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@innersanctvm
writerâs block â
zcilovsâ:
âgun-ah.â the female smiled brightly, aside from having trouble meeting the deadline which was set in not even an hour from now and she hadnât really written half of the article. she wouldnât send the male away, maybe ask him to let her get this done within 5 minutes - she was sure itâd take longer than that but knew gun would understand.Â
âdid you get them from the market? or did you just have them at home?â the female glanced at him before looking back at the article, working on it as fast as she could to pay attention to the younger boy. to her he was some kind of sibling surrogate, not only because he was younger but because he more than often acted like it. minhye hadnât had siblings - only got to know about youngmin and seungyoun recently - and gun was just cute enough to be like alittle btoehr.Â
âiâm working on the newest story from the police. like they said a body was found but theyâre not sure what happened..â minhye stopped for a minute to snack on one of the slices. but quickly enough returned to finish up what had truly taken just a few minutes. âhave you heard about it? probably not, right?âÂ
Gun hums quietly, not giving her a proper answer until he finds a couple of bamboo food picks wrapped in napkins in his bag and hands her one. âHome,â he finally answers, picking one of the slices and biting half of it off. When he swallows, he explains, âgrandmother usually peels and slices them as soon as they arrive from the market.â
He doesnât say anything for a while, limiting himself to watch her slender fingers skillfully move over the keyboard for a moment as she works on her piece. The boy canât avoid a frown then and he remembers himself to thank whoever was the genius that invented voice typing.Â
When she mentions the body found and asks about his awareness of the case, Gun only shakes his head, âI havenât.âÂ
His grandfather wasnât very concerned about internal security as he was only responsible for the national defense, but as rare as it would be, he would sometimes bring home stories such as these. If he did, it would be something big such as serial crimes or any other crime that could have national impact and repercussion and he only did because he felt the need to unconditionally support his only grandson (even if he still held some hope Gun would grow interested in politics).
âI can wait for you to finish and maybe you can tell me about it over lunch? My treat,â Gun suggests with a big smile.Â
It wasnât only about the dead body the police had found; itâs been a while since he spent much time with the older woman and he would be lying if he ever said he didnât appreciate the company. If anything, he adored her and, growing up among people older than him with no siblings to share the attention, it was good to have a healthy relationship with someone who wasnât that much older and acted as a sister figure to him.
@zcilovsâ
Mourning Dove
august, 2017
When VinĂcius first moved to Seoul he felt a lot like a kiskadee in a nest of magpies; he felt small and loud, a stranger among a crowd of majestic big birds and their elegant song. The boy realized then how easy to break he was, just like the bright yellow crayon (his favorite!) he used to use to paint over the little birds his older brother would draw for him.
And he remembered things.
He remembered how AntĂ´nio would huff, grumpily sketching on the corners of the pages of his school book only to shut up his energetic little brother who had yet to learn how to color inside the lines. He remembered being called baby bird, his brother fingers gently tickling under his feet and armpits only to hear his high pitched chirps. And he remembered how people would point out the likeness of his chubby baby face to the face of his brother.
He remembered, most of all, how AntĂ´nioâs chest pressed against his face and the wet patch of tears he left behind on the olderâs white dress shirt were the only things keeping VinĂcius grounded on the day his uncle, the only other person who understood him as much as AntĂ´nio did, died. He remembered things, so many things. He remembered all of the things he had sworn himself never to forget and the immense love his brother felt for him.
He remembered his brother.
What he didnât remember was his face.
So the man that greeted VinĂcius when he fully regained consciousness was a stranger. The manâs eyes were wet and his nose was small and red, his lips were thin, curled down, pressed tightly together to hold back all the things he really wanted to say, wanted to ask. But nothing really fit together, as if the face staring back at him was a puzzle where too many pieces were missing.Â
And itâs only when the man calls VinĂcius by his name and holds him tight against his chest after a couple of minutes of painful silence, that he realizes the stranger is, in fact, his brother. A brother he couldnât recognize.
The doctor called it prosopagnosia and Vinicius was made aware that not only wouldnât he be able to recognize his brother, but he wouldnât recognize his mother, his family, his friends either. It was then he wished - even if only for a brief moment - he died in the accident, because rather than the side-effects of the four months in a hospital bed, itâs the fear of being alone that pushes him to the edge. The fear of having the people he loves the most walk away from his life, because he and his bruised brain were nothing but a burden to them.Â
Because the first thing people had to say whenever they approached him was who they were, even the people who were in his life from the very beginning. Because he couldnât talk, walk or eat on his own for as many months as he was out, and even more. But his brother loved him. So did his mother. So did his grandmother and father and aunt still in Brazil. And so he learned. To speak again, to walk again, to hold on to a fork like his life depended on it. And it did, for every little act of independence was a victory in itself.
When Vinicius woke up from the coma, he wasnât a kiskadee anymore.
Instead, he was a mourning dove. Still too small in the nest of magpies, but now he was quiet too. His once bright yellows became dull, just like the pale walls of his hospital room, his wings dusted by the grief of losing himself. His favorite crayon had finally broken, and yet he smiled.
He smiled at the way his older brother would ask how he is doing with therapy, and at how he always made sure Vin didnât knock his face against a pole the younger believed to be much farther. He smiled (albeit bashfully) despite Tomâs tears when his brother found him in a police station after being lost for many hours, for leaving the house on his own.
He smiled at the six year old on his arms, chirping in joy as VinĂcius tickled him under his feet and armpits. His brotherâs own baby bird, one he heard people claim to look a lot like himself, even if he didnât remember his own face either. And he smiled at how AntĂ´nio huffed and grumpily sketched over a clean sheet of copy paper, only to distract his energetic son and his broken grown brother, who had yet to learn how to color inside the lines.
writerâs block â
âIâve brought pears,â is the first thing Gun says, a wide smile and a little skip in his step as he approaches Minhyeâs workstation. The newsroom is busy, the click-clack of the keyboard overwhelming, and Gunâs presence only adds to is, a bit too loud, a bit too bright in comparison to the gloomy energy of the overworked journalists that write faster than they can think to match the publicationâs deadline.
The boy gives her a little bow then, pulling on a chair to sit by her, to watch her edit her article. His excitement is pretty evident and when he runs his eyes over the words on the screen they look as cryptic as ever, so Gun really doesnât bother to read it at all. âWhat are you working on?â He asks instead, moving his backpack to his lap to rummage through it, finding the little container with the pear neatly sliced (not by him, thatâs for sure,) only to find a place for it on the desk.
âTell me itâs something interesting,â the boy pleas, puckering his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout, âIâm in a slump.â
@zcilovs
       ę ęšÂ ęšÂ ę ę ę ęŤÂ ęšÂ ę¸Â ę  ę ę
                this mission is too important for me                  to allow you to jeopardize it
        ɪɴᴠɪá´Â âŞÂ á´á´Ęá´ÉŞá´á´sá´Â âŞÂ Ęá´ á´á´á´á´á´É´á´Â    â  â
âą i will be reading your rules before following, Â Â so i reserve myself the right not to follow.
This isnât a RP meme, but more or less a general PSA and reminder to everyone to read and respect peopleâs blog rules. A lot of RP blogs have a rules page where they list a few things on how they manage their blogs, tags, replies, etc. etc. and this is perhaps one of the most important â if not the most important â pages on the blog!
Please !! Do read that rules page !!
A lot of tension tends to occur in the RPC when people get upset because too many others donât respect their blog rules â so please, read blog rules!Â
A rules page also never runs away, so if youâre uncertain whether or not doing something (such as reblogging a meme, sending something shippy, tagging content, etc.) might upset your partner/friend/mutual, just have a peek at their rules page or ask them about it!Â
Communication is key in a lot of of situations where multiple people are involved and often discussions or drama are caused by a lack of (clear) communication so please, ALWAYS read blog rules and never be afraid to ask something if youâre uncertain!Â