had done was enough, that he was enough. That she’d throw him a bone at least once. 

Why is “pretty boy” considered an insult like call me a pretty boy Call me a pretty boy right now I want to be the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen

Does your muse

⇡ PARADISE

Yongha unabashedly adored Sid’s style. He would never be the person to even consider wearing all black, but that didn’t mean the look was killer on other people. He patiently waited for her to catch up, welcoming her with a wide smile. The weather was great and his company was A+, what else could he ask for. “You look great!” You always do. The black guard oddly matched her outfit, but even so the first year kept his fingers crossed that she wouldn’t have to wear it longer than necessary.

With a laugh he somehow slid out of her pinch, raising a finger pointedly at her as if to say ‘you better watch it’. Not that he would ever retaliate, but it’s all in good fun. “You’ll love it, trust me!” He wouldn’t admit to continuously forgetting that it existed and that he, when he did remember, barely could recall where it was located. It was human to err, but he wasn’t going to open the pandoras box that was him making it known that he forgets things. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?” 

He may or way not wait for the answer only to jot it down on his phone for keepsake, but meanwhile the device was activated to look at whatever map he could find, chose a preferred route and pocket it again -- discreetly, of course, as the gps now told him where to turn and when in his faux hearing aids. He didn’t want Sid to think he couldn’t find his way through the city, that’d be too embarrassing for words. Instead he lead them off campus, happily following the guiding voice in his ears -- all while keeping an eye on the third year, of course. “Are you looking forward to spirit week?” Yongha had yet to experience it, but as a member of the student council he already had a general idea of what it’d be like, and he immediately dreaded the dodgeball game. He’d be slaughtered out there.

⇡ PERFECT STRANGERS

nights without sleep were stacking up for woosun, who could neither sleep during class, had baseball practice and then continued to awkward stifle his want to leave whenever he turned up at a party. there were too many things to think about, more voices in his head than he was used to and he rarely fell asleep before the exhaustion sunk over him. that’s how his laundry stacked up, clothing worn through and being too distracted to go clean them up. he’d been doing his own laundry since middle school, it was a boring chore but clean clothes were such nice things to put on. he even had a certain fabric softener that he liked, one that made him tug the sleeve of a clean shirt up and sniff it whenever he needed comfort. the fact that no one was there when he had arrived was what left him to settle down in his spot, arms crossed to his chest and head slowly slipping forward as he waited for the washing machine to beep that it was over. his last memory was staring at the machine, counting every time he could tell when it spun and then the knees of his old sweats.

no part of him stirred or rose from the depths of his sleep when someone else had entered the laundry room. woosun completely vulnerable. the only sign that he was alive being the rise and fall of his chest, and the crinkle of his expression at any sharp noise that met his ears. sounds brushed off as his body slumps back into the rhythm of his breaths. it was the annoying nudge to his knee that made his hand fall down, trying to brush it away and let himself sleep again. once, twice – three times it persistent and he eventually shifted, turning away from it. discomfort started to ache through his neck and up his back, the whir of the washing machine, the nudge-nudge-nudge of his knee. “hyung, stop it,” woosun whines, voice cracked with sleep and annoyance. it’s only when he shifts again, falling too far forward and the sensation jerking him awake that his eyes open in a flash.

unable to stop himself from slipping, woosun’s feet connected with the floor and then he crumpled at the tremble of his muscles when they weren’t ready. that’s how woosun ended up on the floor, knees nearly hitting the ground before he saved himself – back roughly connecting with the bench top he had been sitting on. head jerked forward when it hits the lip of count, cringing and hissing in pain. everything was disorientating, still unaware of the other boys presence until he looked around for the source of his injury. “–fuck,” woosun blurted out at the end of a breath, body jolted awake more when he saw the other first year. the tall first year. lord, woosun didn’t know his name, but he knew he was the tall one. taller than even woosun. he bobbed his head forward, fingers still rubbing at the back of his skull as it throbbed with pain and he looked around once more. where he was and what he was doing coming back to him. “how long have you been here?” he tries to ask the question without accusation, but he had just fallen from his sleep and was now in pain. 

In hindsight a standard ‘shake the shoulder’ kind of wake-up would’ve probably been enough, but Yongha hadn’t expected things to go so wrong, so fast. From the last nudge of his foot to the realization that he other would slip off of the counter, the first year wished he could make it undone. He experienced the mere seconds worth of action in slow motion, feeling his legs fold in and his arms outstretch. Or at least that’s what he planned to do, for he only had enough time to straighten up before Woosun was on the floor. The harsh awakening must’ve been awful. Yongha instinctively reached up to rub at the back of his head, remembering things he’d rather forget. But it’s as if his own pain returned simply by wondering how much it must’ve hurt for the other, so he instinctively shook some of the concern off. Not because he didn’t care, but because he wasn’t capable to care in moderation. Instead he slid off of the washing machine and crouched down, immediate worry in his eyes because this was totally his fault. 

“Oh, I don’t know... half an hour? A while. Your machine was done when I came so I put it in the dryer.” After checking what garments were dryer-friendly, of course. “It looked like you slept so well I didn’t have the heart to wake you up. But--” Yongha hastily waved one hand, not at all interested in the topic right now, not when he had something much more pressing on his mind. Like, ‘how near death are you right now?’ kind of pressing. It’s not like he had literally tore the other off the counter and thrown him head-first into the floor, but that’s what it felt like. “Are you okay, though? That looked like it must’ve hurt.” He caught his hand moving in the corner of his eye, unsure of what he wanted to do with it. Instead he re-directed it upwards to run a hand through his hair and brush over the bump at the back of his head, safely buried underneath plenty of hair. This situation was nothing like that, but he had become so sensitive to pain since then -- both his own, and others. He soon went back to smiling, fairly certain that Woosun wasn’t that bad off now that the initial shock had settled. “I’m sorry. I should’ve let you sleep.” A little late for that, sure, but what else could he say? ‘You’ve got cute underwear’? Yongha actually had to bite his tongue not to blurt that out, and that’s his cue to get off the floor.

”Do you want a hand?” Probably not, but it didn’t hurt to ask. Either way his hand was outstretched and lingering if the first year felt like some help would be appreciated. Yongha didn’t really know the other, only what he had seen in class, so he didn’t expect to get his hand swatted away -- but you could never know. He had lived with himself for sixteen years, and that if something had taught him that people had the potential to be so ridiculously fake. The dryer was still going in the background so they’d be here a while longer. Hopefully they wouldn’t spend the remainder of the time in agonizing silence. Not that he knew how to make up for such a rude awakening. Here’s to hoping Woosun had it in him to be the better man.

⇡ YOU WANT THE SUN

complicated didn’t encapsulate the mess that was jihae’s feelings towards her family. none of the problems she verbalized went deep enough to grasp the root of the situation and when she was faced with yongha, a half-brother, the tangled web only clung further into the earth. everything could look pretty from above, the delicate petals of the flowers and the lush green of the leaves, but underneath was roots sucking up water from the soil, spreading and searching for another place to sprout up. even weeds sprouted flowers. ones that the untrained eye wouldn’t be able to discern from something worth letting grow. jihae had tried escaping, she’d cut herself free and went to new york, and within a year came back weak, desperate. she couldn’t trust anything her father did or said – it was if he spent his time working against her and trying to break her down. yongha. she didn’t know where he stood, if he was wiling or a tool. but she couldn’t trust him, let herself become soft to him. even if she remained there in front of him, wondering if was truly as naive as he sounded; trying to convince her that he was worth it.

her gaze remained unwavering as she watched him, the falter of his smile, the seeming honesty in his voice. it was brave to tell her that he didn’t know what he planned to do – most students made up some idea on the spot and expected her to believe they’d been working on this for weeks. it was refreshing, if only a little. she didn’t truly understand why yongha was so desperate to prove himself in her class. most people in sunhwa brushed arts off as some useless class they never wanted to be faced with again and she’d thought yongha would be the same. but it wasn’t far from her mind that he was trying to prove himself to her. her? if there was anyone she imagined her father told yongha not to bother with was her. she was the black sheep. the black mark. the trouble maker. nothing good with come from associating with her beyond the necessary family interactions. still, it didn’t matter what reason was behind it. whether yongha could or couldn’t do what he was saying was more pertinent. “you do know that coming here and to me, making these promises will only make it worse when you fail, yongha.” it’s not her trying to change his mind, but reminding him that if he’s going to make these pleas to her and promises, she’s going to hold him to them. too many times she had been let down by people and their words falling through; especially her family. 

there’s a shift, her weight moved as she brushes a loose strand away from her face and looks around her classroom. it’s not that she cares – she swears she doesn’t and never will. she expects yongha to fail, and to be unable to produce the masterpiece that he is promising her. but she doesn’t want the first year wandering around muttering about how she’s a bitch to any student who will hear; wrangling the class into focusing was hard enough. “you don’t know our family well. but my father has plans for you and he has a way of getting what he wants no matter what anyone else says or does – he wants you to be the heir, than that’s what your going to be. he wants you in sunhwa, here you are. no matter what i said about it. but he can’t make me love you like you’re my brother and you can’t make me either,” jihae can’t hide the bitterness when she talks about her father, nor the length he will go to make sure he has everything how he wants it to be. that she hadn’t wanted yongha there was obvious and yet there he was. her arms set to her chest, looking back at yongha and sighing. cruel was never her game; not to innocent kids. it wasn’t fun, but she needed yongha to understand. “no one makes me do anything that i don’t want to do. if you want to try, go ahead. but it won’t be easy. you understand that, don’t you?” she doesn’t know if shes trying to scare him away from trying or making him realize that she won’t be easy; she won’t stop him but she’s not giving him help either. if he wants to win her over, he should figure that out on his own. 

Vulnerable was a feeling he had only fantasized about, longingly (yet apprehensively) wondering what it would feel like, and when it’d be his turn. He had heard such romanticized stories about the delicate sensitivity of it all, so while not necessarily a positive experience, he couldn’t help but be curious. That’s what he had told himself in the past. Now that he was right in the middle of it, his heart bared and his sensitivities outside his skin he realized that it was awful. Yongha never wanted to feel vulnerable again, not in front of Jihae nor anyone else. He knew that she expected (and maybe even wanted) him to fail, and it didn’t always bother him but after the hundredth hint it started to wear the first year down. “I won’t fail.” I never fail. He would crash and burn before admitting defeat, working his fingers into bloody nubs if he had to. This overwhelming fear of being average kept him working, improving. It was one of the most unhealthy things he had ever gone through, but it kept him afloat in a place like Sunhwa. He cheated himself to every possible grade, and only in the classes were cheating wasn’t an option did he actually have to make an effort. He just cursed the fact that one of said classes had to be hers. He wouldn’t fail because he couldn’t afford to, but he hated to show Jihae that he was struggling on the journey towards an acceptable grade.

She had always been cold to him since the day they met each other, but even then Yongha hadn’t expected her to thrust the knife into his chest this soon. Yet she did, and suddenly this vulnerability was too much to bare. With every word she shoved the blade deeper into his heart, twisting and turning and mauling whatever was left of his hope to survive this entire ordeal. He dreamed nightmares of his father, vague and diffuse but unsettling enough to wake him up in cold sweats. He didn’t want to be the heir of anything. He didn’t want the future he had been forced into. He didn’t want any of this. So he brought the smile back, comforted in the way his lips curled. Hiding behind a smile to not let his inner torment show. He had tried being open in front of her, but he couldn’t do it. She held too much power over his current demons, so he had to shut down. “I understand.” That’s about all he could manage. He couldn’t tell her how terrified he was of the situation he was in, courtesy of their father. He had no means of letting her know that he wanted to be in Sunhwa as little as she wanted him there. And he couldn’t bring himself to agonize over how their father slowly but surely suffocated his will to live. And he couldn’t, in a thousand years, confess how much her words actually hurt. So he smiled happily, because that’s all he knew how to do.

Yongha threw a glance at the clock on the wall, wondering whether or not he could be in a rush somewhere. It’d be nice if he could. But he soon looked back at the older woman, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in his uniform. This wasn’t defeat in any way, but he needed some time to recover: and constantly remind himself to be vary of Jihae, no matter how much he wanted her to accept him. “My promise still stands. I will present you with a piece worthy of grading, so I can only hope that you’ll be open to look at it without bias when I do.” The first year offered a modest smile and bowed towards her. He hadn’t necessarily meant to say what he did, but it was the only way he could think of wrapping this impromptu meeting up as soon as possible. He needed a breath of fresh air and a healthy distance from his half-sister. Even so he gave her one last glance. “I understand more than you give me credit for.” With a quick bow of the head, another brief smile and a ‘goodbye’ he walked over to the door with a heart that beat so hard against his chest that it physically hurt. But he waited until he had headed out the door and closed it behind him to let out a quivering breath and curse under his breath. He hadn’t expected much out of this to be perfectly honest, but he definitely hadn’t been ready for a bitter reminder to not let people close enough to harm him. This was just a minor setback, and he would be back on track tomorrow, but for now his heart was on fire and he needed something to help put the flames out. Preferably alcohol.