sore point
@800dbdb
to a boy whose forte is a strategic mind (only really applicable to games, specifically chess—) and nothing really else, he finds it extremely difficult to approach any sort of irritation that isn’t his own. even when it is his own, they’re almost always temperate, much like everything else about him. but when it’s anyone else’s, notably neul’s—he can’t help but to be ill at ease.
especially when that source of irritation is none other than himself.
today’s one of those days, fated to fall yet again under neul’s spleen. minha makes sure not to step on the worn-out, tawny-red concrete tiles in the morning. his brain hatches out these improv superstitions when prompted (he can’t quite grasp the pattern himself,) and the frequency of it multiplies on the more important days. the taxi driver is whist and doesn’t pry information out of him and neul for his makeshift entertainment. while minha appreciates it, he makes sure to have him double check the address stamped on the screen. songpa-gu, baekje gobunro 7 gil—yes, the building next to that one. he remains quiet for the remainder of the ride.
—
it’s almost routine, the way neul is quick to dart back to his room as soon as they get back home. minha carefully roves over the pieces of clothing lying around the living room, then around some empty water bottles and an abandoned textbook (’biomechanical basis of human movement,’) trophy in one hand and messenger bag in another.
“neul,” he calls out tacitly, promptly in front of his friend’s door upon stashing away his stuff in his room. “are you hungry? we can go to the jjampong place you’ve been talking about for dinner,” he pauses for a second, scratching his head in fidgets before slow-processing his words.
“—or i can bring it back for you, whatever you want.”
he stands in a sweltry silence, hoping to hear some sort of response.
