consigleire. | mr. cassano.
he watches as she slides the aspirin over, the movements achingly slow in his anticipation, the quiet scrape over the table echoing inside his head. he wastes no time in reaching to uncap the bottle and debate how many he wanted to take, almost considering swallowing the whole thing before he opts for two — three, and popped them in, swallowing them dry. which was a mistake as his throat was so dry that he nearly choked, working incredibly hard not to show his struggle. eyes widen the slightest as he feels her presence enclose in his space, gaze squinting the slightest, nodding along with her shushing. “ i did do it with other people. ” one person and a half. jipuragi firm had its nights, and mr. nam quit a third of the way in. “ it ends up being a mistake. ” in that nobody knows how to stop.
“ next time it happens, i’ll make sure to invite you. but you can’t get competitive. ” a heavy sigh is released as he slouches in his seat, muscles relaxed and practically mush for the first time in so long. his eyes flicker shut, though his mind remained alert and cautious, mostly out of fear for falling asleep where he could be thoroughly inspected by the public eye. he wasn’t sure he wanted ms. jang to see him in such a different state. one eye peeks open the slightest, focusing on her. “ tell me about this cure. ”
yeon-jin likes sharing a meal with other people. sharing drinks, same difference. she doesn’t know how she’d spend her nights if she didn’t have his husband, or the friends she’s made among the tenants. monthly game nights, carousing together into the early hours at toto’s, or stuffing her face with comfort food at the snack bar, there are ample opportunities for them – both inside and outside of the plaza – to join together.
vincenzo ought to join them, one of these days. when he’s not suffering through a hangover, that is. they can all get pretty loud and fired up.
“ me? jang yeon-jin? competitive? pfft–“ she starts to laugh, but smacks a self-imposed muzzle of a hand over her mouth. “ sorry, “ is mumbled from beneath her fingers. “ it’s called– “ realizing she still has her lips covered, therefore muffling her speech, she tries anew. at a lower register than her usual, of course. “ it’s called ugeojiguk. it’s what we koreans eat after getting hammered the night before. “ a nod, firm, resolute. “ i can tell ms. kwak and she can make you some. she’s probably got all the ingredients. i could–” she sticks her head out of the door, shouts, “yah! ms. kwak! “