lost objects
@epluhan
It took forty minutes for him to notice his journal is gone: his steps had been much lighter, his mind less occupied. He’d pinned it on a good mood – these often sprouted in certain company, in certain silences – but as his steps rounded the corner and as his hands began to explore and pat and slither between his robes, an emptiness began to bud. Because his journal wasn’t a mere physical object; the information inside, the words neatly marching across the pages, stitched together an energy that went beyond borders, beyond tangible edges. He would often run his finger along its spine for the soothing calm of its stable line – the disarming of anxiety. There was a spark, too: a reminder of who he was, who he had to be. His Slytherin persona relied wholly on what lay between its pages.
It took forty minutes for him to notice, though it only took two for him break down. He’d peeled off a few layers of clothing – thought that, in the frenzied mess of fabric and pockets, something had been misplaced. Perhaps it had found its way into the other side of his clothes. Perhaps it had tangled itself in loose thread.
But even as the pool of fabric grew, and the set of onlooking eyes doubled, even as his chest began feeling more and more empty, as if making room for the neat influx of panic that poured into him, no journal surfaced. Even when he yelled – a low, visceral sound, more pained than angry; more pathetic than predatory – nothing emerged. His mind fell into step with paranoia: the smell of leather in a flame filled his nose; the crackle of paper, the sound of it splitting apart echoed in his ears; the snicker of eavesdropping, the ridicule of exposure made his cheeks warm. If it wasn’t here, his fears whispered, it could only be in the wrong hands, destroyed; a whole life bound in a small notebook, now pulled apart, undone in the matter of hours.
Tears pricked at the back of his eyes, but he still had his pride – still had his vanity. Even when his fingers curled, even when fists formed; even when a tremble swam up his spine, traced his arms, settled in the slim bones of his wrists, Jongin tried to hold on to poise. Though it faded fast; the minutes ate away at its silhouette; the panic tore it from inside.
His friends, by now, look worried – though he only imagined amusement in their eyes. Only saw hostility; a kind of sabotage.
Jongin’s posture faltered and he stepped forward, took one of them by the front of their robes; his fingers twisted around the fabric, pulled the boy higher until their eyes clashed. Confusion stitched itself into the furrow of his brow, but a pure, unfiltered emotion – close to anger, akin to sadness – washed over the color of his eyes. This, too, was a form of distraction, an accusation that numbed his mind; a conflict that allowed adrenaline to trickle in. It was a loud and brusque announcement: he’d rather embrace disaster than be toyed with.
the newly budded friendship lu han found himself entertaining with the slytherin allowed him to learn one thing: the boy is a receptacle of illusions and diversions, one who is comforted best with physical bouts of silence. as with a flourish, with a mere whisper, he diverts back — a performance dependent on the physical, memory-reliant and unpleasant. ( in short: an unfamiliar. a person lu han doesn’t know, nor cares to know. ) but it’s he who senses need and softens — guilelessly — to provide. best to do it this way, so that they might never see his prior-self slipping behind the mask. best to be kind from the get up than offering a false version of his self, slipping into a role that doesn’t fit him, a puzzle piece mismatched to it’s set. he relates so deeply to jongin, that it inspires something soft within him to reach out when possible: knows what lays beneath every sharp quip of his tongue and throw of a knuckle. sometimes it keeps his brain occupied during nights when sleep refuses to take ahold of him: wondering if he wants to change at all, if his presence is a factor that may or may not inspire a complete upheaval of his personality.. or if this is just another joke where he, lu han, pretty boy, entirely too sympathetic for his own good, becomes the punchline. maybe jongin is content to live this way. maybe he’s just wasting his time. it’s wasn’t his first thought to befriend him. never thought it to be an option considering his reputation; against his better judgment, he has become dreadfully fond of him. so he keeps his hand cupped on his kneecap, lip tucked between teeth, looking for something he can read in his body language, begging the endless expanse of the lake and the ripples that form atop it’s surface for a simple answer to his problem. but there’s nothing, and the glaring silence fills the growing space placed between them. it stays like this, repetitious, every week.
on some days he thinks he’s closer to getting through to him. other days he’s brought back to square one, questioning. wondering if he was socially inept to the point where studying human behaviour seemed to be a foreign antibody in his body. as if he has never experienced it, he rejects it. admittedly, he’s half tempted to read the bound journal, explore what jongin has ripped out of his own self and stuffed between veiled pages before others had the chance to rip them out for him. but lu han has always been decent ( and maybe that’s his problem ) quickly deciding that infringing on his privacy isn’t something that friends do. no more thought is given to it, other than the primary decision that the item will be returned the next time he comes across him. next time presents itself in the form of the answer to all of his questions, but in his hurry to juggle his unfinished assignments, lu han fails to notice this. it’s too late once he’s stepped into the lions den, or more aptly, the snake’s pit - five pairs of eyes all on him, half inquiring, half caustic. jongin’s white knuckled grip around another’s robes is all it takes for the smaller to know that this was a bad decision, he’s not faced with the familiar anymore: it’s the unfamiliar that’s come out to play now, and no matter how much he knows that this guise is a careful construct, is dependent on distance and threadbare foundations, he cannot rid him of it by being the one to rip the boy apart. “jongin,” with shaky hands he thrusts the journal before him, mouth opening and closing for lack of words coming to mind. their propinquity has never been one based on small talk, so he shouldn’t be surprised that nothing’s coming out. “i figured you’ve been looking for this, ah.. i’m sorry to disturb you. i meant to give it back sooner but.. i lost track of time.”
