eclipsed

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school’s been crushing my soul what’s new 

on another note, i’ll be getting to the im’s... slowly... but surely, please nudge me if i’d forgotten something ( my 0.5 brain cells rn is not holding up Too Well )

but yes i’m sorta kinda alive!! 

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––––– ABSENCE IS A VIOLENCE. // @thecityandthecities

“have you heard the news yet?” “news..? what news?” “they’re dispatching staff to frontlines... there’s a shortage they say, name and name had packed and left.” “already? i just seen her this morning!” “...”

it begins in the morning, hours before the rays start to burn.

the premonition of something leaves a low stirring at the pit of his gut. first: the cup knocked over by an elbow––––no doubt accidentally, a commonality in a hectic setting has rendered as much. second: the twenty minutes feat of finding himself a new cup. third: the extended disappearance of the boy in the adjacent bed––––it’s been two full days. on hindsight, recovery isn’t much of a good news ( the end is a mere coin flip away ). fourth: he’s completely lost track of time––––arrives two hours late to lunch and has to settle with dry crackers. fifth: he can’t find her. sixth: he’s running low on painkillers.

jongsoo’s far from a superstitious man. yet in the face of pending uncertainties, fear takes a real bite and he’s gotten cautious, softened around condemned edges. ( straight through flesh, hooking tenderness, creating soft wounds that cut deep––––it’s newfound vulnerabilities, belatedly, gradually. )

there’s too much time and too little to do with an arm cast on. a futile attempt to shave himself with the non-dominant hand and a rusty old mirror sends him to his feet instead. ( she’s better with a straight razor––––an unnamed trust taking form; in between fingers, in between throat and blade, in between breaths, sharpened edges that do more than just pure damage. ) a learnt occupational habit that sticks––––always on the move, always alert, always keeping his hands full; there’s only so much sitting around he can take before idleness translates into restlessness.

it becomes hours of wandering around the hospital grounds, built on old bricks and tales untold.

( what are the fucking odds? )

in the grand scheme of things, his presence is negligibly insignificant. in here, he is no longer part of a hierarchy ( his words are lightweight ). in here, there are priorities transcending him and his own.

heart ringing in ears, residual warmth from midday sun clings to skin and leaves a scathing ache pulsing beneath it. spreading, spreading, spreading. thoughts replaced by a singular that’s chased onto a course of tunnel vision––––she is ( has been for a while now ) his pivotal point.

something begins to crawl up his throat, lugging with it a sinking weight and he feels his chest caving in, constricting, hitting rock bottom. it can’t be, this cannot be it.

goodbyes and habits are hammered out of him. from the beginning everyone has been in consensus, a silent acknowledgment that doesn’t read deeper than the perfunctory. an illusionary comfort. but their plans are never foolproof, and loopholes always dig deeper than intended.

yet here she is: a sanctuary in the midst of war fares, a temporary constant. here he is: seeking refuge, building a home from paradoxes.

                                                       ( absence is a presence. )

it’s been an entire day and she’s nowhere to be seen. no news, no updates, no one willing to tell him what the fuck is going on. dread fills and solidifies: he needs to find her.

eventually he resorts to seeking familiarities in a pack of sticks, burning through half a dozen, the unequal lengths littered around him. ( like a ritual of sort. as though praying could salvage this. ) there’s an occasional tremble in his hands, perhaps of fear and anxiety, perhaps of something else.

                                                                      ( tick. )

a slight twitch under sullen eyes, he toes the last cigarette, brows furrowing from the smoke that stings.

                                                              ( tick, tick, tick. )

the sun sets, and he assumes the worst: he might be losing more than just time.

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hello! super pumped to be here and can’t wait to get around to plotting and drown in angst & suffering. jk (but not really). don’t have much in mind atm other than a mutant kid (hmu if you’ve got a mutant muse too), but here are bits of some random ideas. totally flexible, feel free to tweak it if you’d like. list isn’t exhaustive, so hmu if you wanna do something else! 

i. lawyer / client au –––– a potential murder (?) trial; evidence isn’t compelling enough to convict but circumstance puts them in a bad light. they didn’t do it and he’s going to find out why they refuse to tell him. ( likely to get a lil complicated )

ii. maze runner au –––– post-apocalyptic world & zombies & all that jazz, trying to keep brains in skulls. 

iii. mutant au ––––  basically set in a world where: mutants vs humans, with mutants forced to go underground for fear of being hunted down and / or taken for inhumane experiments. ( humans’ motive: unknown ) 

iv. reply 94 au –––– same circle of friends, one boarding house, years of unrequited love that stretches through their youths and eventually her breakup with her first love. now that she’s back in korea, he’s taking a second shot at it. 

others: au with a cheating husband and an almost broken marriage // the notebook au // college au and/or ride or die ( bros... bromance... bromo... ) // espionage or spies au // hp aus // war au ( nurse & injured soldier from the opposing side, mistakenly taken in as one of them. survival vs feelings vs patriotism & responsibilities ) 

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speed-dial #05.

the alcohol wipe goes over the edges of the open wound and she winces, a snarl in protest coupled with the reflective retraction of her arm as though it’s a first. there’s a slight pause on his end ( exasperation, perhaps ) and his grip around her wrist remains, but his free hand is gentle at the fingertips when he continues with a fresh wipe.

“let’s see… another fella got unlucky tonight?” it isn’t so much curiosity than it is concern. she wears these scars like a fighter, proudly and relentlessly, but a good part of him wishes she could do the same for herself instead. a thumb rests over a faded scar at the side of her forearm, the patch of discoloured skin barely visible now but the red remains vivid and fresh in his mind, as do every other scar on her that is his work.

the silence is resounding and anxiety brews from the calamity and familiarity, like he’s waiting for a storm; but it doesn’t come. her pulse –– beating and strong and alive –– the only assurance he holds onto. this shall pass, this shall pass.

“i think i’ve seen patchwork that are in better shape than you.” there’s clear exasperation in his tone but he knows better than to ask; answers do neither of them any good at this point. he rids himself of the stained gloves in favour of a new pair, disinfectants overpowering the scent of iron. this cleanliness puts him at odd ease as he tapes the bandage down; at least it’s nothing critical yet. “you just need more colours, maybe.”

she snorts in response, evidently unimpressed. it’s nothing she hasn’t heard from him, but they both know he isn’t going to stop.

“shut up and kiss me.”

contact: 선생님 // 010-XXXX-XXXX

there is nothing more infuriating than an irrefutable logic, especially one that’s neatly presented to him by none other than the man who holds his utmost respect.

“what’s there to be afraid of? the man’s dead. he can’t hurt you.”

it’s an incessant cycle of pushing him towards expectations held above him, chasing limits that seem out of reach. it does him good, he reckons; it should.

“we’re running out of time here, joohwan.”

the air in the morgue is heavy, numbing to his hands; the skin too cold to his touch, hand withdrawn and fingers curled tight into his palm instead. he’s not a coward.

“i’m sorry, i’ll try again ––”

an automated response, as though it’s almost instinctive to apologise for failure should not and would not be condoned in what they do. there is no room for failure and excuses –– he gets one shot, no more no less.

the first time he cuts into a body, he feels a part of him taken apart only to be fixed together after into something else, something new.