butterfly.

you shine in this pitch darkness that is the butterfly effect

[nabifx-blog]

disquiet.

[nabifx-blog]

witchhcnt:

she hesitates beside the chair positioned at the edge of his bed, settles the basket on top of the little dresser. “are you awfully hurt or?” she can’t help the worry that creeps into her words, the way her gaze rakes over him for signs of injury - finds only exhaustion, despair, tension. the lesser of two evils - maybe.

three years apart. mostly.

three years spent thinking about anything but her, instead about training tirelessly, repeatedly cracking under the pressure, only to still be offered the damn auror position because he is han minjoon. of course he deserves be an auror. of course, of course, of course. and of course, she’s here now, in the wake of his first public failure. with a basket of food he’s sure her mother baked, and worry laced into her words.

three years apart, but just seconds is all it takes for jini and joon, joon and jini, to fall back into old habits.

the first being the worry in her tone. the second, her gaze raking over him and the shame he feels with it, fidgeting, anxiously undoing and redoing the last button on his shirt. the third, her words repeating in his head because, ‘last week,’ she said. jini returned last week, but it had taken bolded words on The Daily Prophet telling of ‘How Joon Risked His Life to Save a Little Boy...’ -- and failed, they didn’t dare add in the title -- for her to come see him. 

and because he’s spent, and because it’s easier, he falls back, too. “oh. yeah. yeah, she might’ve, i’ve been... preoccupied this week, could’ve just slipped my mind,” he says, and it’s really only half a lie, “but. i’m glad you’re home.” there is weight in his words, especially in his state now, disheveled hair, bags under his eyes, fatigue evident in his voice. but, as is tradition, he carries on like there isn’t. 

he scoffs, reaches up to point at the single scratch on his cheek, “yeah, see this cut? painful as all hell.” he laughs (coughs) bitter, shakes his head and continues, “physically, no, not at all. i told the healer i don’t need to be here, but they won’t let me leave until tomorrow. it’s stupid, if you ask me. what i need isn’t to stay in this room, what i need is a fucking drink. that basket doesn’t happen to be hiding a bottle of firewhiskey, does it?” 

his words come out half desperate, because maybe he is. for the only solution that seems to fix all his problems anymore, for the burn in the back of his throat and the painful pounding of his head the morning after because at least that, that he deserves.  

and still, “you wanna sit?” he adds quietly after a beat of silence, even though he very well knows that this, whatever it is, is the last thing he deserves.

[nabifx-blog]

disquiet.

@witchhcnt | woo jini & han minjoon, post-war hp au  past midnight in a hospital room right after joon’s failed his first big case as an auror

he doesn’t need to be here.

in fact, he shouldn’t be here. in some private, hidden hospital room tucked away in the fourth floor, wearing striped hospital wear that his small frame drowns in. his exhaustion runs deep, settles into his bones, but what can healers do about it that he hasn’t tried already, anyway? and the scratches on his face, around his lip, on the edge of his forehead? they barely sting. the minor hexes casted on him? already broken before he stepped foot into this suffocating room. but the case files stockpiled at home? he needs to pore through them for the millionth time, because this can’t happen again and his mind’s been running through so many what-if’s that he’s convinced himself the dark wizard they caught wasn’t working alone.

so, he shouldn’t be here. joon’s insisted as much, repeatedly, irritation obvious in his voice. but, ‘protocol,’ they say. ‘just use this time to rest, you’ve just gone through something traumatic,’ they add and he wishes he had his stupid wand to show them ‘something traumatic’. he doesn’t need to rest, he needs a damn drink. he needs to get out of his head. he needs to visit mister ahn again even though he doesn’t know what else he can do or say at this point. he needs -- 

he doesn’t know what he needs anymore. 

what he does know is that the last thing he needs is another visitor coming in with pity written all over their face and tiptoeing around him like he’s made of eggshells. but as the world would have it, this is exactly what he gets in the form of light knocks against the door. he stares at it from the couch for what feels like eternity (then again every second feels that way, now) with half a mind to pretend he’s sleeping to encourage them away. he doesn’t, though, instead coughing to clear his throat before mumbling a, “come in,” that he’s not sure whoever’s behind the door can even hear. 

evidently, they do hear it. proven with a slow creaking of the door sliding open, light from the hallway pouring into the dark room along with it. the figure standing behind it surprises him, but it doesn’t show much on his face, the exhaustion in his eyes hard to overwrite. “oh,” he rasps, shifting to straighten his slouched posture, “jini. hey, what’re you... doing here? aren’t you supposed to be in japan?”