.가벼움

HWANG JIHO. XXI. BOMUL.

[ongdata]

© FOR ONG | Do not edit.

[gnjiho-blog]

DOG DAYS ARE OVER

[gnjiho-blog]

gnminhyung·:

( ... )

so when he hears jiho’s voice from behind him as he’s taking care of a particularly big dog ( thankfully, it’s calm enough to groom in peace ), when he hears about the other wanting to know more about dogs, he immediately smiles. he shifts his position around the dog so that he can face his longtime friend – a small, sincere grin on his face.

“i was just about to clock out – do you need me for something?” his smile is gentle, warm – and once he’s finished with the dog and it’s on its merry way with the owner, he walks up to jiho, rubbing his hands. “my favorite topic – what do you want to know? are you trying to adopt one?”

it’s sort of like he’s testing the waters. 

there’s a part of him that just really really wants to know, with finality, that he’s moved on from his puppy love and that he’s totally and completely free to live his life free of the burdens of one-sided love. (preferable)

and then there’s the other part of him that needs to know if he’s seriously genuinely still hung-up on the same person he used to daydream about in middle school, emphasis on middle school. (not as preferable!)

minhyung is a really nice guy. minhyung is arguably the nicest guy jiho knows, not just in gaenari, but like, on the face of planet earth. it’s not completely unexpected that middle school jiho fell head over heels for middle school minhyung; they grew up together, they knew each other, and maybe jiho really does just like nice people who are way too good for him. time ultimately did it works and he’d been positive that he’d moved on from his silly little crush on his friend, but the past few months that they’ve spent existing in the same city for the first time in a long time have given jiho more than enough reason to wonder if the little jump in his heart whenever minhyung smiles is because he’s fond as a friend or fond as a fucking fool.

he’s pretty sure it’s the former. jiho’s too old and too jaded and bitter and depressed and all-around angry at the world to be catching feelings for its inhabitants. his grasp on romance is stilted at best, and he’s had very little luck preserving or nurturing any semblance of a relationship. 

jiho is honest-to-god better off alone and this isn’t just for his sake, but for the sake of the universe. 

“kind of,” he answers. there’s a furrow between his brows, an indication that he’s thinking, before he catches the smile on minhyung’s lips and decides to mirror it with a sheepish grin of his own. “sort of? i want to, but i need to know if i can actually... handle it?” 

minhyung’s too nice to ask the obvious question, which is something along the lines of why are you here and not at the animal shelter then? and jiho should be relieved, because he has no fucking clue how to answer it. seriously? why is he here if not because he’s making happy excuses to see minhyung, his friend, before the afternoon’s over. it’s not every day that jiho has time to himself, thanks to his cutthroat parents, and it’s also not every day that he chooses to spend that time to himself with someone else.

but maybe minhyung’s an exception.

(maybe minhyung’s always an exception.)

“i was going to hit up the animal shelter,” he begins to explain, as though justifying why he’s here and not there, “but i figured it might be good to ask you for your wisdom, o great dog whisperer.” 

he scratches his cheek, eyes trailing after the dog minhyung had just been grooming as it pads out of the store with its owner. 

at least he’s serious about wanting a dog, right?

“come to the shelter with me.” jiho grins. “it’ll be fun.”

[gnwoori]

cafe crisis

[gnjiho-blog]

gnwoori·:

( ... )

woori clicks her current tab closed, taking a deep breath as search results for curtain reload on the remaining page. if he chooses to approach her, she’s not giving herself any chance to falter over her past.

he’ll start his letter like this:

DEAR LG,

FUCK YOU AND FUCK YOUR FAULTY PRODUCTS.

and then he isn’t really sure what else to add because that’s pretty much it. that’s all jiho has to say about the situation at hand: the fact that his laptop has sputtered out its last, dying breath after burning his fucking hands by overheating. any other day and he would have begrudgingly accepted that this was the will of god, and god was telling him insistently to get a new laptop and to stop clinging to the past. 

clinging to the past is undoubtedly cheaper than buying a new laptop in this economy, but jiho doesn’t have a choice anymore. and any other day and that would have been fine and dandy, but not today.

today, there’s a game he’s been waiting to watch since the announcement first cam out that team runaway would be versing the overwatch world cup’s very own team korea. it’s not a full-on, legitimate match or anything, sure, and there’s really no stakes on either of the teams losing, but he’s invested his heart and his soul into seoul dynasty and nyxl (but mostly seoul dynasty! love ya, ryujehong!) the past season and team korea essentially being nyxl plus-or-minus-some-accessories, this game demands his attention. 

except.

of course.

his laptop’s meditating. his laptop’s fucking dead. 

there’s a girl in the cafe he’s pacing in (apologies to all of the customers wondering what his issue is) who’s staring very intently into a laptop he knows to be of a higher caliber. it’s been a solid ten minutes of pacing, of walking back and forth, trying to hype himself up to go up to her and ask her to, uh, well, borrow her laptop? the request in itself sounds ridiculous and that’s sort of why jiho figures this might also be a sign from god that it’s about time for him to let go of his inhuman attachment to overwatch. 

but hwang jiho is nothing without a video game to hyper-fixate on. 

with that in mind, he walks up to the stranger as purposefully as he can, trying to put on this best ever customer service smile as he clears his throat. 

“excuse me?” he asks, the smile omnipresent on his lips. “uh, this might be weird... actually, i know this is weird, but, uh... um... can i borrow your laptop to stream a very important match that’s about to go live in three minutes?” 

right. awesome. that was flawless and jiho hates himself.

“you can watch with me,” he continues, like that’s going to be a selling point. “it’s really thrilling if you put your mind to it.” 

he laughs awkwardly.

ah, right. almost forgot to add— 

“please.”

[sgnhanse-deactivated20200813]

a hot splash.

[gnjiho-blog]

gnjiwon·:

( ... )

he thinks he has his balance back, his smile forming again. but right as he goes to set it down on the table. jiwon trips. his knee hits the ground hard, but not near as hard as the two coffee cups, his own spilling all over his shirt from the way he gripped it. “oh—” a frown formed, embarrassment forming but also disappointment. he has just wanted to hand over a coffee.

despite trying to be cool about it, he could feel tears forming. 

there’s coffee all over his lap and the first thing jiho thinks is: wow, the world must be feeling bitter today.

he’d hopped into the cafe first thing in the morning to try to relax, to enjoy some down-time. there’d been a few empty tables and he’d claimed one, seated himself leisurely, and mulled over how he wanted to spend the rest of his afternoon while considering what to drink. jiho is hardly a man of variety and he can’t remember the last time he ever got anything that wasn’t just a black coffee, iced or hot, but he’s contemplating. maybe the trajectory of the day warrants some spontaneity. but maybe spontaneity is a latte instead of pure bean water. 

so.

picture hwang jiho, sitting comfortably at an empty table, thinking about how he wants to waste the rest of his day away and what drink he wants to idly sip on while doing such.

and now?

picture the very same hwang jiho, pants and the bottom half of his shirt drenched in iced (oh!) latte (nice, it’s a shame he couldn’t actually try it). he’s not sure how this complete stranger managed to mistake him for someone they knew or something (he isn’t sure why else they’d been moving like they were poised to give jiho the coffee), let alone how they tripped on seemingly nothing to force the both of them into this precise situation. 

there’s a tight-lipped remark at the tip of his tongue, something stereotypically snarky, but the first thing he sees when he looks up is a pair of eyes watering up like the world’s about to end right then and there and oh.

fuck. okay. so maybe he can’t be as much of a dick as he’d like to be. 

“uh.” jiho reaches for the abandoned stack of napkins on the proximal table, shoving half onto himself and pushing the other half across the dripping table. “shit happens, man, it’s fine,” he says too quickly. 

in one abrupt motion, jiho gets up. he’s grateful to be wearing dark pants and doubly grateful that five minutes in this heat will have him dried up in no time. there are still some napkins in his hand and he hesitates for a second before offering them to the stranger. 

“let me treat you,” he offers. “promise i won’t spill it on ya’.”

[infdanny-deactivated20190730]

.ink*

[gnjiho-blog]

gnxmyungsoh·:

( ... )

“hello!” myungsoh grins, walking up to the other man, “are you interested in submitting your own art? we could always use more pieces, especially from the local community!” he assumed the other was a local; nobody from the outer city would be this committed to examining the gallery.

“my name is kwon myungsoh, i work here as an art handler!” not that the man had asked; but it’s always nice to be friendly.

sumukhwa is the most important thing his grandmother leaves him. 

he tries his best to cherish it, to preserve it—the very stubborn flame she ignited in him. it’s why he goes to seoul, why he spends hour upon hour staring at black canvases, overwriting frustration with gradated strokes of black ink. 

it’s just hard to remember how precious it really is to him when he’s too scared to face it: the blank canvases, the ache in his hand, the humbling reminder that maybe some gifts are meant to be accepted. 

there’s a weird ache at his solar plexus as he peers scrutinizingly at the painting in front of him. 

on his days off, he usually likes to spend his time unwinding, sitting in his room and kicking at his wifi modem before giving up and sleeping away precious hours of the day. he isn’t really sure what drew him to the art gallery; there isn’t much and none of it’s really art he’s particularly well-versed in. jiho supposes it’s still nice looking at the culmination of the efforts of other people with similar passions as him. 

the painting in front of him is ink wash, maybe the only one in the entire gallery. it reminds him of his grandmother’s style—carefully dotted flower petals, a sure stroke building a stem. he can almost identify which brushes she might have used if this really were hers: wolf hair, deer, sheep...

the placard doesn’t tell him much. a title for the painting (autumn flowers) and a taunting spot where there should be a name (anonymous). 

he startles when he hears a voice, stumbling back two steps before lifting his gaze to meet the stranger’s face. “what?” jiho stammers out. he doesn’t mean to sound defensive, but the words tumble out before he can stop to filter himself: “me? art? what makes you think i know anything about art?”

that’s what he’d like to convince himself, convince the world of. he’s tired of the stupid inclination he has in the morning, arm reaching for the easel he periodically stows in the very back corner of his closet. it’s too late for him to go back to art in the way he wants to; it’s too late, and the world’s already told him you’re not meant to. 

it hits him belatedly that he’s probably come across as unwarrantedly rude. he’s not the type of person who goes out of his way to make a great impression, but he can almost hear his grandmother chastising him for being disrespectful in a sanctuary.

“sorry,” he says quickly. “uh... i’m jiho, hwang jiho. it’s nice to meet you.” 

myungsoh looks familiar enough even though jiho can’t place where he’s seen him. gaenari residents usually have at least a vague recollection of the town’s inhabitants and he writes it off as that. the strange sense of nostalgia he feels around who should be a stranger to him is probably a side-effect of the art he’d been looking at.

he gestures to the painting between them. 

“this is interesting,” jiho begins, in spite of insisting prior that he knew nothing of art. “do you have any idea who painted it?”

[gnminhyung-blog]

〈 ✧ 〉  ━━  ˗ˏˋ  IF ONLY.  ˎˊ˗

[gnjiho-blog]

gnminhyung·:

( ... )

and that’s what minhyung desperately needs at this moment – a chance to breathe again.

his thoughts seem have been listened to by some higher power, because he runs across jiho once more – they’re both in gaenari once more, reliving their true old days. he hopes he’s there to stay – he would be awfully lonely if he didn’t. “…jiho?” he says, tilting his head, leaving his grocery cart a few shelves back as he bounds up to the other. “do you live here again? the last time i saw you… we were both in seoul. how are you – you look good.”

his mother asks him to drop by the grocery store on the way back from the hospital and his first instinct is to protest. 

jiho hasn’t been home for long and he’s still averse to idling in places with too many familiar faces; he doesn’t want to answer the questions they’ll inevitably hurtle his way—not because he doesn’t think they deserve to know, but because he isn’t even sure if he can. 

he’s been managing for the most part. the neighborhood ladies will stop him in the middle of the street when his hands are full, arms weak from the boxes he’s carrying back to the shop, and pepper him with things they probably know are uncomfortably probing. how was seoul? good, of course. did you learn a lot? yes, it was great. was the weather nice? nothing exceptional. and your arm... 

(sorry, i have to go.) 

still, his mother’s tone is pleading, like she already knows what’s going through his mind. he should be more apologetic, more thoughtful around his parents; they know too well what he’s going through, but they have no claim to it, no way of making it their own, of making it disappear from jiho’s heart. it’s not the fault of his parents, just like his friends aren’t to blame. no one’s really to blame here except one drunk driver and a stupid boy who put the entirety of his hopes and dreams into himself.

it’s only been fifteen minutes in the neighborhood supermarket and he’s already stumbled through two-and-a-half clipped conversations with his mother’s book club friends. there’s a list scrawled out on the palm of his hand (ink poisoning, his dad would sniff disdainfully if he saw it) and jiho recites the contents of it to himself as he meanders the aisles, settling in a random one he’s sure he’ll find a handful of necessities in. 

gaenari really never changes, and maybe that’s why jiho feels so suffocated in it. he should be more respectful to the town that raised him. there are days when he thinks he might know the nooks and crannies of the tiny dot on the map better than he knows himself, and where there should be comfort and familiarity born from such realization, there’s only a jarring dissonance.

has he even been home for a month? he already wants to leave.

a voice snaps him out of his evening reverie and he nearly drops the jar of black bean paste in his hand onto the ground, just barely catching it and settling it on the shelf. he lifts his head weakly, gaze flitting to the side in acknowledgement—

his heart does a strange little skip then. only it’s not strange because it’s minhyung, and as far forward as jiho wants to run, it’s hard to forget people like him.

“oh,” he says faintly, and then, remembering to smile, he continues, “hey, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

the last time they saw each other was in seoul, and jiho had wondered then what the city could have possibly done to take the light out of minhyung’s eyes. they’ve known each other since childhood, since jiho could even wrap his mind around the concept of infatuation, and he’d never once thought minhyung of all people would fall to the world’s whims. 

maybe he shouldn’t be talking though. he’s probably just as beat-up as minhyung was back then, pounds lighter, dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes—

jiho laughs. “yeah? i always look good,” he says. the empty basket dangling from his arm feels heavy. “i moved a few weeks back.” for good, he doesn’t add. “when’d you come back?” he already knows. he’s heard the rumors, too.

there’s a brief silence. 

“it’s good seeing you,” jiho says. “kind of surreal, isn't it?” 

[gnjiho-blog]

HOMELESS DOOR

[gnjiho-blog]

gnmika·:

( ... )

Mildly terrified that he’ll panic and run right into the brick wall behind him, Mika quickly adds, “… So you can stop freaking out now. Okay?”

man, this is miserable.

it’s not that jiho hates the guy because he really, sincerely doesn’t. in spite of the prickly exterior that mika is currently exhibiting (and maybe he exhibited it last night too, but jiho seriously can’t remember anything substantive outside of him making a complete idiot out of himself), jiho doesn’t really hate him. sure, he doesn’t particularly love him (he’s embarrassed! let him live!), but he really doesn’t hold anything that was discussed last night against mika. 

he just, well, uh, really wishes last night didn’t happen? to put it lightly? 

there are a lot of things constantly on jiho’s mind. he leads a stressful life, carrying the dumbest and most trivial concerns on his shoulders by the boatload. he’d gone so far as to convince himself that suppressing all of those terrifying fears he’d kept locked up in a safe deep within his heart was a-ok, fair game—and for a second, he’d really believed it. 

last night is a bitter reminder that it’s not a-ok, never fair game, and that the five-thousand things he’d been bottling up are things he needs to confront. but he doesn’t want to. jiho doesn’t want to think about his art, or his wrist, or the fact that he can’t step near a busy road without feeling like he’s about to vomit. he doesn’t want to confront the fact that he’s immeasurably guilty toward his parents, his friends, to anyone who looks at him with sincerity in their eyes when they say hey, i missed you. he doesn’t want to face any of that shit and him being so careless to let it all out last night is only a testament to how strongly he still feels about everything. 

it’s been so fucking long. shouldn’t he be over it by now? shouldn’t it be okay to shelve his anxieties away without a second thought?

jiho’s hand is still trembling when he manages to fish out another cigarette to replace the one he’s accidentally crushed beneath his feet. 

“what?” he chokes out, mika’s voice dragging him out of his crumbling psyche. it’s an abrupt full-stop and he does very nearly crash into the wall in a half-assed effort to get away. he still has a shift. his mom would kill him if he high-tailed it out of here and loitered by the river in angst. “oh. yeah, fuck, sorry. i’m done ‘freaking out.’ my bad.”

he still feels jittery, and while jiho feels sorry for himself, he feels even sorrier for mika, who’s probably watching all of this unfold and wondering why the fuck jiho’s on the verge of losing it. it’s probably confusing for mika because he listened to all of the ridiculous things jiho unloaded onto him and thought that’s that, but it’s not that simple. 

even if he wanted to tell him, there’s no simple way of saying you know a lot of things i haven’t even let myself tell my parents or my closest friends so can you like uhhhhhh pretend that didn’t happen?

jiho clamps his eyes shut and counts to three in his head before opening them again. the cigarette in his hands is quickly slotted back into the carton. maybe he’ll hate himself for not taking a cigarette break later in the day when the irritability hits. 

“so, uh, what do you usually smoke?” he asks, hands in his pockets as he shuffles back toward the entryway of the shop. “it’s on me.”

[gnjieun-blog]

OPERATION JIHO

[gnjiho-blog]

gnjieun·:

( ... )

“Thanks for agreeing to be my interviewee,” she smiles. “I’ll have to write down your answers, but I promise I’ll put them to good use!” She takes a long sip of her cool lemonade, tilting her head. “Do you want anything to eat or drink before we start? I’ll treat you. We may be here for a couple of hours.”

jieun has this incredible knack for terrifying jiho. 

he wants to give the younger girl the benefit of the doubt (or, well, he doesn’t really want to, but he probably should out of courtesy), but he’s starting to question how much relevance his life will have to a ‘project’ for ‘school’ when her focus at taegu tech has very little do with the humdrum world of hwang jiho. if he wanted to flatter himself, he’d believe that something in his brain would contribute to her academic success, but jiho is a stark realist so he highly doubts he could be of any help. 

she’s alarmingly unpredictable and it’s quite reasonable to be the tiniest bit afraid. 

honestly speaking, jiho’s just tired. he can’t remember the hours of sleep he got last night or the night before and all jiho knows is that he could count the hours, cumulatively, on one hand if he pulled them to memory. it’s been a tough, long week and had jieun summoned him a second later, he’d probably have dove into bed to shut out the rest of the day. his days off are usually disgustingly unproductive, but jiho’s been making the colossal effort to stop being a sack of actual shit these days. 

meeting with jieun is always a precarious sort of affair though and it takes copious amounts of preparation; in spite of the drag to his step and the dark circles bruising beneath his eyes, he’s taken extra care to shower twice so the smell of cigarette smoke on his skin and his hair is lessened. 

(he really doesn’t want her to throw away his fresh pack.)

her influence hasn’t branched out much from nagging just yet, but he did turn out a drink the other night when her voice started haunting him at the back of his mind, and maybe that’s enough to be called progress. 

so, he figures he might as well humor jieun with whatever this is. there’s a high chance that he’ll look back at this very moment a week from now and rue his naïveté, but it’s too hot to trek back home from the juice bar, and a watermelon juice sounds really good right about now. 

“i want a watermelon juice,” he says, stifling a yawn as he sinks back in his seat. 

positively speaking, in a few hours, the sun will have dropped from its peak and he won’t want to hurl himself into the ocean to cool off on his way home. he might even stop by the market and pick up some bread per his dad’s request if he’s really feeling it. 

“so, what am i supposed to do?” jiho straightens up again, folding his arms atop the table and leaning in ever-so-slightly. he glances at her laptop, mulling over the fact that it’s been deliberately angled away from him for a fleeting second before carrying on. “what kind of questions are you going to be asking me anyway? i don’t know anything about goldsmithing.” 

the air conditioning feels nice.

jiho relaxes.

[gnjiho-blog]

PICK UP STICKS

starring @gnxyoungwoon​ !

he prefers marlboro reds. 

partially because it’s what his dad smokes (smoked, with an emphasis on the past-tense if his mom ever asks) and also partially because he likes the way the smoke sort of sits in his throat, tingling and poignantly there. 

it’s a solid, traditional smoke. more expensive than korea’s domestic products, but arguably a shit ton better, and he’d stand by that in any tide. jiho knows he ought to quit and not a day goes by without someone he loves dearly reminding him of it, citing health defects he knows are real, reminding him that he’s too young to throw his life away like this. 

(there are times, though, when the nerves hit him like a bullet train. he’ll close his eyes at night, poised to sleep, and then wake up not even an hour later in a cold sweat, memories of a car upturning and something shattering flashing in his mind like a dying lightbulb. he can’t wake his parents then, can’t call anyone and beckon them to his side. so, he does what he can in silence: pick up a beat-up carton of reds and loiter outside, smoke falling from his lips in curls, until the sun rises and the dark doesn’t scare him so much anymore.)

he’s prefers marlboro reds.

mostly because they’re all he’s used and hwang jiho likes constance. 

shop business is slow in the time after commuters’ hour and before lunch time. he idles at the cash register, nearly falling asleep to his dad’s radio droning on and on about baseball games and rainy pitches. jiho literally sees his life flash before his eyes then, two blinks from falling asleep, the countertop the last thing he sees before he slams his forehead against it.

“i’m fine!” he calls out to his mother before she can even ask. his head is throbbing now and jiho feels particularly bitter at the world as he tugs his hat over his head (ow ow ow). there’s a crushed carton of cigarettes, nearly empty, in his back pocket, and that’s the only thing his mind jumps to from there. “i’m taking a break!” 

his free hand is already finding purchase around a cheap green lighter as he exits the shop. it flickers, fizzles, and when he curses—the cigarette he’s balancing between his lips nearly tumbles out—he looks up and finds that he isn’t alone.

this comes as no surprise to jiho. he’s sort of gotten used to youngwoon’s company over the past few encounters they’ve had, ever since jiho insisted the older man try the best foreign cigarette known to gaenari (word-for-word).

“good morning,” jiho greets, lifting four fingers (the lighter secured with his thumb) as a haphazard hello. he’s graduated from bowing. “so, what’s the verdict? has my recommendation grown on you yet?” the grin on his lips widens.

[gnjiho-blog]

GIVE A LITTLE

starring @gnnasung !

umma is getting old. 

if he ever said this out loud, he’d probably get a sure smack to the back of his head. his mom’s got a killer arm in spite of her small stature and jiho would know; ten years ago, his straight-up pre-pubescent petulant head was at the receiving end of it every other day. the years have worn her out and old age gets to her by the day. she gets tired easily, forgets what she was about to do, struggles picking up the boxes she used to heave over her shoulders when he was only as tall as her hip. 

maybe it’s too late for jiho to be playing the role of filial son, the son that she and appa always wanted—but maybe it’s never really too late for anything. 

(wait. he knows better than to believe that.)

the homemade cakery’s already closed at this hour and jiho knows that. he remembers loitering outside the building early morning on the way to grade school, hands secure around the straps of his backpack, gaze flittering about the storefront until the auntie peeked her head out, laugh bright in her eyes before shuttling him off with a warm piece of sponge cake. being a child of gaenari really did have its perks, and there’s a faint smile on his lips as he kicks at the ground in front of him, hands finding purchase in the pockets of his pants. 

his mom’s birthday is tomorrow. he’s already corralled his dad into pitching in for a humble silver necklace, an untarnished cross at the center of it. she’ll love it, jiho already knows that much, but he wants to do more for her. there’s a part of jiho’s mind that adds: in case i leave, but he knows it’s too soon for him to conquer his fears just like that.

jiho closes his eyes. a mosquito buzzes insistently in his ear and for a second, jiho stays like that, lets the thick summer heat sit on his shoulders like a winter shawl, evening just as unforgivingly hot as the morning. 

he might regret this later on. maybe in the morning, he’ll wake up, his heart unyielding and tight, and realize that some broken things are meant to stay broken. 

the phone he’s pressed against his ear rings quietly, a humdrum noise in the midst of a chorus of summertime bugs hiding in the shadows. he wonders if his mother will thank him, if he’ll get to see her smile bloom into something he’ll know to cherish, if what he puts himself through—maybe in a backhanded way of gaining forgiveness, of peeking into someone’s heart to make sure it’s really really okay—will be worth it. 

the line clicks. there’s a beat of silence that follows and jiho’s breath catches in his throat.

(his heart’s beating too quickly and he doesn’t remember why.)

“hey,” jiho says into the receiver, his voice tinted in tendrils of mirth. “is there any chance you’re still inside the bakery?” 

umma is getting old. softer, too. she yells at him less, spends more time idling by his side in the quieter moments in the house. it’s like she wants to make amends, wants to fix things, wants to ease his heartache out of his ribcage as quickly as she can. 

umma is getting old. 

“can i ask for a favor?”

(so is he.)

[gnjiho-blog]

STARTER CALL unless this flops

[gnjiho-blog]

gnjiho‌:

if this flops i want u guys to pretend this NEVER happened BUT

yes!! leave a word or a song or a random prompt i literally don’t care as long as i can work with it in the replies and i will write u a starter in the upcoming week.

(i owe youngwoon & nasung starters already! if i owe you one too and i completely forgot bc i am terrible, pls lmk! if u want me to write u TWO starters… the world is ur oyster man i literally don’t care) 

thank u let’s git it

[gnjiho-blog]

STARTER CALL unless this flops

if this flops i want u guys to pretend this NEVER happened BUT

yes!! leave a word or a song or a random prompt i literally don’t care as long as i can work with it in the replies and i will write u a starter in the upcoming week.

(i owe youngwoon & nasung starters already! if i owe you one too and i completely forgot bc i am terrible, pls lmk! if u want me to write u TWO starters... the world is ur oyster man i literally don’t care) 

thank u let’s git it

[gnjiho-blog]

TRACKER

sorry i’m an actual mess 

STARTERS

untitled ( youngwoon ) untitled ( nasung ) pls god lmk if i’ve forgotten u

REPLIES

homeless door ( mika )  pour up (drank) ( mika )  if only ( minhyung ) 

WAITING ON

TAKE UR SWEET ASS TIME

[gnjiho-blog]

💝

the medication has him coming in and out of consciousness, senses blurred artificially, a dizzying way of numbing the pain. the first time he wakes up, he’s restless, the scream that he wants to let out trapped in the walls of his throat, mouth dry and incapable of expression. the second time he wakes up, he can’t make sense of his surroundings. the third, he cries. the fourth, he gives up, and the vibration of pain left in his arm is something he’s grown accustomed to by then. 

when he comes to his senses for the final time, the vertigo he’s been biting back steadying to something small, something manageable, the scene around him hasn’t changed. the walls are blindingly white, the floor tiled crookedly, the window shades drawn to a phantom open; and his mother sitting right beside him, knitting a hideous scarf he knows his father will coil around his neck with pride come winter. 

his mother tells the doctors as soon as she realizes he’s awake, the foggy haze in his eyes replaced with conscious sanity. it’s only minutes into actually opening his eyes that jiho gets throttled into tests and inquiries he can barely stomach. 

he doesn’t have the time to ask his mother “have you been waiting for me this entire time?”

and truth be told, he dosn’t need to ask to know her answer:

“yes, and it was worth it.” 

( 💝- a memory that made them feel loved )

[gnjiho-blog]

💗

"once, i gave my dearest sebinnie hyung the last melona bar at the shop even though it’s my favorite ice cream and i’d been craving it the entire day.” jiho looks purposefully at sebin, teasingly serious. “i wonder if he knows... the sacrifices i make for him.” 

( 💗- a memory about a good deed they did )

[gnjiho-blog]

summer is sweltering.

he’s only been outside for a few minutes and his skin is already glowing beneath a sheen of sweat. the sound of cicadas singing always puts him at peace, the rapid thudding of his heart slowing to a resigned thump-thump. 

halmae passed away in the summer. his only lasting memories of her are painted in gaenari’s golden glow, touched by fingertips sticky with rhubarb juice and unrelenting trails of melted ice cream. he wonders why, in spite of everything the world gave him on that day, when he thinks of the day she left, he only ever feels cold. 

even now, simmering as daylight creeps into evening, jiho feels a chill. 

maybe he’ll regret this someday. maybe tomorrow, he’ll wake up and realize that he’s running away again. maybe he’ll come to his senses and cowardice will stop being his escape route. he can’t remember the last time he smoked. a week ago? on sunday? this morning, in a nerve-bitten haze? the days blur when he’s with nasung and his hands are trembling as he reaches for the carton in his back pocket. 

he freezes, drops his hand back to his side. gaze fixed into the distance, jiho bites his lip instead, eyes falling to a close as he leans his head back against the shop wall behind him. 

they only have good memories, don’t they? during the entirety of their relationship, jiho’s never been able to find fault in nasung in spite of how hard he’s tried over the past few days. he should be grateful for the stupidly picturesque moments they shared together; he should be grateful that nasung let him in when jiho so doggedly kept everyone else out. there are things he’s been meaning to say, apologies he knows he owes nasung, but it’s been hard. he doesn’t know where to begin, where and when it’ll all end.

the end is inevitable and jiho knows this. he doesn’t deserve to be in a relationship like this. nasung hasn’t done enough wrong in his lifetime to be pigeonholed with jiho, always yearning, always reaching, only to be pushed away again, and again, and again. 

(it’s selfish of him to think this way, but maybe if they’d met at another time, in different circumstances—)

he feels nasung’s presence before he sees him, a hand reaching out for jiho’s wrist as if to reel him back into reality and away from his bittersweet reverie. jiho looks up, meets nasung’s gaze, and nearly crumples right then and there.

“hey,” he says instead. the smile on his lips is pulled bare, something raw and faltering against a face stricken with sleepless nights. “you’re early.”

any longer than necessary and he’ll push it off, he’ll run away. he can’t stall the way he wants to, can’t dive into a tangent; can’t hold nasung’s hand tight and tug him through the crowd, hours wasted, hours bursting within his ribcage until the day comes to a close and he has to say a goodbye he might hate himself for.

“this’ll only take a minute,” jiho continues, one hand finding nasung’s, squeezing gently. he falters before taking a step forward, closing the gap between them with a single, fleeting kiss.

he lets go, hand cold and empty. jiho tugs the hat he’s been holding onto back over his head, bites out a grin and wonders if he could have done this better. 

“i’m sorry—”

( for finding you when i wasn’t ready. )

( for giving you nothing when you gave me everything. )

( for running away. )

( for hiding myself. )

( for pushing you away. )

ah.

( for hurting you. )

he remembers now: his last smoke was this morning, two minutes after drafting a message to someone else with only an apology.

“we should break up. i think we might be better off as friends.” 

maybe in the distant future, he’ll be able to tell himself that it was the only way, the right thing to do. maybe he’ll watch nasung claim a happy ending for himself, find someone who’ll see him for the sun that he is and treasure the heart he gives them; maybe he’ll see this and feel relieved. maybe someday, jiho won’t feel as though the entire world is reaching around his legs in vines, pulling him down until he’s sinking in himself. 

“sorry.”

the cicadas are quiet. 

summer is sweltering.

jiho is cold. 

-

( 💙 - a sad memory that makes them cry ) 

[gnjiho-blog]

💖

“on the fourth of december, in the year nineteen-ninety-eight, a star was born… her name was song yejin, and this was probably the most special moment in a certain hwang jiho’s life…” jiho gazes into the distance as dramatically as possible. “he was only one—almost two—at the time, but he knew… right then… in that moment… that his life had been changed for the better.”

there’s a long pause.

and then jiho’s expression breaks into a grin. he bumps yejin’s shoulder. “good, right? touched your heart, didn’t it?” jiho’s teasing yejin, one of his favorite past-times, and it’s only when he doesn’t get an immediate response that he continues with seriously answering her question. “i don’t know. there are a lot, especially thanks to you and minjae… oh, wait! i got one!

“remember when spitfire and seoul dynasty were head-to-head and my stupid ass fell asleep because i hadn’t slept in two days? it was also that game where everyone thought seoul dynasty might actually win! lunatic hai finally winning against gc busan! and i was asleep! so you literally ran to my house and woke me up and we sat through their heartbreakingly inevitable loss together.” jiho laughs. “yeah, i guess in the end, it was kind of shitty that they lost…” he flings an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, grip shifting in a headlock as he rests his chin atop her head. “still felt special that you ran to sit through it with me. maybe that’s why the memory doesn’t hurt as much as it should, boo-hoo!”

( 💖- a memory that made them feel special )