feet set, and no doubts

hoya ; phobos ; ccg ; assistant special class "You are born alone. You die alone. The value of the space in between is trust and love. That is why geometrically speaking the circle is a one. Everything comes to you from the other. You have to be able to reach the other.” - Louise Bourgeois

[ghxhowon]

yonebayashi saiko

YONEBAYASHI SAIKO: are you procrastinating while answering this question?

Howon looks at his stack of paperwork and sets his pen down, always hoping for some kind of divine intervention that excuses him from tedious work. Driving circles around the area he is assigned to is preferable compared to this (or visiting local stores for tailing when suspicions are raised). He smiles playfully. “No. I’m merely taking a break. Thank you for asking.”

[ghxhowon]

mado akira

MADO AKIRA: are you particular about time?

Howon makes a face, almost as if allergic to the idea of tardiness. Examples coming to mind, each one adding more distaste to his expression. A meeting interrupted by apologies. A meeting that was unable to begin. Time wasted on waiting for paperwork, time that could be used anywhere else. Some things are unavoidable, uncontrollable but anticipation is a skill anyone can acquire and essential to those who work in his field. 

He nods after recounting his reasons and says: “Yes, I suppose I am.”

[ghxhowon]

amon koutarou!

AMON KOUTAROU: have you ever been betrayed by someone you trusted deeply?

You see red encircled by pitch black, the other side a regular shape of brown. Ugly protrusions from skin, at least you assume they are attached to her. Her lips, pretty and pink, say something you fail to catch. The world muffled. Rage coursing through your veins causing a pounding in your temples — the only thing you are able to hear. The world has tipped to its side, a rug has been pulled out from beneath you, you lose balance. You demand why. ( Why participate? Why me? Why now? )

Her lips, pretty and pink, say help me.You turn your back on her.

Howon finds his hands formed into fists and force them to relax. He stares at them for a while, extricating himself from memories. For a long time, time that can no longer return, he brewed in resentment, felt as if someone had wedged a knife from behind his back, slipping it in between his ribs. Stupid. Thoughtless. Stubborn. A fool is what he is.

“No,” he exhales. Years later he still feels as if there is something wedged in his throat, still feels like mourning. “I count myself fortunate.” He leaves it there and doesn’t mention how he betrayed another’s trust.

[ghxhowon]

takizawa seidou

TAKIZAWA SEIDOU: are you afraid of death?

Howon thinks of an old testament addressed to his little brother, full of apologies and regrets. Howon thinks of unwritten blank sheets, unaddressed, and the laundry list of names he could potentially write to. Things he never dared to say in life but might as well reveal them in death. A last resort. An accumulation of things he’s forbidden himself from. (Equal parts regret and gratitude.)

He thinks of red constructs swatting at him at a speed that frightens him to the core, the pain that shoots through his body when skin splices open, the crimson that seeps out. Dread doesn’t come then. Dread comes much later when he’s staring at white walls accentuated by fluorescent lights, dressed in a hospital gown and unable to move from his bed. There’s an individual by his side. To think of the future is sometimes a luxury — he realises all too late.

Regret, an old friend, curls up in his chest like a snake and coils around his heart.

Howon blinks before a chuckle escapes his lips. He once feared judgement, conducted himself to a point where no one could ever raise complaints. Even now he wonders if he will judged for being honest. He’s tired. So he says, “I am. For I have something to live for.”

[ghxhowon]

takizawa seidou

TAKIZAWA SEIDOU: are you afraid of death?

Once upon a time, Howon was at a lost as what to write in the testament and for the most part it reflected his mentality. He was young. He would die doing something he loved. He would die a hero (one amongst many, a name on a wall filled with names, but a hero nonetheless) and that didn’t seem too bad.

Once upon a time, like most young people were, Howon didn’t give death much thought at all.

But there’s an old scar on his abdomen that has warned him and an ever shrinking circle of friends. Howon smiles, unsure, unconfident. “If you asked me a year or two ago I would have said no. I’m not so sure anymore.”

[ghxhowon]

tokyo ghoul ask meme

kaneki ken: do you like to read?

kamishiro rize: do you get bored easily?

nagachika hideyoshi: is there a friend you'd do anything for?

kirishima touka: have you done anything in the past that you're not proud to admit?

kirishima ayato: do you love your siblings, if any?

fueguchi hinami: have you lost anyone/anything important to you?

nishio nishiki: is there anyone you hated at first but eventually came to like in your life?

tsukiyama shuu: have you ever spoken to someone in a language everyone knows you're not fluent in?

uta: have people ever told you you're two-faced?

hoito roma: have you ever faked ignorance so people would stop paying attention to you?

renji yomo: do you think you're the caring type of person?

yoshimura: do you know how to brew coffee?

naki: is there anyone you consider your role model in life?

eto: are you an easy-going person?

tatara: are you currently living in the same country in which you are born in?

nutcracker: do you believe your childhood shapes you?

takizawa seidou: are you afraid of death?

amon koutarou: have you ever been betrayed by someone you trusted deeply?

mado akira: are you particular about time?

suzuya juuzou: have you ever only realised someone is important to you after they're gone?

arima kishou: have you ever achieved anything you're proud of when you were young?

ginshi shirazu: do you think you're capable of shouldering huge responsibilities?

urie kuki: what is your goal in life?

mutsuki tooru: are you happy with the way you are now?

yonebayashi saiko: are you procrastinating while answering this question?

[ghxdongwoo]

If you were a story ( you would be the one that saves me )

The main elevator is empty when you finally make that move to press the last button in the familiar lineup offered to you, one that you’ve never pressed before in all of your years here because the people on that floor only ever travel down so often, as if they live in a different realm altogether. Gut feelings have told you to keep your distance along with the rest of your peers even if the act of conforming felt uncharacteristic of you. There were always going to be lines that feel impossible to tread upon.  As the silver doors begin to close, you can’t help but to wonder if the guilt is painting over your features, that you’re readable even to strangers passing by. How many of them would know that you’re doing something stupid and drastic, just by sharing a brief glance? How many would hold their breath while the fragment of open space closes on your averting eyes and think ‘here he goes again trying to test his limits.’One metallic chirp and the sentiment sinks into the pit of your stomach, suddenly you’re forgetting all about them and the faint voice that brought you here cuts in again, sharp and indignant and too much like you, like the real you. 

Keep reading

[ghxhowon]

It begins in a room that smells like sweat and vinyl. Disdain is laced in your blood like poison, rotting you from inside out. Anger at the tips of your fingers, barely held back in. You take a step forward, evaluate him, decide he won’t last more than a week. A broken shell of a human being will crumble with a forceful touch.

It begins in a room that smells like sweat and vinyl where you meet a man you’ll eventually love, twice. This is how the story unfolds.

You lash out, fury barely concealed. Keep up or be left behind, a clear message in what can barely pass as a training session begins. You are tired of the same tragic backstories. ( So and so was murdered by ghouls and they were the world to me. ) Sick of a poorly conceived revenge plot. No one would ever understand you like your superior did, so you charge. He parries, you attack again. Slowly, in fits and starts, it becomes more like a dance than a one sided act of aggression. It continues for a while until you are a heap of limp bones and sore muscles. And maybe, just maybe, this might work out.

You expected a lot of things from him, being malleable and willing to adapt to you was not one of them. A single touch, fleeting, is a minor adjustment in position. A firmer one calls for a reaction. A hand to the back, curved against the spine, means reset, relax, reassess the situation. To bump elbows means to stay alert, to follow, to reconfirm positions before one launches into the brawl. Slowly you create a dictionary with him ; not unlike the one your superior made with you, but still with your own personal touch. He becomes clay: yours to mould and shape.

( Yours. )

You think of the first time: his first time, his first kill. The sky was a shade of purple as if hinting at the bruises that were going to blossom. Blood splattered against your suit, a few drops against your cheek, but none as worrisome as the gash on his wrist. You held it in your hands for the first time that day, sitting on the sidewalk and coated in death. It wasn’t your last.

Somewhere in between his presence became permanent. A companion, you wouldn’t let yourself admit at the time, you needed. There were nights where the apartment was empty and dark as if someone had died or it had been abandoned and all you wanted to do was lie there forever. But he was there to drag you out, into the light of street lamps, into a street side vendor, in front of roasting meat. He didn’t say I’m sorry, he didn’t give useless optimistic comments, he didn’t say anything. He just talked about everything else as he dutifully refilled your empty soju glass and stopped you before you had to be admitted to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. Knew when to slip you water when he knew you were too far gone to taste the difference. Everything tasted like salt. You’re going to leave me too is at the tip of your tongue but you swallow it down with the last slice of barbecued beef.

You don’t realise a single thing until its too late, never learning from mistakes despite all the lessons god has thrown your way. The first time you do is two months before the raid ( before you lose it all ). Camped out in a car, keeping an eye out, tracking behaviour and realise how comfortable you are — with the situation, with him. But you kept it in, kept it all in, like always. You never learn and now its spilling over, Howon. Now its making a mess on the white tiled floor and you knew a vase could only hold so much.

You think of pink petals approaching their expiration date but still managing to be beautiful in the sun, as a bouquet. You think of the post it notes in varying shapes and colours plastered under his desk. You think of the curry house, of his bike, of a laughter so bright sometimes you have to avert your gaze — but you don’t. You never do. You think of when your quinque was handed to you, the firm hands that presented it to you, the proud smile your superior wore. You recall of the loose hair that becomes a mess when you ruffle it, the scowl and laugh that accompanies the gesture, the snacks long disposed in a garbage bin. You reminisce the smell of buttered popcorn and long discussions after a two hour movie. You remember the months of utter boredom, of sulking, of being buried in paperwork as you mourned over the loss of someone you could trust your back to. You relive the moment you were kin to a frog in a seventh grader’s biology lab. You think of the laundry list of things you’d like to do. You imagine stepping back onto the field again, being comfortable in your own skin, aware of your surroundings as if you had a second pair of eyes at the back of your head. You envision laying underneath a starry sky and fingers barely touching.

You’ve lost so much already. You can’t afford to lose more.

The elevator bell rings with finality and you step out with purpose. There are voices ahead, hints that you should turn back and wait your turn. There’s a familiar voice that rings out amidst the cacophony that encourages you forward. His words seeping into your skin and instilling confidence. The brain works to keep up.

You brush your elbow against his in a gesture of assurance. I’m here. “As first class investigator Jang Dongwoo has stated, likewise I share the same sentiment. I would like to request that Jang Dongwoo is reinstated as my partner. I am only half as effective without him by my side.”

You reposition your hands in front of you, a vague gesture at your previous blunder in a solo act ( desperate attempt ) to prove your worth. The scars are living proof, your record a minor contradiction. But you square your shoulders and hope they will listen to your pleas. Our pleas.

[french-invasion]

25/09/2016 INFINITE ONLY Yeongdeungpo fansign - Hoya DO NOT EDIT NOR CROP THE WATERMARK

[ghxhowon]

so much for endings

this isn't déjà vu. this is the same story destined to repeat itself again. maybe the third time’s the charm.

i.

it always begins with have you heard ? because curiosity is a shared trait throughout humanity. pandora wouldn’t have opened the pithos ; there wouldn’t be that saying about cats. of course you follow it up with about ? and the informant gladly relays the news, detailing something about dna and identification. a coworker overhears and clasps your shoulder. congratulations sounds like a death sentence. 

you are becoming more transparent because he asks did you not know ?  you didn’t. what would have changed if you did? fingers finding their home in his jacket — would you have dared to press your cheek against his scapula? the most you can ever do is hold his pulse between your fingers and even this is being taken away from you. 

i didn’t is all you supply. if this was a few years ago, perchance you would have clapped your hands, happy to be rid of a subordinate you barely knew. perhaps that was the beginning of it all, except it doesn’t matter when you are facing the end. 

( and our biggest regret will always be if only... )

two hours left and no gift to present. it is a day of celebration and to commemorate the dead — to award rising officers and thank them for their achievements, to appreciate what the fallen have done for future generations, to mourn for loss and rejoice in new beginnings. you are still coming up empty. flowers hold meaning but what message would you choose at this point in time? ( too blantant, too evident. give it all away and what do you have left? ) 

he’s expecting you. it has always been the little rituals that matter. the same standard assemblies, the same meaningless shifts of a tie as if two millimeters off center matters. it is always the senseless fussing that deem simple moments important: the accidental brush of the back hand to the clavicle or the jugular vein. excuses become unnecessary.

you know him like the back of your hand but it isn’t a one way street. hands will tremble and faces will fall and you couldn’t explain if you even tried. 

he’s expecting you and you fail him for the first time. 

ii. 

jang dongwoo is announced and the humans around you applaud. you follow suit because it is the code of conduct. 

( this must be what drowning feels like ) 

they list his accomplishments, his achievements, with a vague nod in your direction. you should be proud. they expect you to be. 

( this isn’t what i wanted still doesn’t change the fact that this partnership has reached the end and he has upheld his vows. who wouldn’t be thrilled at the notion of a promotion? ) 

the ceremony ends and you approach in the attempts to congratulate him

palms are warm against yours, facial features plastered to that of a pleasant smile like a mask the ghouls wear, and you tighten your grip as if you were trying to hold him in place with a handshake. perhaps you were, but moments are brief and social conduct dictates good byes to be short and sweet. 

but this moment was never meant to be yours alone. even if it were, would you have wanted it? coworkers flock, trying to express their joy and admiration. you take the chance to melt into the crowd, take a leave of absence. you ought to stay but you turn your back on him. 

adjustment period starts now. 

iii. 

how does one extricate oneself from a life so intimately intertwined? even an apartment registered under your name is not free from memories and attachment. how does the cleansing process begin? 

some part of your brain understands that this isn’t finality. there’s a grace period before the actual separation as they try to find someone to pair him with ( and you become an after thought ). 

eventually is the key word here. 

it is not that he’ll go missing as soon as the word partner fails to describe him but history has the uncanny ability to repeat itself. fear holds you back. ( what is fear without terror? missing halves. incomplete. ) 

what’s scary is that he won’t be the permanent presence by your side. what’s scary is the possibility of being replaced. what’s scary is that you’ll be the last to hear of his demise with the eternal guilt eating you alive. ( if only you had been there, certainly you could have done something. or died trying. ) 

you are suffocating from the weight of ifs. you need to breathe. you need a change of pace. 

[ txt → andrew ] this is a bit sudden but [ txt → andrew ] i was wondering if you had time for a movie  [ txt → andrew ] how does jurassic world sound? in 3d?  [ txt → andrew ] i’ll treat you 

please goes unspoken, you swallow desperation back down again in hopes to quell a rabid heart. 

now, what happens to the laundry list of desires? crumple it. throw it in the bin. or do you spread it out and follow through? without sheer proximity, excuses have to be generated. so what’s your choice? 

like all things, your heart is balanced upon a precipice. do you take the fall or back away? 

( make a choice, make it fast. time waits for no one. ) 

you use up the allotted days for a paid sick leave. 

[larmoyante]

Revenge is never a straight line. It’s a forest, And like a forest it’s easy to lose your way… To get lost… To forget where you came in.

Kill Bill Vol. 1, 2003 (via larmoyante)

[ghxhowon]

come full circle

“Inspector Howon, you may want to come pick up your mess of a partner.”

The kagune almost slices you in half, the quinque nearly slips from your grasp, and it's not until five seconds after the transmission has ended do you realize what has been conveyed. There is static — everywhere — as you barely dodge his next attack. You really ought to come to your senses by now but there is a lapse in your brain. Or perhaps it is a lapse between the heart and the mind: one has made sense of the situation and the other still wavers in the stage of denial.

"Sorry, boy," it is a miracle you can manage this much, "can't entertain you anymore. Try again in another decade." You think you throw a smile into the mix but you can't be certain at this point when the brain races seven steps ahead, far past the ghoul with only a hood to obscure his identity.

ii.

"I'm sorry," are the first words you utter when he comes around, your hand gently holding his to convey the message, eyes glancing at the name scribbled onto the medical form, "Yixing." You think how you would hate it if these were the first words you heard after everything that happened, how if you were in his shoes you would want to punch yourself in the face. The messenger is always contorted to become the harbinger of bad news.

"He was a good man," and you mean it. Not some sympathetic pat on the back and words like i extend my condolences to you and a mere attempt at sorrow with a bouquet of flowers. He was your favorite student when you knew better to have favorites because this industry ensures the opposite of longevity.

You always know better but it doesn't stop you from making the same mistakes.

There's a twinge in your chest as you watch the words wash over him as they are registered. The truth is a bitter one to swallow. Yet despite this sense of sorrow, you don't mourn like the first time.

i.

The back of the chair becomes your crutch and you grip it two degrees harder than you should. Knees don't buckle but they hardly seem sturdy enough to support you. Your usual habit of separating and analyzing emotions becomes a muddled vortex — you can't tell where one begins and the other one ends. You bleed blue, crystalline tears that begin to suffocate you from inside out. There is red in your eyes from heat and frustration and

You don't cry but you are damn close to it. You want to argue that he's smarter than this, he knows better than this, but words forever fall short. There's the urge to wrap your fingers around his partner's neck, force her to admit that missing doesn't equate to dead. But with the context in mind, you both know it's the most likely outcome.

There is a half wave and a request to be left alone before you sink into your chair — praying to come to terms with the situation.

You don't think you could go through that again.

- -

This time it isn't a former partner or a favorite student. This time it is Jang Dongwoo and that makes all the difference.

iv.

He promised, you remind yourself. It is a repertoire cultivated by two pairs of hands, can't fall apart now. He promised, you repeat it again. 

( Maybe you start praying. Perhaps you start making bargains. Keep a toll of what you wished you’ve done and will do if he comes around. There is a laundry list, boy. Make a choice. Make it fast. )

Static finally fades or rather the world becomes muted when there is a pulse in under your fingertip, normal, alive. You exhale the moment you realize there is life in his eyes (although you can’t recall when you first started to hold it in). Stupidity is what this surmounts to; a message over the intercom enough to send you into a state of panic. 

You brush the fringe away from his eyes and cross an item off the list.

[ghxdongwoo]

You’re sure he can feel your chest tremble a little with another dismissive laugh you’re trying to keep in before carefully navigating your way back into the streets because Hoya has a way with making you consistently want to contradict things and you know this as a fact because they gave you to him and you defied all of the words that were aimed at your throat like serrated blades and you’re positive he had an influence on you, still does. Still makes you better in a way that’s refined and subtle and patient beyond words. The pressure against your waist is sign enough, that he trusts you with something important and unmentionable. Now isn’t the time to be that child on Christmas morning, trying to figure out what’s beneath all of the cellophane paper. You understand and take the corners slower than you would if you were the only one to suffer the repercussions of your own mistakes. ( sometimes you wish this was an option, that you could mess up and the only person its destruction could infect is you, but life doesn’t work that way. Unfortunately, neither does death.) 

Coming to a slow, you halt in front of the curb and slip out of the helmet, ignoring the way it makes your hair flatten in odd areas. “All in one piece, are we?” You say as you shake out your hair and shrug off your jacket, suddenly far more casual without leather clinging to your shoulders. 

When you manage to get on your feet again, you find yourself watching a little expectantly, heavy sienna eyes on him; you tell yourself that promises are not made of newspaper and they do not fade over time. You tell yourself that Hoya knows this, reassure yourself that it’s as much of you as it is of him.

[ghxhowon]

The drone of the engine always has ruminating upon the possibility of falling. Trust renders it a useless mind activity but you enjoy contemplating nonetheless. In your younger years, you wondered what it would be like if this was in a different context - rather than a bustling city what if it was in the saturated hues of blue and spray of salt down coastal highways? Nowadays pipe dreams remain in their own realm and you find yourself content with how things are (you’ve grown up and became boring or perhaps this is the natural process of maturity).

Natural law dictates an end to every beginning and you hope he doesn’t see the disappointment in a terminated train of thought. Eyes wander to the bouquet, palming the stems through its wrapping, fingers tracing the thin veins present in its fragile petals. “The stems might have suffered a bit,” you supply even if the fault lies with you. Lips part to ask in return but close soon after a quick glance over. It is far too late for a cordial exchange typical of strangers and distant acquaintances, a medical examination should be left until after satisfied stomachs and content hearts.

You invite him in.

(Funny how you never explicitly told him which curry house you had in mind. The places you frequent are his too. It’s not that you forget, you just fail to notice how this is not a rare example but a common occurrence.)

Like always, you pick the tables by the window, not because Dongwoo is a terrible conversational partner but because you enjoy observing. Idle are the minds of pedestrians and perhaps, for once, you could believe your life was like theirs (although you wouldn’t have it any other way). 

It is interrupted by two menus carried by polished fingers in a hue darker than the roses carelessly placed between the two of you. Meticulous, you note before attention is beckoned by the possibility of food. A mind tosses between a variety of selections and you can’t decide between a familiar palette or something entirely new.

“Would you like something to drink?” she says in one of those pleasant tones that barely conceal the stress and impatience hidden beneath. 

“Yes,” you say as if it wasn’t so painfully obvious. Sometimes you wish the world would surrender these useless conventions but it remains a subjective opinion. “A water for me and a coke for him,” conveyed without delay. You miss her questioning glance and it’s not until later do you realize that perhaps you should have asked Dongwoo for his own opinion as societal conventions dictate. However, you are positive that his answer would be exactly the same, so why waste the extra effort to conform to what’s expected?

[leehoowon]

24時間 → Hoya

[ghxdongwoo]

You saw that remark coming from a mile away, you think, but it never bothers you enough to address it and part of you is left trying to suppress the voice saying if it were anyone else, that the situation would play out differently, an ounce more aggressive. A loud streak of red over a canvas instead of the subtle way you think you can see pinks and taste oranges; Hoya looks different carrying something harmless in his hands and you’re not entirely sure if it’s the good kind of different or the type that makes you uncomfortable. Funny how you get a taste of your own medicine in the most trivial of situations and it almost makes you laugh. 

But you’re too busy unfastening a helmet and then hanging it over his extended hand. 

“They were meant for your desk,” you say, a bit offhandedly with a tilt of your head towards the bouquet, helmet back on and visor sliding into place on its own “practical would have been to leave them there so you’d both have a better chance of surviving the ride.” You grin regardless because you’re humored by the attempt, if not just a little bit flattered they have been kept this close, but tell yourself it’s not something to linger on. Narcissism never looks good on anyone, and yet we’re so inclined to it, to indulge in it. You start and rev the bike back to life, situate yourself higher onto the seat, wait, think of the way the sun will refract from skyscraper windows and into your peripherals and how you wont be paying attention to any of it. You never do when he’s with you because, a little selfishly so, you have your pinks and you have your oranges and the warmth of the sun at your back even as it’s setting.  

[ghxhowon]

Sometimes you expect change like the slight shift in the placement of your files or the photographs on your shelf from last week’s dusting. It is always slightly off kilter when it doesn’t meet your expectations. You don’t know what you expect when the helmet weighs on your hand, perhaps for it to be different than the last time you held it - as if the simple act of hefting it would tell you if there was a predecessor before you, before this particular incidence.

It fits like it always does.

“The apartment needs some decoration as well,” is your reply, leaving out the part where it is an obstruction on your desk with one too many roses. You’ll have to hunt down a vase, make an effort to keep up appearances by making sure it doesn’t wilt before its due, and articulate this sort of sentiment that would fall deaf on ears that are not his. They won’t understand and you don’t expect them to, so you don’t try. 

“Are you saying you don’t have faith in your ability to keep us both alive?” The quip, the jab, the retort; a never ending cycle. Your fingers find places to hold onto as you seat yourself behind him: a practiced act, the same but yet different. There’s the token trapped between your palm and his waist and you press tighter because fear is always of the irrational kind. Flowers are destined to fade yet loss not complying to this trajectory is somehow synonymous to tragedy. 

[ghxdongwoo]

Ignoring the chime in his back pocket comes of little to no struggle. He’s flexing his fingers under leather half gloves, visor flicked over his eyes and kickstand knocked out of place with his heel like in one of those action films he’s seen too many of to not subconsciously mimic all of the cliches that come with owning a motorcycle. Slicked back, leather and danger and the roar of a machine igniting onto the dusk littered streets. The city chimes back a quiet, encompassing force. An old friend. 

Dongwoo says he’ll be there in five, but he holds his tongue when he glides up, parallel to the lobby and it’s feeling more like six. Leaning to a standstill, he eases his helmet off to survey the windows for Hoya’s face, expression not shy of impish and a sparse curtain of hair over his eyes.   

[ghxhowon]

There’s an irritated glance to the time flashed on your screen, less out of a countdown and more out of the lack of a timely response. You don’t hold it against him, seldom do... although seldom is subjective because you can’t count all of the instances on one hand. Irritation out of anxiety or a stomach about to protest is debatable but soon becomes irrelevant when a familiar bike pulls up.

“I was just about to call a cab,” is naturally the response despite your lack of time tracking. Your lips betray you as they so often do, a gentle curve, in which the only response is to grip the bouquet tighter. (Was it necessary for something this excessive to begin with? Might as well just cut it off at 11.)

“And you really ought to reconsider flaunting your vehicle; a later date may have been more,” selecting words as always, “practical.” And here is where it settles back into routine: a free hand asking for your helmet although tempted to have the roles reversed, have him enjoy the back of your head for once. Obstructed scenery is such a pity.

[ghxhowon]

[✉re: Hoya ]: Would you have rather been sent a heartfelt flower emoticon? [✉re: Hoya ]: I'll be there in five.

[ text → dongwoo ] In the end, both are equally cryptic are they not?[ text → dongwoo ] You would insult my intellect either way. 

a minute later…

[ text → dongwoo ] Should you really be speeding around so soon?

[ghxhowon]

[✉re: Hoya ]: HA. Modern conventions could hardly relay anything I have to give. [✉re: Hoya ]: You're welcome, though. [✉re: Hoya ]: Only on one condition; I provide transportation.

[ text → dongwoo ] And what you have to convey comes in the form of a heart felt letter? [ text → dongwoo ]  How touching, I’m reduced to tears. [ text → dongwoo ] Then you better arrive within ten minutes otherwise I’m calling a cab.