the knock on kangin’s door is brief, and soft, and it nearly (nearly) doesn’t give him enough reason to rouse. he was enjoying his time curled on the couch, in near tears as he watched same video of a kitten dancing to ‘lights up’ on tiktok, wishing he could somehow have his own pet cat. but nonetheless, he knew better than to ignore anyone brave enough to drop by his place at 11pm on a thursday.
his hands prickle with that familiar feeling of pins and needles as he touches the metal handle, recoiling briefly as he wrings them between each other. oh, he’d forgotten to eat dinner. he stuffs the thought away like it’s a sweater he wouldn’t be wearing anytime soon, but kept it for the consideration, and maybe to consider chucking away everytime he’d peek at it. he opens the door.
“ don’t talk to me before my coffee. oh. it’s you. ” kangin’s mouth forms an ‘o’ shape, stepping aside without another word for heejin to pass through — which she does, however sluggishly.
the skin between his eyebrows is taut as he raises an eyebrow, just in suggestion, watching her observe his couch before sitting on it and lethargically pulling his ryan plush to her side. something was wrong.
“ hey, buttercup, ” it was nickname that had begun as a way to tease her, like he used to make buzzing noises when she’d complain how busy she was with her elite lifestyle — 'such a busy bee~'. the lifestyle they shared, but the one he took pleasure in complaining about, once-upon-a-while-ago.
like the brightening city lights outside, flickering all about, his eyes scan the room in a poor attempt to read the vibe. advice he’d received from clay not so long ago... a way of offering more empathy than he usually does. apparently he’s not ‘emotionally available’ enough nowadays. “ what’s up? ”
the stars are scattered like breadcrumbs, tonight. if he were any more conscious, kangin might come up with a nicer kind of simile — the kind that resonates even when you read it on a silly paper leaf. but he isn’t.
his mind is fuzzy with the series of events that had lead up to now: (begrudgingly) pulling up to a family event, being ripped to shreds by his mother for his haircut, hissing at a passing attendee just to irritate her further (not the most mature move, but 22 is just a number, right?), getting forcibly removed from the premises by her overgrown fingernails and being yelled at on the side of the street. one shot of campari and that lady goes julianne-moore-as-margaret-white mad.
kangin presses his head against the thick, wooden door in front of him as if letting it weigh him down any longer would be cause for him to collapse. the door that a familiar face sits behind; a face so gentle, untouched by kangin’s haunting day-to-day life that he absolutely feels like he’s intruding.
but it’s cold. the wind is blowing up his suit pants like a breeze brought custom just for him, to bite him in the ass. this was nowhere near the way he’d expected for his night to end. but hyeonjeong had sat so long untouched in his contacts — one of those seniors from way back when money, and status, were still sources of his innocent, arrogant pride — it felt almost necessary.
dumb, necessary. aren’t they just the same?
outgoing message 📲hyeongjegong. hyeonjeonG om g
outgoing message 📲:/ outside ur door rn. hope u still live here llol embarassment of a LIFETIME if u didn.t
outgoing message 📲anyway............. can i vcome inside 🥺 my mom was mean and im sooooo far from home :/
it’s pretty cold out. though, kangin isn’t really wearing anything but the poorest excuse for a basketball jersey someone could imagine. it was a birthday gift, that he’d received. today, actually. from his mother. many years he had been spoiled with material things to make up for her emotional absence during the important events of his life — though he’s unsure what about him could be deemed important anymore. kyungah had come home that afternoon, after kangin was forced to open all of his presents in the lounge like a circus animal being watched by an audience of champagne socialists. actually, that didn’t sound too far from reality.
the doorbell had rung ominously as kangin was just starting to sink into the idea of enjoying this day, alone. he’d since lugged around the house, been visited by a few relatives who only dropped by to show off their new cars. or to talk about their recent service trips to southern america. his great uncle had even had a car chauffeured over from his house. because he was too busy waiting on his winter lillies to wish him a happy birthday in person. but of course, all of this contrived humour had to be ruined by his older sister. she came in gloating, with news of her newest successes out in the great wild world: in particular, an engagement. she doesn’t even bother acknowledging the set up for kangin’s celebratory shindig that evening, shoving the princess-cut diamond in her parents’ faces breathlessly.
it’s now 2am. kangin has kindly extended his invitation list to around 200 kids — give or take — after initially complying with his parents requests of something more tame.
“ the day you get her the fuck out, this house comes under your jurisdiction. it’s my birthday. ” sent them out to his aunt’s house in quite the rush. so, now he sits on top of his roof watching his loyal subjects loudly tear apart his house from the inside out. he’d locked his bedroom, and had the courtesy to do the same with his mother’s office. he’s pretty distracted by an urge to jump off into his pool ( for reason’s unknown. it doesn’t sound very safe when he thinks about it a little more. )
just as he sets his phone aside, the sweet thrum of ‘poker face’ playing, the roof door flap rustles a few metres behind him. “ bonjour~ ” he calls, and the sound of his faded voice almost sends kangin tumbling over himself.
his lips pout as he turns, meeting the culprit’s gaze giddily. “ how’s the view? ”
warnings: kangin is the student govt vp, and therefore everything he posts on main is usually captioned with a campus event promo. or 1d lyrics. or telling people to return library books. +10 clay pics +15 cat pics +5 nintendo fanboying.
he is some sort of ancient rune , the quiet malevolence of freezing to death. jerry-can ambrosia offered in this place , where tragedy is in every chipped floorboard &. south gothic preacher boys hanging upside down from their own sins like crucifixes. altars filled with dirty money &. coiled , sour grapevines. he must have been a god once , with how these worshippers give him everything to him. eyes staring , begging for a moment of attention from the angel torn from heaven. ❝ dude you’re like so pretty , like holy shit. ❞ the panic in their voice was clear to taste as their lips wrap around the wine glass , taking a long drink. this temple of grace that had been burnt down to the ground &. angels left their halos on the coat rack at the door. a welcomed step off the path into the endless maw of pleasure , pilfered from the seeds of pomegranates. the only thing that worships anymore are the deep , dark things that crawl from the spaces between soul &. heart. ❝ uh , no homo , though. ❞ choking on the tightening halo that they have made into a noose , aching to be drunker as they sit in the stole of a confessional box.
he doesn’t know why he comes to places like this. trailing with men, no, boys, stuck in their twenties with jaws that drag on the ground behind any and everyone who rejects their half-assed hookup requests. of course, even seoul’s highest class bars were infected with poorly dressed children pursuing influencer careers — or worse, commerce majors. kangin wasn’t sure why he even tried. maybe it was the ritual of sitting at his dresser and fussing himself about, spending hours rifling through his collection of shiny, fine things. like he would in high school before sunday services, for the price of familiar eyes stuck to him like honey to someone rushing to sweeten their tea. kangin was, then, the zeus to his mother’s cronus. when she attempted to swallow him with her yet undefiled, pearly button downs and embroidered handkerchiefs, he’d thread another needle through supple, untouched cartilage, letting it do what lips do: meet, and sully. where dried blood was left unkept nor cared for, zeus loved himself the most. because she hated it, and buried herself beneath layers of shame for a measured eternity. she had said once that all he had was his beauty. he lived up the her single expectation every day. though, he does still wear white with a conscience. and now, to wear it drinking wine feels almost ironic to whatever ‘ almighty ’ he’d long since disenchanted. he doesn’t mind the blood on his hands; abba is playing, and his thoughts are elsewhere. “ hm? ” whenever he zones out, which was becoming more and more often with his increased dosages of zoloft, he forgets that he doesn’t go outside to be alone. it is always with clay, who's usually out of sight seeking out a shell of company for him to crawl into that evening. so, to have them stuck to the plush leather stool, eyes looping his body like he were a spectacle, felt... odd.
It’s like I could spend my whole life debating it over and over again, weighing the pros and cons. And in the end, I still wouldn’t have any proof. So I just… I just don’t debate it anymore. It’s absurd.
kangin possesses a very, very useful power that not even a witch could master with their most formidable spell-work. the very kind that allows him to walk right past the head librarian for his shift, uniform left behind at the bottom of his closet, without the bat of an eyelash. even a friendly, doting smile catches the very edges of his peripheral vision: he is, today, like most days, invincible. he looks almost like a thug — a sexy thug, maybe — the hair wraps decorating his mullet a great source of entertainment for his bored fingers, scared freshmen scattering the premises to study. what a way to start his day.
his head cants toward the pile of books left in his cart to sort and assemble over the next few hours. an activity he usually enjoyed, and spent comfortably between the tight bookshelves that snu had somehow stacked to the ceiling. but now, due to a peer volunteer not aiding a student mid-asthma attack because he was watching hotel del luna on his phone, headphones and all other devices were strictly prohibited. kangin loved the library, but he wasn’t sure about this new rule. how was he meant to entertain himself?
and just then, like the mouse a cat preys on for simple pleasure, kwon minwoo steps right through the gates of glory. soft-spoken ( if he ever spoke at all ), introverted and completely untouched by life’s woes. at least, that’s how he presented. with those layered sweatshirts and booksmart comments. kangin doesn’t often play tomcat. it feels immature, and unnecessary, but 12pm shift is a devil to compromise entertainment with.
“ minwoo! ” kangin slides over the librarian’s desk, reclining against it as his leg extends so he’s uncomfortable enough to look composed. “ you keep wandering around like that, someone might think you’re lost property. what brings you up from the catacombs? ”
clay is still learning to be human , after weeks of being out of body &. letting something else take the wheel. there are fuzzy memories , bruises &. all the time lost. paying attention whenever she can feel knocking in her bones. ❝ im like a fucking genius , albert einstein wishes he had what i have. ❞ taking note of when her body drops to the ground , she was told that was what it was all about. it was about missing &. messing everything up. ❝ dude you put the glue on me , a nice even layer. ❞
➟ kangin knows clay. kangin knows clay, he’s sure, better than clay knows clay. he reckons this is, in part ( or all ), the fault of those sick spirits that take his body apart and leave it loosed, all over the floor, for kangin to clean and collect ( and how is someone supposed to piece back together a human body like it’s a puzzle? even then, when the body is so gentle, and already so torn, and kangin’s hands are just bone and skin and purpose that is suffocated before it can even appear. ) the answer is to watch him, silently. as if silence is the beginning and end of all his issues. and to apologise to thin air whenever he’s alone. “ genius my ass. ” kangin sighs. he thinks to stop and question clay, but the nagging bug at the back of his mind tells him that’s a nervous habit. one he should stop infringing on people’s fun with. a stickler for impressing others, he complies. the rings on that clink a little bit whenever he moves come off, collecting in a pile beside the bed; and all of it speaks defeat. he’s such a pushover for this kid.
briefly: a then 16-year-old kangin hasn’t attended a family dinner in nearly a week. with basketball practices surmounting as college nationals approach, and a lack of interest interacting with anyone, or thing, other than his nintendo. he walks through the door, at 8:30 and the table is only being set — as expected. whenever kangin went out of his way to avoid his family, they made up for it with gratuitous fervour trying to rein him in.
“innie! there you are! mrs. kim— oh, look at you—“ his mother fusses over his sweaty forehead, and the scent of b.o permeating his training hoodie, floating all throughout the hallway.
“take a shower. you stink.” kyungah says, face coiled in distaste. kangin snorts and shoves past them both, scaling the staircase without another word. he wasn’t one for bickering in excess, like they used to. he realised that was kind of futile quite quickly. especially when it was always turned on them both, and he got in trouble regardless of ‘who started it’.
once he no longer smells like the school gym and a hoard of pubescent boys, he slides down the balustrade, just as he would every other day. a habit he’d picked up ever since his father warned it’d collapse on itself someday soon, “and hopefully you, with it.” kyungah had kindly added. there was something they could agree on.
when he sits at the head of the table, as the men always do in the yi household, he sits alone. his family are still elsewhere fussing about, the first portions of food being spread glamorously across the oversized table. it’s one of those beautiful dark ochres; the kind of wood that you tap on just to hear it echo a little, a true feat of craftsmanship.
he used to hide under this table, when he was small enough. no one ever cared to look for him in obvious places. and when he was lucky enough, it would be covered in a tablecloth long enough that the silk edges just touched the carpet covered ground. it made for quite a comfortable space to complain and cry to himself, as any kid should.
being upset wasn’t deemed very appropriate anymore, getting to live in complete freedom from expectation (at least, that’s what his peers claimed. he knew that his life was still under strict surveillance and control. the kind that made him fear confessing it to anyone.) he was chipped, for god’s sake. who chips their own child?
life 360 trembled in the wake of his family’s crooning necks, disappointed looks and a shocking lack of expectation for his future.
his thoughts are jostled as a middle aged man sits directly across from him. his father, that is. his mother takes a little longer to settle in her seat, always pedantic about smoothing out her skirt and calling kyungah away from the couch.
kangin gives thanks to the cooks, and the maids, and is interrupted by the shrill giggle of haein. “and thank you, for finally showing up to dinner!” he nods. he has nothing else to say to her, or that statement.
he has always eaten like it were his last meal, as is natural to a teenage boy. of course, it was an easy invitation for a series of semi-disgusted looks from his mom, attempting to keep her composure. she was becoming oddly remiss when it came to his unrefined behaviour, recently. he assumed it was because kyungah had been thinking of moving out.
that’d mean neither children would ever be home. he wasn’t sure what else she’d expect, being pretty poor at parenting in the first place. the dinner continues on in awkward, suspended quietude.
“kyungah has been busy, too!” a short hum fills the space, empty of any other responses. “she’s got her first midterm in a few weeks. and then the gala, of course.” his father continues, voice so gentle and poised for someone who has willingly trapped himself in this situation.
jungwu was the only person kangin could stand. he looked up to his dad with eyes and ears always open. both familiars, they shared a lot more than he could ever with his sister, or mother, insufferable as they usually were. as his father tried to convince him against saying.
kangin always felt sorry that he’d been given such a starved hand of cards in life. an incredible mathematician, public speaker and leader type suffocated by a family of affluent and ignorant witches. and now, a selfish daughter, low-functioning, lifeless son, and a tyrannical wife. one he loves, apparently.
he fears such a fate, knowing the deep indent his past leaves for his future.
“we were wondering if you were free then? we’d appreciate the company. your support, as your sister is presented to her community.” her community. the magical community that he had rejected, and is yet to reconcile with since. he doesn’t intend to.
he knows the gala falls on the 1st of december every year. he’s attentive enough to know the super annoyingly important dates scrawled into his family’s calendars, he would’ve hoped they had been able to do the same.
his father interrupts before he can: “that’s the weekend of nationals.” and kyungah’s chuffed snort cues kangin to set down his cutlery. the look on his mother’s face is tense, pleading, and he hates it.
“i don’t see why it should involve me. i get that it’s very important for her, and you, but that’s just her responsibility. i wouldn’t want to be there when she’s upstaged anyway.”
“yi kangin. take that back and apologise to your sister.”
“just practicing. she needs to control her temper. look at her!” the word ‘steaming’ would do little to describe the look on kyungah’s face. she was always like this — as fragile as a tea cup.
“at least i’m useful.” “uh, that’s like my only purpose, big brain. i’m a witch’s ultimatum. and you’re… what? learning to fix your attitude?” “fuck you.” “big words for such a little girl.” “you’re a twig!” “fast metabolism. you’ve never heard of one, clearly.” “take that back!” “or what? you’ll send me flying? go on! try!”
maybe kangin forgot that kyungah was actually fearfully powerful for her age, maybe he just wanted to push her past her limit before his mother inevitably stepped in again. maybe he just wanted to win, whatever the cost. whatever it was, it doesn’t matter now. his body is curled in shock and stirring rage after being thrown against the doorframe behind his seat.
“kyungah!”
“stupid fucking bitch!” his throat rips with the kind of burning he hadn’t heard for much too long. he holds the back of his head in a death grip, a deep scarlet blood seeping into the minute pattern of his finger print, all the way around his fingers until he wears a glove of his own injury.
“at least i have a talent!” “she’s a psychopath! mom, she’s a psycho—“ before he can continue, his mother’s palm is pressed against his forehead. Not a moment later, he passes out cold on the living room floor with an audible ‘clunk’. his dreams stir with white clouds covering the moon and all the other empty images his mind could conjure.
haein sends kyungah to her room, without another word, and kangin’s father carries his son toward her office. a tear drops from his reddening eyes right onto kangin’s cheeks. his skin is so clear, and round, and filled with all the life he should so be leading. the kind of life he deserved, and the kind of life he continued to walk away from.
they walked away between tall hedges,
their heads just clear and blond
with sunlight, the hedges’ dark sides
sickly with drifts of flowers.
they were facing the sea and miles
of empty air; the sky had high
torn clouds, the sea its irregular
runs and spatters of white.
they did not look back; the steadiness
of their retreating footfalls lapsed
in a long diminuendo; their line
was straight as the clipped privets.
they looked at four sliding gulls
a long way up, scattering down frail
complaints; the fickle wind filled in
with sounds of town and distance.
they became sunlit points; in a broad
haphazard world the certain focus.
against the random patterns of the sea
their walk was one-dimensional, and final.
mad woman with a magicians flourish ; lights of Vegas to the strobe light heart &. beacons of furious , neon signs. she exists purely in a world of impulse thought. ❝ bro , bro i was watching youtube last night &. i had an idea. ❞ a slot machine mind spitting out ichor into the faces of men that can hardly pronounce the names of the old gods they worship in secret. sometimes her words start to spin like a carousel. ❝ lets do 100 layers of glue on our face , it would be so funny dude. ❞ her eyes grow wild with the idea , glue in hand &. a camera in the other ready to make art.
➟ kangin must be in the company of some god. someone so beyond human conception, so divine that she sees no axis for the world to spin upon. all that has been and not been must sit in those deep PANOPTES eyes. only endless possibilities, all of which involve some level of ' necessary ' self-harm. oh wait. that's just clay.
“ that sounds really... ” he ponders the appropriate reaction, so tempted to just pass the fuck out and wait until clay was maybe just a tad more sober. so he wouldn’t end up sacrificing his eyebrows, or sideburns, or whatever facial hair will inevitably be reaped from him, because he's sure he is the only victim deemed appropriate for edward scissorhands' rolodex of terrifying ideas. “ really stupid. ” he breathes deeply.
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