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hi :3 this is denver, also the mun of mouse and yua, here to introduce you to ahn dabin aka the soreloser. 1st yr grad student majoring in computer science with a minor in artificial intelligence, president of the photography club.

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#dg:intro #you might be wondering if i ever shut the fuck up #and the answer is no #i'm really sorry though <3

0hw3llw0rld

cat dads unite with @impulsetheories present day, some random pet shop

minhyun has been stood in the cat food section of the pet store for over thirty minutes at this point. debating if he should change up dori's food or not. she never seemed to care, for a pure bred siamese, she really didn't give two flying fucks about what she ate considering the amount of times he has caught her stealing from his take away left on the livingroom table. pizza, chicken, noodles- you name it, she has ate everything and barely sufferent consequences.

mainly because:

1. he had a strict, no messing with dori policy if she goes into her cat tree hole 2. he noticed too late 3. he never managed to catch her

lucikly, she was as healthy as ever. so minhyun was indeed… lenient. to say the least. anyway, cat food, treats, whatever. he is surprised about the fact that not a single employee here has bothered to offer help.. impressive if anything. he can't help but sigh, running a hand through his hair as he moves further down the isle to see what the wet food has to offer. he takes exactly two steps in the right direction before he hears shuffling behind him and he has to look over his shoulder, curious more than anything. he manages to catch, finally, another person in the isle with him, actually looking at the cat food and if anything, social anxiety should really fear minhyun on most days. if not all days.

"hey dude, sorry to bother you," he starts, already turning on his heels, smile easy on his lips. the guy looks pretty close to his age, he can take that guess at least "you got any good cat food recomendations?" he finishes his question. "looking at switching up my cats food, not sure what to grab."

impulsetheories

dabin is not used to being spoken to in public. years of diligent dedication to his 'don't bother me' attitude have paid off in that regard. needless to say, he's... a little surprised when someone a few feet away addresses him. he looks over his shoulder tentatively, hoping against hope that he's mistaken. he isn't. the only other person in the aisle is looking right at him. still, it could be worse - cat food is one of the easiest topics he could be forced into small talk about. impersonal, backed by facts and cats' opinions rather than his own.

"uh..." he starts dumbly, looking at the bags of food on the aisle for a couple seconds before turning his attention back to the other shopper. "my cats like purina one tender selects. i usually buy the chicken flavor - that's what i've had them on for the past year or so, and they're both healthy and happy."

he grabs a bag off the shelf. he kind of wants to just walk away now. he has no obligation to stay here. but he's trying to become more comfortable confronting unfamiliar situations - and more than that, he's trying to be a kinder person. "any of the purina foods are good. do you feed your cat wet food? mine go crazy for the fancy feast. they like all of the flavors except for the global recipes ones."

he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, still itching to leave. a couple seconds pass. something possesses him to ask, "what kind of cat do you have?"

#THR / with minhyun.#sorry for the wait!!! thank u for the starter <3

entropicue

Shiyu leans on the counter, weight to one arm propped by the edge as he runs down the list of their improbable differences. Idle to point out the dead–end nature of this personal philosophy. Likely he already knows.

"I don't think you could stay up in arms forever." She suggests, fairly lame, with a little side skip up on the countertop to seat herself— partially out of commission there, more content to let him sort through the sides on his own time. It makes for a good view from her perch, despite the persistent fluorescent hum sounding a little closer overhead. "Not for lack of trying, I guess."

She considers the soy–braised potatoes for a beat, catching the container lid by the tip of her nail to slide it a little closer to her side, and by so doing deciding that it stays. And she won't be wanting for more containers for a while either. Small victories, even as Dabin blatantly leverages her lacking participation to steal his fill.

"Have it, then." She announces in an uncharacteristically dispassioned tone that surely implies otherwise. Unlikely she had greater plans for whatever he's holding out on. Still. "But I might just tell your mom that you took it."

Through some unspecified means which she leaves up to his assumption. Facebook stalking seems a little past them at this point. It is at least an exciting new angle for empty threats, which are in short supply when he's got an answer for everything.

impulsetheories

shiyu's relentless nature is much of her charm through dabin's eyes. he's smiling to himself now while he looks at the plastic containers and thinks about how she thinks of him. hard to determine, but every now and then the clouds part and it feels good. not questionable, not inconsistent - just good. "i guess it is pretty hard to stay up in arms," he suggests, taking on a teasing tone as he repeats her phrasing, "with challengers like you."

he doesn't ask her for her opinions as he sorts the rest of the containers. he'd noticed what she'd seemed to like and what she'd hardly touched; he acts accordingly, save for his own favorite that's already been moved out of the way. he takes two that they could both live without and gives her the rest.

"you can tell her if you want." his nonchalance betrays the slight anxiety that she might actually do it just to prove that she can. he couldn't say that he'd be surprised. "but don't expect her to take your side. i think she liked you, but i'm still her cherished son."

with the containers sorted, the act of putting hers in the fridge is pushed off. for now, he leans on the counter beside her, fully looking at her for the first time tonight. as always, she's pretty. he doesn't waste his breath complimenting her.

"thanks for coming to dinner. it was... nice." it isn't much, but it's something. more honest and direct than he can usually bring himself to be.

#THR / with shiyu.#FUCK. took me long enough #sorry again...

sorry for falling off recently. my last job went out of business so i just started a new one and the stress has been putting me in an early grave. i’ll get back on it… sometime

#ooc.

entropicue

It's good of him to notice, at least, and something about the scowl on his face thawing in the harsh overhead light. She glances back over her shoulder just to roll her eyes, bet you do, still smiling.

For how desolate it feels, the building isn't entirely quiet. Steps sounding up or down the hallways, the elevator dinging somewhere. A comforting ambience that keeps their footsteps from sounding like thunderclaps turning through the empty common area to the kitchen, predictably vacated at this time in the evening. Shiyu chances a guess they might be on the wrong side of the quiet hours policy, but it's no matter.

"A few." Shiyu repeats, deliberating and invariably more hung up on this part than the psycho allegation, a figurative pot therapy–speaking to the kettle, and lifts the bag just enough to slide it onto a nearby section of empty countertop surface.

She motions him over with a tick of her brow and sweep of her hand to the space beside her, before she gets to fiddling with the handles to roll the plastic down, unsheathe the stack of side dishes into a jenga tower of sorts. No choice but to start from the top.

"You'd get used to it though. Not like it's complete strangers barging in at all hours." She picks one container out of the bunch and squints to parse the hangul written in sharpie over top of vegetables squished against the lid, eventually holds it out for Dabin to read instead. No onus on his mom's handwriting. "I'd text first, personally."

impulsetheories

"don't know if i would," he argues, as pointless as it is. it's something he feels strongly about nonetheless. grow up with family members who never knock and privacy becomes an invaluable thing. "strangers or not, i can count all my people on one hand. i don't want anyone else in my space. even sharing a fridge would piss me off." he gets a little grumbly towards the end, eyes the fridge with an undeserved anger. it isn't terribly serious.

he joins shiyu at the counter. for a second, it feels intimate. then he remembers, unfailingly, that there is little in this world that belongs to either of them. the feeling passes. "that's soy-braised potatoes," he tells her plainly, trying very hard not to comment on her apparent inability to read. he knows, deep down, that only years of familiarity enable him to make out the characters himself. god bless his mother, but she doesn't have a steady hand.

"i chose my current apartment because of how much i value my peace and quiet. it's far enough both ways to make 'dropping by' just inconvenient enough." both ways being to his parents' home and to school, of course. he figures she'll get the implication; she's good at reading between the lines.

he picks up the container that had been right under the potatoes. it's the radishes. "... don't worry about this one. i don't think you liked it very much," he says, paired with a cheeky smile. he sets it on the counter on the other side of him, out of her reach.

#THR / with shiyu.#can you not light me on fire for replying too fast. it won't happen again i swear to god #also btw. you keep asking what his deal is but what's HER deal

veritastrap

a bitter, near scoff rises, but she swallows it down. of course he doesn’t think it’s that simple. easy to say when you’ve already escaped — he’s not the one who has to spend every day of his life enduring her father’s constant, watchful gaze. yerim feels like she’s a prisoner — locked in a palace with no key. part of her thinks he’s lucky. maybe he’d just escaped one prison for another, and yet — part of her envies him.

the comment about her father makes her flinch — almost. her body betrays her with a flicker — a twitch in her jaw, a tightening of her throat — so small even she barely registers it. she swallows, then looks back up at him, her fingers twitching restlessly against the papers she’d flipped over, restless like the storm brewing inside her. she says nothing — just listens. truthfully, she hadn’t expected this. she’d half hoped he would simply walk away after her rejection, leaving the past to settle like dust. but here he is, speaking at last after three long years. her heart feels as if it’s being tugged in two directions: pity for the boy she once called a friend, and the iron grip of her father’s will.

“i didn’t. not really.” a brief pause. “most of what i know i pieced together from whispers. accidental eavesdropping on people gossiping, bits my father never bothered to share.” it cuts deeper than she’d care to admit — the sting of her father’s silence, as if he’s a fortress built to keep her out. maybe she shouldn’t have said it — not to dabin, of all people. he might not be her father’s biggest fan either, but she feels that trusting him after everything would be a mistake. the way he’s pressing, the way he’s unraveling her carefully spun mask, she blames him for digging where she’d buried her doubts.

and yet, the hardest truth is the one she barely admits: she feels sorry for him, if only a flicker of pity. he might not be treating her as one right now, but they’d been friends once — connected through his sister, but friends nonetheless. at least that’s what she had thought. or had she been fooling herself all along?

you’re going to be miserable if you live like him. his words sting, stabbing her chest like an arrow pierced straight through her heart. the truth in his words gnaws at her — unwelcome and undeniable.

yerim is well aware that her father wants only one thing: a successor. she knows he’d been quietly disappointed when she didn’t turn out to be a son. she knows he buried it beneath a cold resolve to mold her in his image. she knows that if she gives all that up, if she breaks free from the life he’s building from her, he won’t love her anymore. if he ever loved her at all.

she stays silent. doesn’t know how to get anything out without fully breaking down. in the middle of the library, of all places. it might be near deserted at the moment — with the exception of the two of them — but still. yerim doesn’t do public displays of emotions. never.

she takes a deep breath, then another. a third follows. she keeps counting them in her head. each breath is a fragile thread she clings to, afraid the next one might snap. she doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there, staring at dabin but not really looking at him — her eyes are unfocused, her vision blurry.

time folds into itself — seconds stretch, blur, and dissolve, and yerim drifts, tethered only by the fragile threads of breath she keeps counting in her head.

impulsetheories

he wants to be unaffected. a peaceful indifference is what he strives for—no extreme emotions, good or bad. but it isn't him.

he's tired. exhausted, even, from just how invested he is in this. he hadn't realized how much it would matter. but he's watching her, waiting for her to say something else. the silence stretches uncomfortably between them until he starts to doubt that she has anything left to say. maybe she's just waiting for him to leave.

her stare is beginning to make him feel uneasy. there's an absence within it. she seems far away, like she's not actually looking at him; so he decides not to look at her, either. he drops his gaze to the floor, shifts his weight uncomfortably between one foot and the other. he's still waiting for her to say something. to express sympathy for him, maybe. as uncomfortable as it is when it's given, when it's not, he feels wronged. he feels wronged by her. they were friends, the way he remembers it, but no one would ever be able to tell now.

"i didn't want to fight," he says quietly, more ashamed than it is apologetic. either way, it's true. he hadn't wanted to fight. it had just... happened. he doesn't know what to do here, now in the wake of it. should he remind her of that goddamn party? nothing more than a noble attempt to bring one of his sister's friends closer to her, sure. somehow, he doesn't think she'd entertain the thought anymore.

he spares another glance at her. she still looks like she's somewhere else entirely. he thinks, obsessively turning over the past five minutes in his head. a fucking wreck of a catching-up. even still, he can't figure out how yerim feels. if she's angry, upset, or just tired of him. he can't read her at all.

"i just think you should be... better than him."

#THR / with yerim.

moonmancy

“maybe.” he moves his shoulders in what could look like half a shrug. dabin is right, and he knows it — micah is very nice, sometimes too nice. but he doesn’t know how to turn it off. doesn’t know how to force his heart to shrink, how to let people down, or how to speak without worrying if it’ll hurt someone. if he wasn’t so soft, maybe he’d be able to cut people off faster, stand up for himself more easily — but that just isn’t him.

he doesn’t say more than that, doesn’t let dabin know he’s right. instead, he falls back into the silence, a steady gaze on dabin. he almost worries that dabin would find it to be too much, that maybe he should look away. but his friend isn’t even looking back at him, instead staring at some point behind micah. probably wishes he could escape. everything in dabin’s expression, his body language, tells the story of someone who wishes they could be anywhere else. but micah doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment. he just waits, until finally — dabin breaks the silence again.

he’s clearly struggling to get the words out, and micah finds himself wishing dabin would look at him again — that way, he could give him quiet reassurance in the form of a smile, and a nod to keep going. but dabin keeps looking towards the door, and he’s stumbling, just a little bit. not that micah cares, he doesn’t think anything less of his friend for it, but there’s something in his chest that aches at seeing how difficult this is for dabin to talk about.

and then, there’s an apology. maybe micah should have expected it, with where the conversation was going, but it takes him by surprise. his mouth opens, and he almost says it, the words he always says whenever someone apologizes to him: you don’t have to apologize. it’s okay. but he doesn’t, not this time. he closes his mouth again, swallowing, taking a moment to just think. part of him wants to ask questions, in order to know more about what happened with dabin’s internship, but somehow he doesn’t think dabin would want to answer. and he shouldn’t have to — he’s already said more than micah ever thought he would.

“i…” he starts, then a beat, briefly licking his lips before continuing, “i appreciate that. the apology.” you didn’t have to apologize. he has to fight with himself in order to not say it out loud. he inhales deeply, then exhales softly through his nose.

“i’m sorry that happened to you.” i wish you would have talked to me. he doesn’t say it — no point in reminding dabin of yet another thing he could have done differently. “but i’m proud of you for getting through it. and for talking about it now. it can’t have been easy.” his voice is warm, full of sincerity.

“i’m always here for you, you know that, right?”

impulsetheories

apologizing might've been a bad call. not because it wasn't needed, but because dabin doesn't like the sound of micah's voice right now. how empathetic and understanding he is. too nice, as per usual—the point's already been made, so dabin doesn't mention it again, but he's thinking about it still. if he were any better of a person, he'd appreciate the kindness more than he does. but as it stands, it's suffocating.

"yeah," he says reluctantly, a bit of an annoyed strain in his voice. it isn't fair. he knows it isn't fair to doubt micah for even a second after he's proven himself a thousand times over, but he doubts anyway. it's his achilles heel: no matter how many times someone shows up for him, he'll still expect them to be gone the next time he reaches out. even micah. "... i know you are." he fights off the urge to roll his eyes. it would be a mean gesture, and the only thing that could possibly make him feel any more exposed right now is if his unfounded temper rears its ugly head.

he stands up, takes a couple seconds to roll the tension out of his shoulders. there is a part of him that wishes he had the courage to say more, to admit that he's still struggling with the past, possibly more now than he was then. but it's not the time nor the place, and he's never been that brave, so he doesn't entertain the thought.

he finds the papers he'd had micah print and picks up the stack. the other club members will start showing up for the meeting soon, anyway; it's best that he takes what time he has to regain his composure.

"thanks for this," he says, holding the papers up like that's all he's referring to. it's the closest he can manage to saying thanks for everything. lighter, trying very hard to make like everything's fine and normal, he adds: "i don't know how i would've managed this grueling work alone."

#THR / with micah.#sorry dabin has a complete absence of emotional intelligence

veritastrap

yerim looks up at dabin again, and she doesn’t know if she believes him. she still doesn’t know exactly what had happened — her father had been dismissive, not willing to talk much about it, instead just immediately threatening a lawsuit. from what she’d been able to gather on her own, there had been a physical altercation. whether dabin was actually at fault for that or not, was unclear to her. but she can’t say that his words in this moment, three years later, are doing much to convince her of his innocence. she still thinks there might be more to the story, but this clearly isn’t the moment dabin is going to talk about it.

“maybe you are,” she starts, pausing to let out a soft sigh, “but that doesn’t really change anything. i can’t—”

she stops. fully. for a moment, she just sits there, staring at dabin, expression void of emotion. then, her breath catches sharply, fingers clenching into fists on the table. her jaw tightens, and she finds it difficult to get any words out, but she has to. she can’t just sit here and let dabin speak to her this way.

“you think it’s that simple?” she snaps, voice low, dripping with venom she tends to keep buried. her eyes flash, a flicker of the anger she feels, then she looks away, biting the inside of her cheek as if to keep herself from saying something else. she can’t lash out. not at him, and not here. she unclenches her fists, fingers going back to fidgeting with her rings, a motion to ground herself. she swallows, inhales, exhales, then looks back at him, expression returned to her default state — polished, unreadable.“don’t pretend you understand what it means to be owned by someone else’s pride.” her voice is softer now, quieter. “every step i take is watched, judged, controlled. my father’s ‘wishes’ aren’t some polite suggestion i can just ignore.” her gaze slips away, unable to maintain eye contact.

impulsetheories

he watches yerim closely, observing how the anger slips out and how she reels it back in. he crossed a line—that much is apparent to him now, but he doesn't feel particularly bad about it. somehow, he feels like she had it coming.

"i don't think it's simple," he says, and he means it. none of this is simple. but he doesn't feel bad for her in the way that he thinks he should. he can't imagine living a life controlled by someone else, but he also can't imagine it being much worse than a life like his—purposeless, no direction or guidance from his parents at all. too concerned with the possibility of him not being around to ever tell him what they want. the way he sees it, at least she knows what to do.

he takes a deep breath. he reminds himself that he isn't mad at yerim, not really. he wasn't even mad at her in the performative years-worth of cold shouldering. it had always been for a prideful show. now, finally facing her, he's realizing she probably never even noticed. the possibility makes him feel small and stupid.

he doesn't know what to say to her. he's still angry, whether it's at her or not, and he's not clear-headed enough to make things right.

"especially after my experience with your psychopath father. i don't understand and i'm sure as hell not pretending to." one hand white-knuckles the strap of his backpack. "but i was defending myself, yerim. just so we’re clear.”

not that it matters now. he’s already given up his chance at a decent reunion, and there’s no point in defending himself on something from three years ago. but he’s always wasting his energy on the pointless things.

“my supervisor was fucking with me. hazing me. i told people, i asked for help—no one helped me. i didn’t want to push too hard. i didn’t want to lose the internship. so i dealt with it until i couldn’t anymore, and then i…” he throws his hands up in the air, momentarily speechless. he still can’t say it.

“… i’m sure you heard all about what i did.” and if he’s a good guesser, not what caused it. “we both got fired, but he was just a victim and i was just a crazy intern. funny how that shit works out, huh?” he asks, staring hard at the papers in front of her. flipped over, hidden from his sight.

he isn’t thinking about his sister or her party anymore. as per usual, he’d chosen himself. he’d chosen to fight this battle. “i guess it doesn’t matter. i know his pride is more important than anything else.” he looks at her again, jaw tight with tension. “you’re going to be miserable if you live like him.”

#THR / with yerim.#FAWWKKK i yapped. don't be mad

entropicue

"Enemies." Shiyu repeats, failing a deadpan delivery. "No, not really." Enough distance to it that she can laugh freely. It is, in any case, enough to salvage the ensuing silence up the last stretch of road. Ten times lighter with that load off.

She hangs in place while he gets out, stretches some stiffness from of her neck and shoulders, a fairly recent late night phenomena she assumes to be unrelated to her middling team commitments.

"Somehow I doubt anyone's waiting up to get me." She asserts with unfounded confidence, more like the hope that they might not be interrupted mid–fridge refurnishing, breaking and entering, and steps out of the car with a steady grip on the plastic bag, hears the plastic containers jostle about inside. "Not so sure about you though."

Bumping shoulders while she reaches for the pass key out of her pocket, and it's a short walk from the parking lot to the front door— just enough time to ponder the relative charm of the fob compared to the mechanical counterpart; to fix him with a sideways glance of some passing amusement. At some point Dabin might have become more endeared to some residents of the building than she is. Too many passing mentions recently not to take notice that he seems to be getting along, keeping them around well enough. That has to be a sign of something going right.

"People are just way too attached to their perishables." Chancing a small laugh, she swipes the key a couple of times for good measure, doesn't bother arguing with the code lock. "You never feel like you're missing out the action, living on your own?"

impulsetheories

“you’re funny,” he says, tone suggesting that he thinks she’s anything but. his smile gives him away anyway, something fond and entertained. her demeanor is persistent enough to overcome every obstacle; as easy as dabin finds it to get caught up in his head, she pulls him out every time. she’s done it now—he’s remembered who she is and what she is to him. in this moment, that’s all that matters.

he's still absently smiling while he watches her fight with the lock. admittedly, she doesn't make it look or sound appealing to live somewhere like this, so her subsequent question doesn't strike him as one worth asking. but they're different people. maybe she likes it here, as much as she makes it sound like she doesn't.

"i've got all the action i need." there's a joke somewhere in there, one that he doubts she'd get much of a kick out of, but the point remains. "and i always seem to end up where i need to be." because of people like her, who pull him into their lives. people who have lives more substantial than his own. he doesn't tell her as much, not feeling that it’s something she needs to know.

when the door finally pops open, he follows her in, a half-step behind her. he's still thinking about her question. there's a large gap between how much he thinks and how much he says; right now, though, he's really just thinking about his cats. how he never would've gotten them if he'd opted in to university housing, how drastically lonelier his life would be even with the added company of a hundred-something neighbors.

he's in a much better mood, he finds. the fluorescent lights are a welcome change of pace from his dim car. not quite out of the tunnel, but getting there. "now that i'm thinking about it, i know a few psychos who take on some sort of 'open door policy'. you really only see that kind of thing in college." he scoffs out a laugh. "i'd lose my shit if someone tried to come into my home without an invitation."

#THR / with shiyu.#q.

retronaughts

of all things constant and familiar, wook's most frequent companion has always been silence — it more often feels like a reprieve from the hustle and bustle of the city while occasionally also feeling like a deafening reminder of his selfishly-imposed solitude. in spite of it, wook always extends his hand towards each form of silence with grace — embracing it for what it is and what it offers.

but this one... is novel. this silence hangs in the air like punishment, one wook is uncertain what for. splinter. he stares at the puzzle pieces in front of him, pretending that he's actually able to distinguish one from the other while actively recalling the conversation between him and dabin that had just died off—wondering what it was he might've said wrong this time, what invisible line he'd unwittingly crossed. he refrains from looking up, eyes determinedly focused on the puzzle pieces (all of them are blue, blue, blue, as he is), stops himself from fidgeting by clutching the single piece he'd been holding in his hand for about a minute or two now like a lifeline, refrains from crossing that—

two-a-days keep me straight, i pray you'll come runnin' back to me

wook exhales as dabin breaks the silence, lifts his head. he doesn't even remember holding his breath. he looks at the piece that dabin holds up briefly and almost like a prerequisite to solving the puzzle, the next moment wook looks down, the pieces are clear and distinct before his eyes. "hold on, i'll look for them," his mouth lifts into a gentle smile as he earnestly picks every single orange lined-piece he sees and pushes it closer for dabin to take as he pleases. splinter. "i think the one you're holding might be looking to be affixed to this one in particular." he continues quietly, laying down the last orange piece before dabin.

would you run away if i go? …..would you run away if i-

when he looks back down, he remembers what they're building, remembers the quiet way dabin had pushed the box towards him after he'd settled into dabin's apartment as though the act itself wasn't anything considerable or important. but wook knows the picture that's supposed to come together, knows that the puzzle itself can't be anything else but custom-made, specifically tailored after something that wook had only mentioned to him once or twice in passing, formed into a game that they would both appreciate.

quietly, he falls back into focus, synchronizing almost routinely with dabin to complete the edges of the puzzle and work further in. this was how it worked. splinter. dabin pushes and wook backs away with a step or two or fifteen or fifty, dabin pulls and wook walks forward with a step or two or fifteen or fifty. there's no other part to the story. the next track plays, the lilt of the singer's voice familiar solely due to the list of artists wook gets to listen to whenever he's with dabin. he takes his nth tentative step forward. "is this a new album?"

impulsetheories

the forgiveness seems to come easy. dabin takes it for what it is—he doesn't dare try to look at wook for longer than a beat, not brave enough to look for signs of hurt feelings or resentment. he tells himself that asking for help is enough of an apology, and wook's immediate help is enough of an acceptance. the guilt dies down, but it doesn't disappear; this one-sided war has been waging too long for him to ever feel completely at ease.

"i think you're right," he agrees, just as quiet as wook. like they're in the wake of a tragedy. he hadn't intended for this to be how their night went. he'd wanted to talk and to laugh, to make some shameless point that he is still a good friend, sometimes. his attempts never make it very far, he keeps trying anyway. less an honest effort than it is a desire to make himself feel better.

he puts the pieces together. the rest comes easy—at least the rest of the small section he's working on. the guilt stays steady, a pressure on his chest. he should apologize. he can't remember what he'd been mad about, if he'd even been mad or if he'd just been mean. but he can't bring himself to apologize. treat someone bad enough for long enough and to apologize feels like a death of one's self. he just can't do it.

maybe it's fine. wook asks about the album, and if his help had been an apology, this feels like reassurance that he'd meant it. if nothing else, it's something to talk about.

"i guess." it is new. there’s no guessing or supposing that needs to be done, but this is how it always is with them. an undercurrent of doubt, a quiet implication. dabin never allows himself to suggest that wook is completely right, not even about the little things. almost like he’s annoyed when wook notices and tries.

“i’ve been liking it a lot. my favorite’s maroon.” he doesn’t use words like ‘favorite’ often. always more prone to focus on the things he doesn’t like than the things that he does—but wook had been kind enough to notice, so he’s kind enough to share a little bit more. some kind of white flag. just enough, barely enough, if it’s even enough.

he quietly commands google to play maroon by kevin abstract. they’d have gotten to it eventually, but he’s never been particularly patient and the songs in between hardly compare.

the song kicks in. it is his favorite, but he doesn’t pay it much mind. he’s looking hard at the puzzle pieces, looking for something he can offer in return. unspeaking, he slides a piece across the table that looks like it might go along the side closest to wook. trying to give as much as he's given, never quite succeeding. as an afterthought, he says, “dominic fike does all of the vocals on this one.” might be why it’s his favorite. this time last year, his 14 minutes album had been all dabin would listen to.

#THR / with wook.#q.

heracules

hera is used to the quiet. in fact, she expects it in the little space that is her therapist's clinic. but the change of pace is also refreshing and getting to know someone new is a favourite past time especially when they don't make a big deal of her extensive resume.

she chuckles then. she wasn't sure if the app was wrong or not, she doesn't really drive much herself. even though she got her license for good measure, her manager still insists that she be driven around for safety. today, she just asked to be earlier because she'd just be sitting at the dorms having started to move back in to gaeum building.

"well, at least you got here safely," is what she says next, leaning back in her seat and adjusting her cap. she's more comfortable now that she knows his name or that he isn't asking for an autograph right off the bat.

"oh please," she starts, shaking her hands in between them as to indicate that it doesn't bother her at all. "you're fine, how about we speak comfortably then?" her tone goes up with her question as if to tread the waters as well.

"i study film theory, kind of predictable if you ask me," she says with a smile, talking about films or acting in general always gets her in a good mood. plus, she loves talking about her work when questions aren't being shoved at her. "a lot of writing that i would like but i do enjoy the selection they choose for us to watch each year."

she turns to look at the clock to mind the time then turns to dabin to ask, "what about you? what's being a grad student like?"

impulsetheories

dabin nods in some kind of unconvinced agreement. at least he’d gotten here safely. sure. he doesn’t think his safety really matters to either of them, but it’s a nice thought anyway—nicer still when she follows it up with a suggestion to speak casually. she isn’t treating him like he had halfway expected her to. she isn’t making him feel othered.

“yeah, that would be nice.” lately, his therapist has been urging him to approach new people. to break his routine. something about how it seemed like he was too comfortable, and relying too much on the world to stay the same. she had called it a dangerous habit. he hadn’t been able to confidently agree that he would try, but the inclination had struck him when he’d seen hera this morning. it had been scary. but she’s already made him feel comfortable. more telling of her own character than his.

he listens to her talk about school. there is a part of him—snarky, selfish, prideful—that wants to ask her what about her major is predictable. to ruin a perfectly fine thing by placing her in an uncomfortable spotlight. but she seems to mean well, genuinely. he fights through the instinct, works to something more palatable.

“i’m studying computer science. same thing i studied in undergrad,” he tells her, accompanied by a lazy shrug of his shoulders—a sign of dead passion. he’d cared about it once upon a time, maybe he can learn to care about it still. “it’s different, though. being a grad student. i felt like undergrad was easier, in a way. there’s a lot that you have to do, but the stakes feel relatively low.” on second thought, maybe he’d just been a bad student. “… they felt low for me, anyway. everything’s more personal in grad school.”

there’s more that he could say, but he doesn’t feel quite comfortable enough to ramble yet. so he redirects back to her, curious and well-intentioned as he can be.

“do you have any interest in working behind the scenes in film?… are you planning on going to grad school?”

#THR / with hera.#q.

engraveing

though the door doesn't chime upon entry, noeul knows someone's arrived. the sweet trace of hotteok drifts inside from the stall down the street, effectively drawing him out of his focus, sketchbook quietly flipping to a close. when he looks up in preparation to greet the patron, it's dabin that his eyes land on. the recognition clicks instantly. it isn't all that uncommon for people that he knows from the school to show up now and then, but it still finds a way to catch him off guard when it does happen.

he straightens a little as dabin approaches, putting an end to the all too comfortable half slouch he's maintained over the counter for the past half hour or so. “oh, yeah, been here awhile. it's good. easy,” gives a small nod in his direction, “there's not a lot of.. craziness.” it's one of the things he appreciates the most: the quiet, the calm. from the music that floats out of the store's speakers to the shoppers that bring their business, it's never hectic, never loud. there's some humor in thinking of a part-time job as pleasant, but it's the truth.

a gift, noeul repeats internally. his posture relaxes. there's a few generic ideas that come to mind, but those are pocketed for later in favor of some light research—the more individually catered a gift is, especially when having to do with art—the better.

“i can help. do you know what her specialty is, or her preferred medium?” figures this can be as good of a starting point as any, opening the door for where in the store they should start. a hand leans against the counter's edge, offering dabin a small smile with the hope that it doesn't come off odd. just feels like he should be presenting more.. friendly, maybe. hospitable. “if not, no pressure. i can give you a tour so you can see everything. if that works better.”

impulsetheories

“i think she likes… coloring.” it feels weird to say, even though she’s lectured him a thousand times about how there’s nothing weird about an adult choosing to color in their free time. dabin’s not one to truly judge—at least not when it comes to his sister—but he can’t imagine having some time to himself and choosing to break out a coloring book. anyway.

he racks his brain for something that might be a tad more helpful. their tiktok chat history comes to mind; she’s constantly sending him videos of coloring pages with vibrant, layered colors, always asking ‘isn’t this cute?’. he also can’t imagine choosing to show off coloring pages on social media, but it’s harmless, so he keeps his real thoughts to himself.

“you know, like…” he starts, embarrassed to know what he knows, though it is entirely against his will. “i might sound insane, but those tiktoks of the… cute coloring pages with a lot of detail in the colors and shading? it seems like they’re colored with markers. she goes crazy over those—if you know what i could buy to help her get those results, that would be great.”

he might as well be awarded brother of the year. it’s the most painful description he’s had to stumble through in a while, fighting the underlying fear that he’s going to sound and look like an idiot in front of someone he’s supposed to seem normal and responsible in front of. but if he’s working in an art store, surely he’ll know what dabin’s talking about. surely, surely, hopefully.

he taps his fingers on the counter, then straightens back up. glances tentatively over his shoulder, eyeing some of the product in the store vaguely. nothing in particular. “… she’s turning twenty-two, by the way.” if it matters. with stuff like this, he’s never sure—even in middle school and high school, their parents had forked out on the good stuff for her. he probably can’t do much better.

“but if you’re not busy,” he starts, small smirk starting to form because it’s clear that he isn’t, “a tour would be nice. maybe it’ll spark some ideas.”

#THR / with noeul.#q.

veritastrap

“my father,” she starts, looking back up, meeting dabin’s eyes. yerim wishes she could understand what he’s feeling, somehow read his mind, but she finds herself unable to interpret his expression. her fingers tighten slightly, almost into a fist, where her hands rest on top of the upside-down documents. “is a very proud man.” she pauses, letting the words sink in before she says anything else.

“and he fired you. for…” another pause. she could say what they both know to be the brutal truth, or she could say something a touch more delicate. she chooses the latter. “misconduct.” one way to phrase it, she supposes.

still, she won’t lie and say she doesn’t miss dahyun. it’s been months since the two of them spoke, the last time around yerim’s own birthday, way back in january. it feels farther away than it really is — like they’ve both been waiting for someone to say something first. she supposes she could make excuses, that she’s been too busy to keep in touch, which is partly true. but she also just keeps forgetting.

dahyun would deserve for her to show up. and, realistically, would her father even know? it’s not like her surprise birthday party is likely to be high-profile in any shape or form. if anything, he’s more likely to find out that she’s speaking to dabin right now.

“maybe,” she says, swallowing. “i could try. if i have time.” she does have time, at least she’s pretty sure she does, but she doesn’t want to commit to anything, to make any promises she’s not sure if she can keep.

again, she looks down, once he asks if they’re cool. really? dabin might not know her father that well, especially not in a personal manner (not that his personal and professional selves were any different, really. her father is a man who lives for his work). but, really, from what he does know, it should be enough to realize how image-conscious the man is. how damaging it could be for his reputation to have his daughter be seen with the man he had threatened to sue. and maybe it should matter more to her than it does. and maybe it does. but more often than not, yerim is not her own person — instead, it’s as if she is a doll, that her parents can dress up and do with as they wish. it’s not up to her to decide how to feel about dabin. (but, for the record, if it was — she thinks there might be more to the story. she would have heard him out. but she didn’t tell her father that. and she doesn’t tell dabin, either.)

“like i said, my father is a very proud man,” she repeats, fidgeting with the rings on her fingers. she doesn’t look up again. “so no. per his wishes, we are not ‘cool’.”

impulsetheories

it’s been three years. seems like enough time that the past shouldn’t still be affecting the present—selfishly, he thinks he should have been forgiven by now. even without having ever asked for forgiveness. three years is enough time for it to come anyway.

“i didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, lacking conviction. he’d once thought it to be true. he still does, kind of, but that fucking company has haunted him enough to know that he shouldn’t have done what he did. at the time, it had felt like the only solution. in retrospect, it hadn't really solved anything.

regardless of what happened, yerim should be her own person. the issue between dabin and yerim's father shouldn't matter here and now, at least not the way he sees is. they're both adults, both should have the ability to be free thinkers - but he knows that yerim isn't free in the way that he is. it's clear that that much hasn't changed.

he doesn't want to be mean to her. he hadn't approached her with the intentions of making things worse, but he can feel the anger simmering. the same anger that's always followed him, ruining everything. he doesn't want to be mean to her, but he feels the inclination to be. so he's silent for a long while, working through his thoughts, trying to turn them into something peaceful and easy.

"i'm better now," he says finally, lying through his teeth. "i'm not the same as i was back then." the anger reaches a boiling point. he hates that he feels the need to defend himself, hates even more that he cares enough to defend himself.

"are you always going to let your father's wishes dictate what you do?"

#THR / with yerim.#well…

with @retronaughts dabin's apartment, early evening

they're sitting across from each other at dabin's kitchen table, not speaking. neither of them have said a single word in probably fifteen minutes now - the conversation had died when dabin had started getting irritable. he wonders if wook feels the silence like he does, but he doesn't ask. he'd told his google home to play kevin abstract's blush album a couple minutes ago. they're halfway through h-town now, but if you ask dabin, it's not really helping.

there's a puzzle in the works on the table. barely started, still nothing but a half-finished perimeter. both halves of the box are pushed to the side, face-down. they're looking for edge pieces, slowly moving everything deemed currently unimportant from one half of the box to the other. it's a surprisingly tedious task.

the song ends, track three starts. "i'm looking for pieces that have this... orange line in them," he offers, more interested in breaking the silence than receiving help. still, help would be nice. he shows wook an example piece, then looks at his side of the table, searching selfishly for anything that might match. anything he can put together before wook can, just to steal a little bit of his success.

"... so if you find any, you can just give them to me."

#THR / with wook.#well.

entropicue

"Uh–huh." Unconvinced. Shiyu slumps back in her seat, clears her throat with an exaggerated huff. Might be something about the wider context of the evening that has him acting, begrudgingly, at once very responsible, and very much not— getting involved in dorm politics on a losing side only marginally beating out the alternative. But who is she to call him out. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

It feels a bit like nothing, this reluctant acquiescence to see her off, which she's sure is by design. Only less sure of the reasoning behind it. She crosses her legs over, toes at a ledge along the passenger side door, and peers out at the landscape, all budding familiarity, summer greens.

"It's a korean song." She responds, a few degrees out from a serious accusation. Enough times on the other end of such assumptions that they begin to seem plausible. "I'll send it to you, though." Relenting, she takes her phone out. "Can You Not?" With the Pop A Lot album being a mainstay on her playlists, she's spent very little time reflecting on the actual content. Something in the background, a little kick when she makes out the lyrics in passing, head lolling side to side with the beat. Slow and steady, same how he's keeping pace. "That's the name of it, I mean."

She has half a mind for the radishes too, but it strikes her as not at all worthwhile with the sense of ambivalence in the air. Near contagious, whatever is up with him.

"Better turn it down before we get close though, unless you're expecting a warm welcome." It's not really late enough to warrant the outrage, but she has low expectations of the communal ceasefire. Best to keep the whole thing on the low.

impulsetheories

he’s souring the mood. he can feel it as the minutes pass - his own energy is dropping and she’s getting snarky. some part of him likes it better like this. it’s an easier part to play, easier to understand—not the best way to get the girl, but if there’s any good way to do that, dabin hasn’t found it yet.

she tells him to turn the volume down, so he turns it up. hard-headed, possibly trying to prove some unclear point. he gives it a few seconds, then dials it down to a low 6. audible, but hardly. “keeping your enemies close?” he wonders. again, he’s never lived in school housing - some things are lost on him. he knows less about b612 than he does most of the halls, but if the party spirit of college students persists, he doesn’t quite understand why a song playing in his car would be a problem unless the residents are already looking for something to be mad about.

b612 comes into view. he pulls into the lot, parks in the first empty spot he finds. he hadn’t paid for a parking permit this year, but it’s late enough that there shouldn’t be anyone patrolling. besides, a little extra time with shiyu is worth the price of any potential ticket.

he puts his car in park and turns the key in the ignition to kill the engine. he doesn’t really want to go in. it’s a shame that shiyu doesn’t have her own place off campus like he does.

“we’re not going to get jumped on the way in, are we?” he wonders, only half-joking. she’s never made b612 sound life a safe haven. he gets out of the car, walks around to the passenger side to get the door for shiyu, too. “maybe we should’ve just gone to mine.”

#THR / with shiyu.#can she just k*ll him already

moonmancy

micah’s gaze remains on dabin, even when the younger looks away. there’s an aura of what looks like nerves around him, like he hadn’t planned for this to happen. hadn’t planned for this to be the moment he finally tells micah what had actually happened. micah wonders if dabin had ever planned on telling him. he would’ve remained his friend, either way, which is perhaps a bit naïve of him. he’s aware he gives too much, lets himself be used, but he just can’t… not.

and with dabin, he cares for him. probably more than dabin cares back. that’s usually the way it goes — micah’s heart is too big, filled with too much love and care for others, something that’s incomprehensible to most other people.

dabin doesn’t look ready. he says as much, too. but at the same time, he looks like he needs someone to listen. and that is, after all, what micah does best.

“it doesn’t have to be time,” he reassures his friend, giving him an encouraging smile he knows the younger one can't see. “but if you feel like it is, i’m here. i’m listening.”

that must have been the reassurance he needed, because after another moment of silence — one that perhaps lingered for a bit too long — dabin starts talking.

micah already knows parts of it, vague rumors spread around campus, ones he hadn’t bothered partaking in himself. he figured some of the rumors had to be true, if the way dabin had pulled away was anything to go by, but he hadn’t lingered on them. figured that it’s better to hear what happened straight from the source, whenever that would happen. micah is a patient man — he could wait, until his friend was ready.

then dabin looks at him, and micah nods, silently encouraging. he still doesn’t speak, doesn’t want to interrupt. the notion that his friend had been involved in an act of violence was surprising, but he won’t pass judgement — not without knowing the full story.

there’s a pause then, and a door opens for micah to speak, with dabin asking if he’s mad. a ridiculous question, in the grand scheme of things, but micah doesn’t fault him for it.

“no.” his voice is firm, steady. “of course i’m not mad.” then he pauses, trying to think of the right thing to say. he’s not sure there is one, really.

an exhale, not quite a sigh.

“i won’t say i understand. because that wouldn’t be true. i don’t understand, because this didn’t happen to me. but i sympathize?” he offers, though he’s unsure if sympathy is exactly what dabin is looking for.

“i don’t know what i would have done,” he says, truthfully. “if i had been in the same situation. i think retreating makes sense. it doesn’t make you weak.” nor does it make you a bad friend, he thinks, but doesn’t say it. because, truthfully? dabin had been kind of a bad friend to micah. perhaps not intentionally, and not due to the retreat in itself. it was in the way he treated micah once he got back, like nothing had happened, like he took him for granted. and micah had let it happen. which means he’s as much to blame as dabin.

“you don’t owe me more than you’re willing to give.” he gives a small smile. “but if there’s more you want to say, i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”

impulsetheories

"you're too nice," he says, spoken like it's some fatal flaw. a hint of distaste. dabin will take any grace that he's given, and he'll usually hold his head high all the while like he deserves it - but there's a difference between the typical polite person's kindness and micah's. his is the kind that lacks a backbone. it usually works out well for dabin. it's still technically 'working out well' for him. if he wanted to, he could stop here - continue shunning accountability for who knows how long, not have to emotionally clamber his way to and through an eventual apology, which is what he's halfway gearing up to do. but he does owe micah more than that. he knows this much.

he watches the door, almost wishing someone would show up early to the meeting and this conversation would end. an easy out. easier than what micah's giving him. the option is there, but he'd be wrong to take it.

"i enlisted. after i finished the semester." not active duty or anything particularly trying, though he keeps that to himself. in retrospect, the eighteen months had passed in a flash - at the time, it had seemed like they never would. "i was... i don't know, kind of lost. it felt like my life was ending. i didn't know what to do, or if i'd even come back to yeonhwa, so..." so he stopped talking to everyone. he can't bring himself to fully say it, knowing that the subtext is that if he hadn't come back to school, they probably never would've spoken again. maybe they'd both be better off for it.

he's still looking at the door, at the square window within it. no motion detected beyond it. it doesn't matter anymore - the hardest part is pretty much done. he's still coming to terms with it. it's embarrassing to explain himself, even more embarrassing to be even thinking about apologizing - it feels too much like self-importance to think that his actions could affect other people. it's not a normal way to think, but no amount of therapy has helped him get past it yet.

"and when i did decide to come back, i didn't think you'd still care. since it had been a while, i thought..." fuck. over and over again, he wonders why he's doing this. if it's even worth it. the guilt of having acted like nothing had happened may disappear, but the shame of having explained himself will take its place. and honestly, that might be worse.

"i thought..." he tries again, still unsuccessful. he hadn't thought much. that was the problem. he'd ignored everything he had done wrong until so much time had passed that everything should've been fine, but it wasn't.

"i don't know, man. but i'm... sorry. that's what i wanted to say, i guess." unnatural coming from him. the apology lacks a tone of sincerity, though he is sincere. it's the best he can do.

#THR / with micah.

#ONREPEAT: dabin's favorite songs of summer 2k25

#dg:prompt2 #bro needs to get a grip

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