his therapist tells him he should be more of an active listener.
hyojun's gaze didn't meet hers then, the same way he doesn't meet the relentlessly judging gaze of rakwon's, eyes cast on the glass in his hand, half-empty with simple iced water, brows knit tight across his face. it's lingering, his presence, something which haunts, too alive to be declared a ghost, occupying the space on rakwon's leather sofa (rather shamelessly after he has practically invited himself in) like air, the type that's heavy on the lungs and impossible to ignore. a reminder, with each breath, of the rotten that burrows deep into flesh and finds a home there, parasitic. just enough to acknowledge him when you catch a glimpse of protuberance in the corner of your eye before it fades into the background of your mind.
his therapist tells him it would make his friends like him more. hyojun tries, at the very least. even when the room sways and he finds himself in the epicenter of it, not really caring.
"what did you say again?" he flits, trying to hold his gaze steady, despite the discomfort that comes with being watched ㅡ acknowledging you are being watched, his voice a flat tone. his hand twitches. "the arrangement between you and ㅡ whoever?"
@fromlittlewaves
his father tells him he should be kinder to her. to give her a chance.
rakwon sits with it the same way he sits with scripture verses he doesn't fully believe in — lips moving over them anyway, the cadence drilled in, the meaning left to float somewhere outside himself. yian is young, polite in the way that feels rehearsed, her voice pitched to carry cleanly across the sanctuary. he knows what the others see: demure smile, hands folded just so on her lap, white blouse with the faint translucence that makes even the married men clear their throats and pretend they're checking the hymnbook.
"yian. ryu yian," he says finally, the syllables smoothed into something neutral, like stone turned in the hand until all edges dull. a faint lift of his brow. "you're the one who called her hot after sermon. front row in the choir, hair loose—" a pause, the smallest twitch of a smirk, "—the type you'd have a hard time keeping eye contact with if she asked you about today's gospel reading."
he exhales through his nose, a sound close to a laugh but without the warmth. "my father thinks the arrangement is good for me. for us. they're the construction ryus, old money pouring concrete before my grandfather's shipping yards touched the coast." the words drift, somewhere between confession and dismissal, his gaze trained not on hyojun but on the glass in the other man’s hand, as though the reflection there might show him what he refuses to name.
"maybe he's right. who would be stupid enough to refuse that?"