“ why didn’t you tell me we had a frother before ? ” she asks , furrowing her eyebrows slightly at seon , to try and look threatening . it’s useless , really , she knows the demon is more likely to tease her about it than to actually feel scared , so she settles on going back to her excitement for the new-found tool . “ this changes everything ! ” so maybe hyejin isn’t exactly the best barista ever — although she seems to have the people-skills part of the job down , loving to make conversation with the customers and some selfish part of her enjoying the attention and compliments that come along with it ; it’s the technical part that she still struggles with . no one has ever actually complained about her drinks before though , except for the human she was assigned to take over , who could barely ever hide her grimace before giving an assuring smile and a pair of thumbs up and saying ‘ you’re improving ! ’ . it left her wonder if miyoung was a picky-eater , or if all their costumers just decided to pick being nice over being honest . deep down , she knew the latter was the right answer , but denial hurt her ego a lot less .
of course , it doesn’t exactly help that she never got the proper training she should have . not until now , anyway . she’s making a cappuccino — or was it a latte ? there’s just one tiny difference about them , something about the milk foam , maybe ? if she’s being completely honest , there were quite a few times she zoned out during seon’s explanations for reasons she would rather ignore instead of acknowledging , because of everything that would come along with it . “ i’m done , i think ! ” she’s wearing a big grin , the kind that put her whisker-like dimples on full display for everyone to see , holding up the cup in seon’s direction . “ try it and tell me what you think . ” it only clicks in her brain that she forgot to add any sort of sweetener to the drink after the girl in front of her is downing some of the drink . her lips part as if to warn seon , but she decides to keep quiet instead . maybe seon likes bitter drinks and if she doesn’t , well , it’s her fault anyway for not being a good teacher .
gwi seon’s been around ever since hell and earth ( and fine, the heavens too ) were created, so she’s had a few million, billion years to figure out the precise balance of suffering needed to keep those damned holy beings in check. and as mornings get worser for everyone involved, running the only coffee shop in town is a lovely mill of misery, especially when the coffee is disgusting and more overpriced than those chains—though those are great misery generators on their own. and who’d have thought her star employee would be a hapless, hopeless angel?
her tongue forks when she laughs at hyejin, wiping her hands off on her apron. “i was letting you learn on your own, angel. ” seon tweaks the being’s nose with her fingers and smirks. “out of the awfulness of my heart.” the absolute highest standard of respect for a demon, really. the devil herself downs the bitter cup fully, boiling hot liquid that would’ve scorched a real human’s throat. ooh, that’s another good way to torture. guaranteed second degree burns from the coffee you waited way too long in the morning for; she’ll be implementing that tomorrow.
“terrible,” she declares, pleased grin on her lips. “it’d ruin the morning of anyone who drink this.” the demon leans in towards her new hire, pupils flickering into slits behind the back of their shared human. “you’re really good for my business, you know. i think you should consider falling, eh?”
there’s a gasp from behind them, and a loud clunk that’s clearly miyoung’s empty head knocking into the backroom door. unfortunately, the human doesn’t die that easily; she’s been trying, but seon’s been running into a little winged problem with the dimples. it’s funny to see the human scramble, at least—even if the reason for it is an unfortunate and inaccurate assumption.
there’s a rustle of birds past the second-floor kitchen window, wings beating in sync as they fly towards the sun, the sky starting to turn a swallow’s red. it’s a regular time for hari to be awake, with her punctual body clock, but she’s heard the second snooze of taek’s alarm already. there’s a ticking in her, something wound up before it runs, the same way a swallow knows when they’re meant to keep time with the seasons. summer’s child leaves for fall, and cho hari returns to the snowy slopes. but she’ll be back, come next summer; true north at the end of spring means she’ll see her best friend soon enough.
she scoops up her eggs, with their golden, crispy edges and still gooey in the centre. two perfectly done sunny side ups, into her bento box. turns back to the frying pan, says a little prayer to the egg gods for the blasphemy she’s about to commit, and flips the remaining two eggs over. they sizzle in the butter, yolks turning a bright daisy yellow. hari wiggles them around the pan, flips it once more just to be sure there’s not a single bit of softness to the overcooked eggs, and pops them out.
it’s funny to think how hari knows the exact method to cooking eggs she hates to eat. they probably shouldn’t have gotten the exact same lunchbox, but it’d been a two for one deal. so she packs the rest of the little containers full of rice and their favourite banchan, sticking them with the little labels she found in the kitchen cupboards. runny :) and overcooked :( sit next to each other on the counter, hari washing up first just in case someone else needs to use the shared kitchen.
it’s their thing, road trips for a last hurrah before the see you later—she’s the one leaving this time, the farewell marked with a road trip to a pretty heritage town taek’s got pinned on his must-see list. she’s stocked up on all their favourite snacks she won’t get to have once she’s back in the training centre. taek’s third alarm goes off, in time with hari’s knocks before she breaks into his room and yanks on the cleanest looking corner of his blanket.
sorin’s running off the moment she passes through customs, forgoing the baggage claims—her manager will get that for her, eventually. there’s eighteen hours of a plane ride she’d braved still stuck to her, impatient wave of her hand when she finds the company car waiting. “i’ll tip you extra if you get there in twenty minutes,” are her first words, leaning forward, the unflappable, confident bassist looking just a little more frazzled for once. “it’s really important!”
summer’s packed full with tours, inescapable heat on her back. she misses the lazy summers from forever ago, when all she had to worry about were white dress codes and the startling new discovery of sungho’s... everything. but sorin’ll admit she likes it better now, even though her schedule’s fit to burst and it’s been two years since that beach party and more. she’s never been that much of a romantic, to be honest, but having the literal best boyfriend in world means she’s got to at least make it home in time for their anniversary.
the drive home follows that winding red thread, her leg bouncing impatiently. she worries at her nails, a watchful eye on the clock, hands cradling the little giftbox she’d gotten. red weaves down the road, through the sights of seoul, and there’s a smile she can’t fend off. she’s going to be home.
⚾
they’re sitting face to face, in dead silence. she hasn’t talked to him—not just right now, since she saw him first in the team’s hall, but in months. sorin should’ve known this wouldn’t last, the calm away from the storm when she’d finally sucked it up and left their team, for a second time. the last time, she’d promised herself, that she’d give in to the player.
and months later, because they’re both good at what they do when they’re not trying to ruin each other, sorin and sungho sit in the same room in the olympics village.
the string lies taut and frayed, that last, single fibre connecting them dyed scarlet. “we should meet the rest of the team,” she’d said. “we should,” he’d replied. sorin’s still sitting across from him, arms crossed; he eyes her, and there’s that look she used to think meant something. but she’s got someone who smiles at her with none of the edge, sweet and soft in a way she’s still learning to keep up with. she’d wonder if he’s found someone else too, but sungho probably has half the girls in the village on his phone instead.
she stands up, and team captain’s eyes follow, an arm coming in front of her. it’s all so easy, she thinks, to fall back into this. he still looks at her the same, the thrill that’d drawn her in jumping down her spine. sorin pulls away and lets the string snap between them. today marks the first day of moving on.
👓
sorin sets the cake down in front of him, a smug little raise of her eyebrow. all pleased with herself, even though the lettering is off and the biggest ( and only ) candle is tilted to the left. sungho’s eyebrows shoot up, and she quickly raises her hands. “i only decorated it! i bought the cake. i didn’t bake it, really.” a mock gasp, elbowing him. “you didn’t even get anything, stop looking at me like that—you forgot, didn’t you!”
she’s kidding, laughing over his sputtering, indignant defense—she saw the present sungho tried to bury in the back of his closet, one night when she’d stayed over. a month early, too. she’ll bet she can find one of his posts on reddit and that means her present’s going to be internet-sourced, but she trusts her little nerd. sorin pulls him in, both hands on his cheeks, and plants a kiss square on soft lips.
he’s not the same gangly, awkward nerd he used to be, and she’s no longer the mean girl cheerleader stereotype she’d hung her pride on back in high school. can you believe yoo sungho’s blond, now? probably not as much as lim sorin reading books on string theory to impress a nerd, though. their red thread is the colour of the strawberries around the cake, knotted in places; the loops they’d made around each other and back again, milestones to the fate that links their pinkies together. sorin makes him light the candle and grins at him, and thanks the skies out there for the second chance on their high school romance.
🔪
“i should take a picture,” he’s marveling, and she just knows he’s going to say something smart.
she flicks the wound she just bandaged before he can, hard enough to sting. “shut up,” sorin huffs. the red of their string is bright against bloodied cloths and discoloured iodine, weaving around their wrists. “i’ll leave you to bleed on our doorstep next time,” she warns, has to take a pause when she realises she hadn’t meant my. it’s... been a while since sungho stopped loitering around the ground floor of her apartment, hands shoved in his pockets. the younger guy follows her up now, most days, terrorises the rest of the tenants with his tattoos and scuffed up jackets, his harley rumbling menacingly by the entrance.
the lawyer looks at him, grinning on the couch, and wonders when she got domestic with the boy rough around the edges, cornering her in the office. perhaps, since the day her flimsy morals had folded so easily over his request. “i was just gonna say you’ve gotten better at this,” he says. sorin rolls her eyes at him, teases, “only because i need to keep my boyfriend from dying on my couch,” and immediately spots the flaw in her premise, the keyword not even second guessed. a hand slaps over sungho’s mouth, his eyes smirking knowingly at her. red bridges between them as she points with her free hand. “don’t you dare,” she warns, but sorin’s laughing despite herself and, well, it wasn’t anything they didn’t know already.
🪙
she knows she’s picking at it, unravelling the thread that binds them together, like if she pulls at the loose ends hard enough, it won’t just fall apart. looking out from her glass walls to where sungho’s sitting, neutrality strained on his face while she meets yet another chaebol son, smiling the way weak men who think they’re powerful do.
“just a moment,” she says, standing up. outside, she sees her secretary do the same, brief relief on his face. her hips sway as she exits the glass door, stopping in front of his desk. sorin places a hand on the warm wood, head tilted up to look at him, in full view of her prospective blind date. the muscle in his cheek jumps, understanding and resignation setting in. “c’mon, save me, he’s boring,” she says, and sungho doesn’t move. can’t, really, before she does.
she kisses him, lips coated with something glossy and saccharine, like overripe peaches sitting out for too long on a summer afternoon. sticky sweet and soon to spoil, on his. something gets thrown, audibly, in the office behind her, a door slamming closed soon after. his arms around her don’t let her turn away; sorin presses a hand against his chest and pulls away, doesn’t let the daze distract from the point of this. “is he gone?” she asks, and the other looks up, nods briefly.
“good,” sorin says, “you’re mine.” an assurance, empty—she leaves the second half unsaid, even though she can see the thread wrapped around his neck, and still she drags him down and tightens it herself.
📷
“should we film something for our anniversary?”
sorin tilts her head back, crown of her head meeting his thigh where she’s draped across his lap. she’s scrolling through her feed; he’s editing her newest video. red string hang loose between them, comfortable and unseen. “mm,” is his reply, focused on the task. she sighs and reaches up, running her hands through his hair to get his attention. “your roots are growing out again,” she complains, “we should find another colour you look hot in that doesn’t stain my hands purple every two weeks.”
there’s a huff of laughter above her, sungho looking down. “you like it, though,” he teases, and well. she’s got no comeback for that. sorin shrugs her shoulders. it’s a bigger feat than you’d think, while lying down and avoiding dropping her phone on her face. “let’s keep our anniversary for ourselves,” sungho adds, wraps her like a strand around his finger and pulls her in, wry smile on his face. “just us, no one else.”
she lets herself be pulled closer, snuggling up to watch him touch up the footage they’d filmed earlier. “okay,” sorin grins, “the internet thinks it’s on, like, whenever that last episode of inferno aired anyway.” she laces their fingers together, intangible crimson link disappearing somewhere between their held hands. it’s their little secret, hidden from view.
🎾
the red of their strings are dyed darker, reaching across the tennis court. they’re still the star players, even if they’re not partners on mixed doubles anymore.
“good game,” he says, jogging up to her, and sorin scowls a little at him. “we’re still getting used to working together,” she defends herself, because it sucks to be on the losing side, across from sungho instead of beside him. “since you, y’know, left and all that.” sungho’s graduated and gone, even though he visits the team once in a while, and now there’s that undeniable distance between them, as certain and tangible as the net in front of her. it feels unfair, somehow, the double fault that they’ve fumbled completely, serves and signs missed because they were just a beat too slow. now he’s someone else’s.
but she still thinks of him as hers, first. “it’s fine, we’ll play another round and keep the nets later,” sungho calls to the rest of the members, waves off the clean up with an arm slung over her shoulders, skin warm against hers. like they’re still best friends and partners, the contact innocent and friendly and casual, the sort that mean nothing until everyone else is gone. sorin knows she’s going to regret this. but he kisses her like he still wants her, and at least the regret tastes a little like victory.
🎞️
there’s music booming, the reverb of something bass while the rest of the set cleans up, stylists carefully peeling her out of the last expensive, horribly branded outfit she’s paid to make look good. sungho’s by the monitor, going through the photographs; there’s that focus on the screen that she’d seen develop as their careers started rising, an inexplicable flutter to know it’s her he’s looking at now, even though their best pictorials have always been together.
sorin hops out of the makeshift stall, dressed down and comfortable, and she’s caught up to him before she can think. she’ll blame it on the fact that she hasn’t seen him in a while—haven’t been booked together, as that set they used to come as. it’s spite that drives their synergy today, annoyance over the rumours of a slump in their partnership she’s determined to prove wrong. the rumours were wrong, anyway, crisp lines on the samples on the screen, the splash she knows this one’s going to make.
sungho glances at her, the sort of grin when they’ve pulled off a concept, and something tugs at her. “wanna grab a bite?” she asks, entirely on impulse and that vague, ever-present sense of missing him. there’s a pause, point two seconds too long, sandwiched between sungho’s surprised expression and no answer. oh god, she’s made a fool of herself.
she turns on her heel and flees the room, embarrassed; sorin doesn’t see the relieved laugh he lets out, picking up the red thread that’s spooled out and following it back to her.
🕸️
the tear in the fabric of the spacetime continuum seals itself shut at the tip of sorin’s index finger, pointing at nothing. “wait, was that us?” red strings crisscross unseen, a multiverse of possibilities, and the constant that ties them together shining in between. sungho blinks from where he’s seated at the console, his code done executing. they’d just been looking for an alternative design to the webslinger they’ve got now, and yes, taking a peek at the multiverse is kind of cheating, but if you figured out the formula in advanced physics... it’s fair game, really.
“so... no webslinger designs there...” she fixes him with a look that says duh, because that universe’s sorin is definitely missing the spidey sense if she didn’t notice two college kids gawking at her while she ‘made out’ ( censored for the pg-13 movies ) with the sungho of that other universe... uh huh. sorin of this universe might have bigger problems than faulty webslingers right now.
“hey, the us in that universe, were we...”
“... yeah.”
“huh.”
”...”
“wanna try it too?”
❤️
sorin rushes into his arms and laughs, gives him a kiss that’s far deeper than it ought to be, airplane breath and their door still ajar. the thread tied between the two of them is barely a centimeter long, their hands interlocking as he pulls her in for another kiss. sungho smells a little like the hospital mixed with the candle she’d bought on a whim, hugging her tightly. “missed you, baby,” he says, kisses the crown of her head and moves to take her luggage in, sorin still clinging to him. home feels like a forever, ticking off the years. there’s no other way to describe it, the surety of the two of them after the rollercoaster to get here, red wrapped around their pinkies. fate, choice, and love, everything in between.
it’s like it happens in slow motion around her - like when time stutters when she’s up to bat and she’s waiting to swing at the right moment (to knock that fucker out of the park); but now she’s feeling the timing slipping away, the driver’s glare heralding the bus doors sliding back closed.
kejian watches the bus driver press the switch.
there’s a thunk as the doors shut around the end of her baseball bat. fingers grasp at the other end, shouldering through the gap, but she hesitates at the first step. she looks over the other occupants of the bus, meets the bus driver’s impatient glare, and lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. there’s no saving all of them right now, and kejian realizes there’s a hierarchy of priority that has surfaced all of a sudden - one that unfortunately includes little miss valedictorian.
“come on, princess,” she hisses, reaching to grab xiuying’s forearm.
like they’re skidding to home plate just ahead of the opposition, she pulls her off the bus, the doors sliding shut again behind them. stumbling steps on the pavement lead to the lush grass just beyond the curb. a hand rises to block afternoon sun from her gaze, and she watches the bus disappear back into the road with a frantic rumble.
maybe that means all of this shit is over. (somehow, though, she’s not convinced.)
“what the hell was that?” kejian demands, turning to face xiuying. she looks pale and frazzled, and she wonders if she’s aware of being the only inconsistency in each repeat so far. it would be nice to not be the only person being thrown around in this strange nightmare, but… of all people, it has to be xiuying? a light headache pulses by the bridge of her nose. “is this–”
kejian is interrupted by the buzzing of her phone, which she checks with a frown. it feels like ages have passed, but it’s only 1:47 pm, which means she still has an hour to get to the stadium… an odd feeling washes over her, an uncomfortable unease. she sets her jaw and shoves her phone back into her pocket, ignoring the message from her teammate.
“…how long have you been on that damn bus, exactly?”
she’s hauled off the bus by the arm before she can react, breaking eye contact with the boy she’d been trying to signal into helping her. “wha—what are you doing,” she’s asking, but it’s been obvious—almost too obvious, now, as the other drags her off the bus, the hurtling hunk of metal, combustible doom leaving them in the dust.
it doesn’t make sense. at least, it wouldn’t, but xiuying’s read enough manhua to know what’s going on. she grabs the taller girl’s hand. “are you—did you—” it’s a little mortifying to have to tell kejian, of all people, about the time loop. but they’ve gotten blown into bits more than once now, so either she gets a new party member or they die anyway and they won’t remember this. they’ve got two more minutes, by her count. xiuying sucks it up and answers kejian.
“i don’t know—i mean, i do know that this time i was on the bus since the yonsei stop, but that’s not all the time i’ve been on the bus—” where are the dialogue options, she wants to yell, and blurts out the most crucial part of the matter instead: “because this isn’t the first time the bus has exploded, right?”
it comes on the heels of her words, telltale fizz of a spark, microseconds before everything melts. she flinches and grabs the other’s arm, bracing herself for an impact that—doesn’t come. they’re far away enough from the explosion that all they feel are the aftershocks, shuddering through the ground below them. and they’re still here. she’s not dead.
but all those people on the bus—
she looks at kejian’s hand in her grip, mobile phone disappeared into her pocket. “we have to call an ambulance, or, or the police, i think—” she looks up and startles to see how close their faces are, personal space forgotten in her hurry, and backs off quickly. just because they’re both stuck in this loop doesn’t mean they’re friends. “sorry. but we have to—things like that only happen for a reason, y’know? in all those manhua... i mean—” her voice falters, and she builds it back up. “we should help. i think we’re supposed to.”
name go jinri
dob & age 04.09.1994, 28
gender & pronouns ciswoman, she/her
sexuality bisexual
location chaekhwa-dong
occupation con artist pickpocket private collections curator
languages korean, a smattering of english
family none she’s aware of
faceclaim pyo yejin
horoscope & zodiac virgo sun scorpio moon scorpio rising, dog
mbti entp
alignment chaotic neutral
traits (+) adaptable, confident, patient, intuitive, passionate / (–) avaricious, flighty, enigmatic, envious, possessive
playlist nights with you by MØ, revolver by bülow, tu me regardes by angèle, so beautiful by dpr ian, believer by cyn, moon by jonghyun
verse fairytale
skeleton rogue
curse WHITE RABBIT CURSE, upon being cursed, JINRI’s experience and perception of time is perpetually out of sync and usually delayed, affecting her reaction times and speed at which she functions. this lateness will increase as time flows past her, slowing her general functioning until a year later, when even her heartbeat is late for its appointment. in the silence she prefers to keep, she can sometimes hear the ticking of a windup watch. the curse can only be broken if JINRI is able to set all clocks around her forward by the exact amount of time she is missing and in synchronicity with each other.
TIMELINE
jinri grew up in chaekhwa-dong as one of the lost children, left at the door of the church to be cared for and fostered out when she’s old enough to have taken her first steps
her girlhood is spent running, that ever-present feeling of something on her heels, like consequences for actions she hasn’t committed yet. the streak of mischief in her means that, sometimes, the urge to run is very much warranted, with her sticky fingers and a penchant for havoc that has the townspeople ready to skin her like a rabbit
it catches up to her, eventually, jinri running fast and far away enough at age fourteen to find herself in a different city, taken in by people who seemed kind ( unintentionally at first, since she was a kid, and as she got older she got better at identifying the bleeding hearts who would let her in )
and this is how she learns to survive on the streets and off them, with a disarming charm that opens doors that shouldn’t be, light on her feet and sleight of hand as she takes what she needs ( and sometimes, what she doesn’t )
at least, until her biggest con to date comes crashing down like a house of playing cards earlier than she expected, chasing her back into the humdrum, idyllic town of chaekhwa-dong to lay low for a bit
it’s been a year since she’s been in chaekhwa, although it feels less time than that to most with how reticent she is about herself, somehow a permanent fresh face around town. few know her well, and even fewer know that she grew up here, although the way she navigates around town is far too familiar to be just a visitor
( and, well, she might be a little more acquainted with your house than she ought to be, too )
NO TIME TO SAY HELLO, GOODBYE
I’M LATE, LATE, LATE!
name freddie pan
age 26
gender + pronouns ciswoman, she/her
sexuality lesbian
location the deep
occupation mechanic
languages universal, mandarin
family older sister
face claim leah lewis
MEMORIES LOADING …
it’s a strange thing, seeing her memories in a box. like files she hasn’t gotten around to sorting, some of them lying half-open in overexposed photographs, others sealed shut in envelopes that’ve become worn and wrinkled, torn at the edges. some of them play like those old blu-ray videos from the past, complete with the static overlay of incompatible hardware. others have sections cut out, edited, lines and faces missing from the crux of the plot. she’d rate the reel a c list flick at best. in search of a better protagonist, perhaps.
the video cuts out, a flash of editing white. she misses the question, but hears her own answer.
“what’s it to you?”
you could balance a city on those squared shoulders. she watches as the her in the screen flicks the ash off her roll and tries to relax them. “didn’t the deep poke enough at us already? do you have to, too?” her smile is easy, light. like ribbing between old friends even though you’ve just met, watching a face that feels familiar and altogether not. the freddie on screen nods at darkness, kicking stray debris into the depths of it.
new hollywood movies must’ve felt something like this, subtext writ on her smile. or maybe she’d known it from before. like there’s a script in the background, deja vu in words she thinks she’s supposed to remember speaking but doesn’t, not really. or maybe she was just meant to think them, that sputtering character motive that drives the plot somewhere. she’s never been her sibling’s keeper—she was always younger, always sillier. more optimistic than two girl children abandoned in space were built to be. like a seesaw that meant the more she floated with the hope, the heavier her sibling had to be to keep her from drifting away. the plummet of her stomach when her sister stops holding onto those realities, full force of gravity on her shoulders.
metaphorical scales tip in the other direction. her keeper’s sister, now, wading through pitch black for them. it’s not fully selfless, belated growing up against gravity difficult when she’s been shielded against it for so long. that hard knot in her stomach, wiry mix of worry and betrayal and anger and grief she’s trying to stave off. something like determination to cover up how much she doesn’t know what to do without her sibling, aimless without an anchor.
“lookin’ for something big, i guess. isn’t that why we’re all here?”
MEMORIES LOADING …
this one is different, no less disorienting. it feels like a big one, even though in her memories she’s small, shorter than the table she’s trying to grab something from. gear oil is sharp and stained, chubby hands blackened with it. her fingertips manage to flick the edge of the metal tool, falling to the floor with the clatter, but not before bumping her toes on the the way. a tiny face, screwed up in pain, caught right before the howl.
but there are warm hands snatching her into the air, only a little off the ground. a voice that’s light before the growing up ahead of them, fussing over her reddened toes and oil-black handprints she’s put on their shirt. the ship rocks, mechanic’s voice chuckling over the curious girlchild and her keeper. “i’ll teach ya how’ta weld if ya stop worryin’ yer sister, eh? built to work a ship, this 'un,” he says over her head, to an answering nervous laugh. “don’t let her stray too far,” she remembers hearing, the tightening hold around her little body as she squirms around. her eye’s been caught by the exposed copper at the corner of the table, the gleam of circuitry to the ship’s wirings.
she’s set down to run to her new discovery as the voice disappears out of sight, the silhouette of her sister into the doorway. always something new to try, in the ship mechanic’s workshop. it’s no wonder she never left—only now, she’s boarding a ship instead of working on it, toolkit still slung across her, to that silhouette in the distance.
men are pathetic.
but the women who love them?
even worse.
she’s still screaming at them. it’s betrayal, yadda yadda, how could he choose a slut like her ( thanks? ). please. the girl’s gone from pleading to angry with eunsol’s dismissive wave, tossing the used condom down the toilet bowl. threats fall like spittle from her lips, unsightly and neanderthal. gross. but she brings up yong chul, and well, that just won’t do, will it?
“oppa.” a hand traces down his abdomen, resting right above the jut of his hips where she’s sat just five minutes before. “do you like fucking me?” he nods, like a dumb, stupid toy. “would you want to stop fucking me?” a shake of his head. “then make sure she doesn’t tell chul.” she tugs on his earlobe with her teeth, one hand teasingly on his waistband. voice against his ear plush velvet and siren, a tantalising promise she’ll keep just out of reach. “maybe i’ll let you come in me next time.”
off he goes, grabbing his once adored girlfriend by the wrist. so, so pathetic. eunsol adjusts her miniskirt. ew, he’s stained her skirt. she wrinkles her nose. never mind, she doesn’t want to give this guy another chance. she slips away in the commotion, her toy for the night trying to be valiant for no one to see. what a loser. it’s his karma for cheating, she decides, and his girlfriend’s for calling her a slut. boohoo, cry her a river.
instead, she goes to her favourite toy. “chul!” he’s her karma, she thinks. the nicest dick she’s ever had in her, and it only works with a little blue pill and a half hour of waiting time. bo-ring. but she can speed things up. “open up,” she demands, pressing a pill against his tongue. it’s bleach white; whoops, wrong one. she supposes it doesn’t really hurt, either way. as long as it gets chul high, obedient, and begging for more. eunsol sits on his lap and kisses him greedily, lips slick and plump, her tongue wrapping around the sugar high of ecstasy coating his. “wait long for me? you won’t believe the stupid fight that’s happening in the bathroom right now.”
a sticky note that reads happy birthday baby! on top of a wrapped gift; gone are sungho’s usual sloppy strokes (courtesy of being a med intern), replaced with detailed and neat strokes, each character clear to read. when sorin unwraps it she would be faced with the likes of a vinyl, its sleeve decorated beautifully with snapshots of them, some candid while others posed to perfection to showcase how well they look together.
polaroids of course, in typical sungho fashion.
in between the snapshots, again written in his handwriting, sungho and sorin’s story.
there is a card as well, a quirky message on the front but a heartfelt message inside.
hi baby, happiest of birthdays to the most amazing person i know! i love you so much and i’m so glad we get to spend another birthday together. you probably think this entire gift is super cheesy right? ㅋㅋㅋ i didn’t know what to get you that you don’t already have or can get yourself…but i know how much you appreciate little things like this so i made a vinyl for you…or i guess us? i went all over seoul to find this little place! you’ll understand when you listen to it ㅎㅎㅎ i’m sorry i have to work on your special day, but i’ll be done with my shift by the time afternoon rolls around, i promise. i have the entire weekend planned out for us so just do me a favour and finish packing for us? i lost track of time this morning…ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ love you and happy birthday to my best girl ♡
sorin finds the packing list before the present, tripping over an open luggage after a blessed eight hours of sleep—the first she’s gotten since their client from hell stepped through their company’s doors, case finally closed at almost three in the morning. she’d been more than a little motivated to finish the report before d-day to her day; she’s not going to forget her birthday again like she did last year. ( even if sorin can complain enough to inspire a celebration six months late. )
is this growing up, though? it doesn’t feel so different, twenty three to twenty four. the belated growing pains of muddling her way through independence feel almost serendipitous in the summer sun, now that she’s… here. no more panicky new year resolutions looking for reassurance, broken rusty, iron heavy purse strings of her dad’s money, dissipated facades that she’d pulled trying to prove something for the fourteen year old who’d had her life turned upside down. a decade of growing up—not always in the right direction, maybe, too prone for too long to lashing out before she gets hurt, that always shifting sense of transience like nothing’ll ever last, not for someone like her. moonlit bass and months of chipping away at the dreams that’ve crust and sugared over, melting in the heat of her palms as she learns to hold them open instead of fisted close.
so maybe this is growing up, happiness mellow and still sweet under her tongue. the growing she’s got more of in front of her, and her open hands that’ve found someone to hold while she does. perhaps she ought to wait for him to open her present, but he knows by now how she gets impatient. the terrible pun on the card makes her cover her face, softening to read the message inside it. sorin puts the vinyl on and spends a little too long looking at the sleeve, memories of the pictures she remembers taking ( and cringing at the candids of some that she doesn’t ), a setlist of them filling their apartment with the songs he’s chosen for her. a text message seems too little for thanks, but she sends him a mysterious heart as she packs too many of his shirts and too few of her own for the weekend getaway.
the sun shines brightest on the hottest day of summer, like it knows she’s got a year more to get the better of again, like birthday luck on a special day. and sorin’s always said she doesn’t believe in luck, or fate, and all that wishy-washy bullshit. but hey, she’d said the same thing about love once.
zique wakes to the sound of footsteps thundering towards her, the crisp glide of something behind them. a set up all too familiar and fun, though she usually has a little more time to get ready. he started without her? boo.
she tumbles out of her bed, stretches the kinks out of her neck and sighs at the dull throbbing in the juncture littered with bites. all the better for convincing, though. her clothes are rumpled when she peeks out of the door, rubbing the sleep crust out of her eyes. moves slow and casual, giving her cheeks a pinch to redden them. like she’s been running, terrified. the footsteps get closer, and closer, and she counts down from three to yank the door open.
“come with me,” is her hurried line, snatching the newest plaything into the bend of the corridor. “don’t run straight down, he’ll always catch you—” and they’ve got that genuine blood red to their cheeks, flushed and frightened at her words. zique leans in, and sees the punctures of his canines.
“he got to you already, huh?” she tilts their head up, inspects their pupils in the light. they’re blown out and wide, and she knows they’re probably totally out of it now. it must be terrifying, zique thinks, and gives them a little kiss on the cheek. it leaves a mark for him to find later, the little thrill she gets knowing he’ll know she’s toyed with his victim first. it’s a game of cat and mouse, and a very cute catnip in between them.
catnip squeaks at the contact, clearly confused about what’s going on. zique grins, all teeth. “he won’t find us here,” she promises, the crinkle of tarp under their feet and a muskiness they haven’t figured out how to hide yet, drawing them into the basement. she presses them down to the middle of the room, moves backwards into the shadows. her hands close around her newest knife, gleaming in the white of her eyes. “don’t worry,” she coos to them, right where she wants. “stay right...” she’ll give yuhui til a count of five, before she claims her victory.
her call came as he expected, just like every other time, and there was a moment of hesitation before he picks up. a hand hovering above the device as if he could talk himself out of answering. spoiler alert: he couldn’t.
so that’s how he finds himself parked in front of a five-star hotel, the same one he has driven to many times before under false pretences of picking sorin up after a business deal. he isn’t stupid, he can read between the lines and come to the conclusion that no deal actually exists, yet here he is.
“mm, it’s okay.” he manages to mumble. he can’t seem to tell her he misses her too— not like this, not with her smelling like bad decisions and regret.
he’s quiet as he gently maneuvers her into the passenger side, even quieter closing the door and looking at her briefly from outside the vehicle with sadness in his eyes. he’s quiet the entire drive, even quieter as he helps her out of the vehicle and towards the building of their shared apartment. he can’t bring himself to call it their home right now.
an arm is loosely wrapped around her waist, just enough pressure to keep her steady as he keys in the code to the building, slow footsteps guiding her dazed figure to the elevators and pushing the ‘up’ button.
“did everything go well?” he asks dryly, not looking at her as if she would even notice. a pointless question, one to keep conversation more than anything. he thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he pretends things are alright, they eventually will be.
there will always be an end, he foolishly thinks.
but whose end will it be?
the glass of the window is cool against her forehead, watching the lights glide past them and into the distance as they cruise down the roads. she can see the clench of sungho’s jaw in the reflection, grip on the steering wheel unmoving against the scenery. the radio isn’t turned on, just the sound of faint traffic and the quiet hum of the engine, the rhythmic thump of the beating thing in her chest that feels almost as mechanic.
his hands are cold, pressed against her waist as he steadies her to the elevator doors. he won’t look at her. it’s selfish, she knows, but. she wants him to look at her, just her, with the tinge of that something behind his eyes. she can’t label it with anything else but the feeling that terrifies her. so her gaze escapes his, fixates on stupider, meaningless things, and hurts for a dimming warmth in eyes that won’t meet hers.
sorin curls her hand into the hem of his shirt, asking for a forgiveness he shouldn’t give. it would be too unkind to say it went well, and too cruel to lie that it didn’t. the silence feeds her guilt, and she tries to cut it off. “i don’t think we’ll meet again,” sorin says, like it means anything. if not him, then her, or him, and sungho always there, at the end of it all.
they stop in front of their door, her leaning against him. she touches his hand gently, punches in the numbers to their apartment with the date that’s engraved in her head. he’s home to her as much as this apartment is. she’d been so pleased when they’d gotten it, passcode the day they moved in together. they’d been giddy, a home to themselves, matching sets that’ve stayed unlabeled. does it make it better, that she still remembers?
“i don’t have any meetings in the morning, right?” she asks, kicking off her shoes, her dress feeling tight and cloying now, as much as her presence must be to him, clinging even as she’s going to wash up. “let’s stay in tomorrow.” she can’t escape that look, doesn’t know what she’s asking for anymore. like she’s being laid bare in front of him, the softness of her vulnerabilities privy only to sungho. “help me wash up?” sorin asks, instead. he could crush her heart, if he wanted to; she knows, she did it first. “please,” she whispers against his cheek, eyes closing.
