F E A R

chosen to walk through fire ahn jaeyong, the hanged man

[arcjaeyong-blog]

truth in lies.

@arcromi

yong finds comfort in lies, in hiding behind them. funny, because he’s meant to force them out of people now. funnier, because he spent his childhood always wondering what the truth was. funnier still, because he’s not sure if he’s even lying anymore. or maybe he is sure, and that too is a lie to himself, just another wall built between yong and jaeyong. it’s this uncertainty that keeps him on his toes, like all it will take is one crack for everything to crumble. and there lies the issue he has with romi.

she knows too much. she can find the instability in his walls and can prod at it until it breaks.

he can’t control her perception of him, and it terrifies him, annoys him. it always has, but he’s managed to avoid her for the most part, or force himself to think of dumb, mundane things lest he provide her any more ammunition than what’s slipped through the cracks already. but lately? she meddles too much, too. has shown up one too many times when he’s with mona for it to just be a coincidence. it impedes his training, pulls him out of concentration when he focuses his energy on filtering his thoughts instead, and consequently lowers the amount of fear he can absorb from mona. and that, well, that pisses him off, prompts him to seek her out in the shooting range when he decides enough is enough.

he waits while she shoots a few rounds, back pressed against the back wall, arms crossed while he wonders if she can hear his thoughts underneath those headphones and over all the gunshots echoing in the enclosed space. it must suck, he thinks, to never have your mind to yourself. but pity isn’t why he’s there, so he pushes himself off the wall when she has to reload, reaches to pull one side of her headphones off and breathes hot into her ear, “nice shot.” he laughs quietly for no good reason but to be unsettling, lips painted smug after he lets go of her headphones and settles into the stall next to her, pushing the button to send the target board back while he loads his pistol. 

“you could probably kill a man with that aim,” he starts, straightening his posture when he draws his gun and aims at the head of the board, asking before he pulls the trigger, “-- have you, yet?” 

[theseoks]

found & lost

[hcjowi-blog]

reminders.

[arcjaeyong-blog]

arcmona:

when she registers his features, she notes a look of something wild in his eyes, concern furrowing between her brows, etched in her expression. “what is it?” she murmurs, quieter now, and softer. careful, always careful, fingers sliding against his shoulder, over soft cotton, softer skin. “nightmare?”

yong doesn’t do parties. he doesn’t do alcohol, not often anyway. he hates losing control of himself, is terrified of what might come out of his mouth if he does, is terrified of reverting back to jaeyong. so going to the party is an odd choice, accepting the drink mona hands him is another one, and taking her back to his room for anything other than combat practice, for hot hands and softer skin sliding against each other completes the trifecta. 

he’s not wasted but he’s gone enough that he forgets to kick her out, that he falls asleep with her head against his chest. it’s been a while since he hasn’t slept alone. it’s been a while since he’s held someone in his arms. so he lets himself revel in it temporarily, falls asleep easy only to be reminded, abruptly, terrifyingly that he’s not someone who can revel in these things. sleep brings him nightmares, playing out his greatest fears or bringing his brother back or reminding him of what he’s done, what he’s become. he squelches his own fears when he’s awake, and so they come back ten-fold at night, has him sitting up in a fit of panic, heart racing, breath heavy, hair sticking to his sweating forehead. 

normally, he goes through this alone, wakes up to darkness, to silence, but tonight? he wakes up to a face of concern looking up at him, to gentle fingers against his shoulder which he grabs on instinct in a search for warmth, familiarity, anything to ground him back in reality and squeezes, glides his trembling thumb across the back of her hand. “i --” he stops, stumbles over his words because his heart is still beating irregularly, because in that moment he is jaeyong, stripped down and entirely human, “yeah.” he swallows in an attempt to regain himself, but his head hangs low while he tries to catch his breath, and his words come out mumbled, shaky, and in incomplete sentences, “nightmare. every stupid night. fucking hate it.”

[fykimtaehyung]

[fageleh]

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.

Pablo Neruda, Love Poem XIV (via ceramiclemon)