It’s always the same. A plastered smile to each and every set of people nodding at him, or perhaps a slight bow if the counterpart is considerably older. Youngkwang does everything accordingly to autopilot: whoever is inside his head they’re doing quite well. Shaking hands, gently placing a warm touch to a female’s shoulder, laughing along with the distasteful wit of older, foreign men. Yet he doesn’t wish to leave, this is good distraction, even if he has difficulty focusing on anything but how dirty every hand he shakes seems. He wipes them in between each person---discretely behind his own back.
At some point he finds himself discussing the illegal weapon trade that has increased at an alarming rate in China. He doesn’t smile, rather keeping a stoic expression with stale nods; his brows are even burrowed. Beneath the surface, he’s smiling. Surely, he does like the fact that he can influence something to the point of people in his country chattering about it. The man speaks of how they are plotting against the Democratic Republic of Korea, his blood appears to be rushing with such excitement over the topic that it spills over into him spitting saliva at everyone he’s directing this speech towards. It’s his cue to leave.
Correcting the seam of his vest, straightening the sleeve of his tuxedo. The dim lights aren’t helping with his unwillingness to shake any more hands, everyone looks so dark and sickly under the crystal crowns which embed the faux-Michelangelo painted ceiling. A sloppily detailed angel shoots from one end of the hall to the other. His eyes lower once again, but this time to something completely else. The skies open, heavens resurrect behind opaque clouds and ash grey rain. Skies that are always changing, developing. Today, she looks the same as her fragile self, but with a much unsuited stiff posture.
He doesn’t even try to look away, not in the slightest. She’s much more human than she is, she actually cares about all this (even if he’s very good at acting like he does). He does remember her face being rounder in the past, softer. They grow up so fast---she’s rightfully in that age when you morph into another being. Is she something else? Studying her movements, he deems it that his presence is somewhat of a fire alarm going off over the slightest of smoke. He doesn’t try to make his way to her. There’s only two ways this can go. She’ll ignore him, go on about her night and act like it never happened. Eyes didn’t meet, souls didn’t catch each other’s disease.
Rightfully so (but he has a feeling this isn’t the way it’s going to be---these skies have a strong mind, stronger than they appear [pale pastel blues]).
It’s the second option, although it moves so quickly Youngkwang isn’t completely sure it’s her hand. The more he thinks about it, the more feels its size, softness and slight chilly temperature---he knows. It’s her. He, of course, doesn’t do anything to fight it. Instead he moves slowly, perhaps a tad too slowly as following her. “If you walk that fast, you’ll draw attention to yourself. It looks like you’re running away.” His voice is calm, but loud enough to be heard. A whisper doesn’t come far in these crowds of people. He purposely puts himself to a halt, pulls her by the hand. They’re already outside. Slowly, his grip slips in between her small fingers, and he realizes it’s not the canopy he’s used to seeing. This one holds too many thunder storms ahead. “Son Haneul,” He begins; presents it with a bleak smile. “It’s been a while.”
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