— d i s r e g a r d — ;

do kyungsoo – 18 – mechanical engineer r/s – s/o

[sabxkyungsoo]

{ guess who's coming back. that's right. this lill asshole is. sabxkyungsoo sounds real great don't it }

[scrxhoya]

diamond in the flesh ● hoya | kyungsoo

[scrxhoya]

Do Kyungsoo - smooth, composed, suave, gentle, professional - is everything Hoya imagined he’d be. He holds out a hand for Hoya to shake, and the host obliges, takes Kyungsoo’s hand and wonders if the hands of musicians are any different from those of anyone else. Kyungsoo’s skin is cold from the wintry air, but nothing else seems particularly noteworthy (beautiful hands though they are); Hoya is sure, however, that there is something different about this young man, though he can’t pinpoint explicitly what.

He’s never met anyone who’s identified themselves as a ‘classical musician’; he hardly knows what classical music sounds like, having grown up listening to Hojun’s baby cries, the shrill notes of the erhu, electronic beats that make his body tremble. Classical music.. That’s, like, Mozart, right?

"Please, come in." Hoya holds the door open wider.

Inside, the club is preparing for seven o’clock, the beginning of another day at work - a thrill for some, a bore for others. Hoya isn’t really sure if he’d rather sit comfortably with what he knows or if he’d rather enter the world of business deals and classical music, but either way, he doesn’t really have a say in what he does, so there isn’t really a point to qualifying. He offers Kyungsoo a nervous smile. “I’m Hoya, by the way. If you ever need anything during your stay, just ask me.”

He leads the musician into the private room he was shown earlier, threading through bodies and tables as if the club were his home (It kinda is). Once there, the manager of the club effortlessly takes over and escorts Kyungsoo to where he’s going to be playing. Hoya sends him off with a small smile for good luck, makes a checkmark by his name on the list.

And.. done.

[sabxkyungsoo]

he dips his head in acknowledgement of the gesture, maintaining the soft lilt of his lips as he passes the other. the bass meets him with full-force, mingling before him with the stench of sweaty dancers and the cacophony of chatter amongst bodies brimming with anything but the purest of intentions. over the incessant throb of synthesized beats, the buzz of information flits around his ears and just a little too out of reach, reacting like acids and bases, neutralizing too quickly to be of any use to him. 

but that’s fine, he reminds himself, thanking hoya with another dip of the head and following him into the club with his cello lifted carefully over his head as to keep it as far away as possible from the contaminated scum of the human populace; that’s fine. he’s not here for information that can be just as easily found from cracks in the brick walls of isolated back alleys or that simple-minded reconnaissance might gather from stealthily meandering red district streets. he’s here for the professional work, the back-end business meetings, his fair share of corruption and hush-money and gossip. this kind of information is underground currency, worth millions more than his endless stash of paper bills at home.

they reach a private room where the overwhelming noise of arbitrary facts and incoherent rapping fades to a piano—kyungsoo figures he should probably get himself started. hoya might not know anything, but it never hurts to try—this is a self-imposed mission to gain advantage; there’s nothing to lose even if he does err.

just before hoya hands him off to the manager, he adjusts the strap of his cello case on his shoulder and smiles again at the wish for good luck. then, putting on a façade of brief incompetence—which is fairly easy, considering how common it is these days—he whispers quietly, “uh, so, do you know what this meeting is? my schedule’s a little tight and i’m not sure who i’m playing for today.”

[v-cheongug]

[bornwithsilver-deactivated20171]

"I've always been like this."

【 So fatal was the error in her calculation.

So horrendous was this sudden constraint against fragile heart ━ tightening and tightening and tightening until her respiratory system pitched; and she ached. She had miscalculated the intensity of fabricated emotions and her own detachment towards the young male ━ she had thought that she would come out the victor in this tedious teenage affair, and that his beating heart would be the trophy gained. She was older, more experience, deranged, but he was more wicked and more vicious and more unemotional.

& now, he was a convict stealing precious airy respiration from delicate organ ━ his cold dismissal stung so bitterly. It was the wickedness of memories that clung to her fragile mind like pestilence; a reminder of how the malfunction of love ran rampage at an early age. A deadly infection that churned her stomach, and acidic bile burned the back of her throat as pallid hand caged her lips.

He was a monster.

He was a scum that forsaken her delicateness.

This was not supposed to happened.

Not to her.

Love ━ no ━ intense affection was not in the formulation. How horrible for he remained robotic in his act, and how vilely he smirked as he recited words that stabbed her relentlessly. While she, this indifferent princess, broke and shatter into tiny pieces with the watery sting of unshed tears.

& perhaps he had always been like this.

& perhaps she have too.

But she was a fool nonetheless ━ so as she left the confined space that held the stench of him, the remains of her dignity was left behind in the physical form of his now broken cell phone. 】

❝You do not deserve love, hatter.❞

【 Neither does Alice.】

[sabxkyungsoo]

"I should've known better."

"you should have, shouldn’t you?"

there’s not a single shred of sympathy or guilt in his voice when he plucks his cell phone from her fingers, scrolling through the alerts on the screen; a million different numbers from a million different people, scheduling a million different rendezvous with an infinite debt of promises he’ll never pay back. no one is anything more or less than a connection, and bridges were meant to be burnt at some point or another. otherwise they’d fall and snap: a death of failing whatever purpose they’d served. what use is a broken bridge? it’s a shameful excuse for one; at least a burnt one leaves with its dignity folded neatly under the ashes.

in a sense, he’s done her a favor. a million of them. he’s not that heartless—not yet. he remembers that once, just once, he’d felt that little flicker of cliché in his chest, that weak fluttering of warmth, that made him so much more aware of the rhythm of his own heartbeat. it had been his first time, after he’d pressed his lips to her neck and left the tattoos of his possession in crimson patches over her pale skin. and he’d said, “you’re beautiful.” and he’d meant it.

and he’d hated himself for it.

it had probably taken less than a second for him to force that flame to extinguish. it had probably only been the lust; he was just barely sixteen, after all, and much too good at acting older. but it scared him. loneliness was his constant companion; deceit, its vessel. and in that moment, neither had been there.

perhaps if the spark had not fired, he would have waited to let her go. she was still useful to him. she would continue to be for a long time.

but he doesn’t want to risk it again. and maybe, somewhere, that flame is still there, refusing to let him carry on with this. at least their bridge would be dignified. at least she would never come back, never think for a moment that he had loved her, even for the tiniest fraction of a swing on the pendulum clock outside his house.

because he (had) hadn’t.

carefully, he lets one corner of his lips lilt upward in a smirk, typing pointedly into the keyboard of his phone what he’ll say another million times to another million girls, reading it aloud as he does so.

“‘you’re beautiful.’” he waves the phone at her, tone mocking, and presses send. “and you should have. you should have known better.”

[ctzxkai]

— scintilla ; kai & kyungsoo

[ctzxkai]

{ —his unabashed staring is met by the pair of wide eyes, still similar to those which he’s drawn multiple times on his sketchbooks. he does it a lot, sketching faces he vaguely recalls, faces which names have been lost among the sands of time trickling past the throat of the hourglass, marking the moments defined with the nonexistence of meeting between him and those people. they are vestiges, but vestiges do return into his life sometimes, and sometimes they do it in the most unexpected ways, at the most unexpected times. he doesn’t remember this person entirely, but a series of blurred images tell him that the time frame comes from a great distance from the point of “now”, so a childhood friend might be the explanation, in which it’s extremely plausible for him to forget the other male’s name. but those features are still preserved in his mind, and it’s proven true when the deluge of recognition washes across the other male’s expression. apparently the absence of details eradicated by the presence of time spanning between their meetings is one-sided, Jongin’s name escaping the other male’s lips with ease. still, there’s no point in pretending to remember the other’s name, and so he supposes he might as well satiate his own curiosity by finding out who this male is. he gives the doe-eyed male a tug of lips before lifting his glass and leaving his stool to occupy the one next to that old friend of his instead. } Yeah, it’s been a while. { `he agrees after settling himself on the seat, nodding to convey his message. } How have you been?

[sabxkyungsoo]

{`— bitterly, kyungsoo realizes that remembering jongin comes with a terrible flood of loneliness. it's the only thing he feels nowadays, if he even feels at all—but just like everything else he might feel, it's become so constant that he's grown used to it. what are you? he asks himself, five? you haven't been five for thirteen years, kyungsoo. he watches jongin move and regrets saying anything, but regret won't quell his sudden, acute awareness of the immense emptiness that occupies the world he lives in. no one really knows him, like they might have when he was younger. nostalgia is for idiots; nostalgia is for the unsuccessful. he stifles a sigh in the back of his throat with another swig of alcohol, tearing it away into ashes. they cling to his windpipe. the stool beside him is occupied, now. he probably wouldn't be able to say anything if he tried. pressing the glass to his lips, he swallows the ashes down with more fire. say something, say something. it's been a while. how have you been? lonely. as usual. he fights to stop himself from laughing. he can't even be real around jongin anymore, can he? he's not five anymore. he learned to deceive at six. it's been twelve years—there's no turning back time. he turns back to his glass, only to realize that it's empty, and pushes it away, propping his cheek on one hand and turning his head toward jongin. ´} i've been... just as well as anyone else, i guess. {`— he chuckles briefly, waving the barista over with one hand and tapping on his glass, dipping his head in silent thanks. ´} and you?

[scrxyoongi]

Scraped; Kyungsoo x Yoongi

It was expensive; 2013 model, shiny white paint, chrome rims — his father’s baby. The Landaulet was a nice car, stylish in its looks and interior, but Yoongi didn’t care about vehicles and their worth. He stopped envying the wealthy when he started doing drugs, cheap under the table stuff that no one bought anymore. He saw people die over money. A 1.3 million investment on a car was really not his thing.

However, while in a sensible mind stance, he would have turned the vehicle around, but he was furious with his father and decided he would take matters into his own hands. It wasn’t just because of the threat that left his father’s mouth, even though that did play a big part on his midnight endeavor; it was the shit he had to put up with ever since he left the hospital. He didn’t even think twice before sneaking out that night, waiting until everyone had gone asleep to steal his father’s car. 

Sitting in traffic, he found himself wondering why he decided to take the vehicle instead of having someone else fuck with it. That would have put the blame on the other guy’s hands, and he wouldn’t have been an idiot who thought he knew how to operate a car. He could barely pull out of the driveway correctly, let alone be on the road with other means of transportation.

That was the thought that prompted him off the main road and onto a less populated route. He figured that if there were fewer cars around him, then he had a better chance at making it to the river in one piece. Then he could discard the vehicle by driving it into the water. To him, it was a foolproof plan. He just didn’t expect to hit another car before getting there. 

It wasn’t too bad in his opinion. The Landaulet lost a rear-view mirror and there was some paint on the door that wasn’t there previously. He honestly wasn’t going to get out of his car until he realized the vehicle in front of him was blocking his way, and he wasn’t going to chance driving into a ditch by backing up. He got out slowly, feet hitting the pavement with a soft thud. He knew he was going to be in trouble, one way or another, but he just hoped his father wouldn’t wake up to see both his car and kid gone. He could handle an irate driver. What he wasn’t so sure about was going home to enraged parent.

[sabxkyungsoo]

there would be exactly nine—no more, and perhaps less—lamborghini veneno roadsters built in the year of 2014. kyungsoo had ascertained ownership of two of them: one of which he would modify for his street races (though he could just as easily win with one of his cheaper huracáns or something of the sort; he was more oriented toward racing himself at this point), and one of which he would put on display in his museum after driving it around for a day (an hour) or two. he had his sights set on a third, in case he wanted to have a control for his modifications, but he could not park two of the same car in his museum for fear that the lack of variety might be a bore, and the expansion of his external garage was going a little to slowly.

it was only tradition to take his cars out on a little test drive after every modification was made, just to ensure that there were no problems before moving on—the last time he hadn't checked, the error hadn't been anything huge, but after running through some calculations he'd found that he would have finished his race at least 0.00046 seconds sooner. he'd promptly had the car donated to someone who would want such a piece of trash in their garaged and corrected the modifications in a new model. despite his almost endless supply of monetary resources, he did not have an endless supply of time, and re-doing it just used up too much of the latter that he could have spent on experimenting with the car he'd just had delivered straight from italy that morning. so, in an effort to correct, he'd made it habit to ensure everything properly beforehand.

this set of modifications was a small one; he'd simply done his standard correction of the air induction and exhaust systems to optimize his already 750 horsepower engine. of course he'd taken his time in getting to know the car at first, something that usually took longer than his first few modifications combined, and something that—as getting to know anything implied—brought along a few small traces of sentiment that had never hurt.

then again, he'd never expected his car to get hit. it was just a scratch, by any other racer's standards—dents didn't go to deep with carbon fiber exteriors—but kyungsoo had never so much as gotten a scratch until that anathema of a race in monaco, and it hadn't even been from the race itself. it had been from racer number 17's mother, who had taken to calling him hilariously improvisational names in strings of four-letter words that didn't even make sense together and stabbing his car with her husband's swiss pocket knife. this time, he'd barely even been out on the road two minutes—hadn't even started accelerating to see if he could surpass the 2.9 second zero-to-sixty on the thing—when some brainless fuck decided to fail the exit right off the main road.

kyungsoo wasn't used to brainless fucks. well, he was, but surely not in the driving world where he'd been surrounded by professionals who fucking knew how to exit main roads without smacking into someone else's goddamn venena. if he'd had racer number 17's mother's husband's swiss pocket knife, he would have jumped out of the car and neutered and/or spayed the other driver right then and there. but he didn't. he didn't have racer number 17's mother's husband's pocket knife because he didn't fucking expect to run into a fucking brainless fuck fucking up an exit into a backroad and ramming into his fucking car. he didn't fucking repaint his cars. repaint looked fucking disgusting. not as fucking disgusting as how brainless the newly encountered brainless fuck was, but still disgusting.

stepping with eerie calm out of his car, kyungsoo kept his gaze locked straight on the other driver, refusing to turn back and look at what damage had been done for fear that he might lose all sense of sanity and tear the cretin's testicles out with his bare hands, which would rather unfortunately bloody surfaces on the carbon fiber encasing. clearing his throat and folding his hands behind his back, he took measured, businesslike steps, the smack of his feet eliciting small cries of fear from the pavement on the road as he continued to approach the brainless fuck before him.

"so tell me," he began quietly, letting a smile creep onto his face as he got closer, "about your car. what brand? what model? manufacture date? serial number? how much did it cost? technical specifications of the frame? exterior? engine? what do you know about your car?" lowering his voice, he walked toward the other until their faces were barely an inch apart. "and then, tell me—what do you know about mine?"

[survivorren-deactivated20140920]

NIGHT TRAIN - Ren & Kyungsoo

[survivorren-deactivated20140920]

Ren felt frozen in place when Kyungsoo crouched down in front of him. He was handsome but his coldness stopped any attraction Ren might’ve felt. He didn’t flinch away or try to defend himself against the hand that reached for him. He stared at Kyungsoo helplessly as he tilted his chin, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks when he spoke.

'Use? What use could he possibly have to this person?' Ren hesitated, “I don't know what's important to you…” he started, feeling it was impossible to give himself a significance to the cold person offering him help but at a high price.

"I…I’m a medical student…I’m going to be a Doctor," Ren insisted softly. "I have access to…to drugs…?" he offered, wondering if that might be the sort of thing that would entice the person in front of him. Sure, street drugs anyone could get but Ren did have access to prescription drugs. "I don’t have any money…I’m just a student…" Ren whimpered.

[sabxkyungsoo]

kyungsoo had half the mind to apologize to the boy for being so direct; in a better situation, perhaps he would have time to lackadaisically tip-toe around the subject and obtain any relevant information through less obvious means. but it was nighttime, and there was no one else around—who could judge him for not having the energy to keep up a façade so unnecessary? the other boy was in a disadvantageous position regardless.

sniffing contemptuously at the boy's tearful hesitation, kyungsoo drew his hand toward the boy's eyes and delicately wiped a falling tear away with his thumb. tears were interesting things—he hadn't shed any, ever. he pulled his hand back, inspecting the slippery surface of his thumb with barely a glance before wiping it on his jeans and meeting the boy's gaze again.

"a doctor, hm? what kind of doctor?" leaning back on his heels, he blinked at the other with a feigned curiosity. drugs weren't his particular interest, though he did recall the amusement he found in watching them take down another who had thought himself close to kyungsoo. "i'll help you, then, kid—what's your name?" standing up, he turned his gaze toward the window, watching the passing boundaries of the rail slow with the braking of the train, an amused smirk lilting a corner of his lips as he chuckled. "nothing like bonding over hiding a dead body, kid—there's nothing like it."

[ctzxkai]

— scintilla ; kai & kyungsoo

{ —his lips are parched from the high velocity which swallowed him whole temporarily, inundating him in a nostalgic vortex which no longer affects him after the desensitization going on for at least a year. now all that’s left is the series of solid thumps before the race as the anticipation builds, the process in which he always loses himself and liberates his mind from any thoughts apart from the road and the sensation of the thrumming engines beneath him, and then, it’s always closed by the drawback; by the loop of lapses, being thrown into inertia after such a great speed that brings him that sense of invisibility. he feels suffocated by his desiccated throat, by the sudden absence of thrill, and when his bottle of water isn’t enough to satiate the thirst he finds himself staggering towards the bar closest to the arena. it’s not one which he visits often, but at least it’s not extremely packed with inebriated patrons so he supposes that this can do. finding himself a spot in the corner, he fleetingly catches the face of the person which he recognizes as someone who was in the same race as his—the winner, which he couldn’t care less about for he is never truly in it for the triumphs—but he doesn’t spare the other male anything more than a glance before settling himself on the stool three seats away from the stranger. he orders a cocktail for a beginning as he always does, before looking around, and this time fixating his eyes on the person a little longer, absorbing details which apparently strike the strings of familiarity in his chest. faces; Jongin is always good with faces for he usually preserves them in his sketchbooks, some of them blurry but at least his sketches help him retain the memories. the details, though—who, when, where, how—have always escaped the pores, and he cannot pinpoint exactly this other male’s name although his face (wide eyes, heart-shaped lips, somewhat juvenile aura) is extremely, extremely familiar. he furrows his eyebrows in his attempts to remember, uncertain if he wants to approach this person from his past to quench his curiosity. }

[sabxkyungsoo]

{`— he doesn't quite give a damn about the cheering and shouting behind the finish line; the expectation for his win should be commonplace by now though he's only been back for several weeks. what he does give a damn about is how much faster he's gone, how many records he's beat, the time on the stopwatch he's built into his dashboard which tells him nothing this time but that he should be disappointed. and he is. a full second slower than his last run on this road—shameful, he thinks—a full second and a half slower than he should have been. he meets expectant gazes and congratulations with half-assed grimaces that resemble smiles enough to pass as gratitude; disregards potential admirers with condescending scoffs and makes his way toward the nearest bar to drink it away. mommy has high expectations for you rings nowhere near as loud as the whine of the engine when he clicks it off a full fucking second later than he should have; he has much higher expectations for himself. he orders himself a poktanju and watches the anger drop with the soju shot straight into the liquor, sips it and lets it boil away the rotting sense of not good enough itching in his throat. it doesn't assuage anything at all. he distracts himself with the sound of company settling in a stool three seats away, taking another slow, leisurely sip before looking over to make some snarky remark about if you really want to stare you can just move closer, until—jongin? the words slip onto his lips, though he doesn't so much as offer his breath the name to make it audible; and all he can think is it's been a while. how long? more than a decade, perhaps. faint granules of childhood flicker in his memory, slipping in like wave deposits on foreign shores—how unfortunate—this boy came before detachment did. he takes another sip. he doesn't remember much, but he hasn't many friendships to salvage. he might as well try one. nodding at the other in acknowledgement of recognition, he quirks an eyebrow and turns to speak. ´} hey, jongin. haven't seen you around in a while.

[sabxkyungsoo]

kyungsoo doesn't react with the exception of a small, amused huff. he tosses the card onto his assistant's desk, and writes her brother's name in the "from" section. valentine's day doesn't have to be too boring now, does it?

[sabxkyungsoo]

-a handwritten note is attached to the stem of the flower; on the other side of the card is the name and logo of the florist- “Happy Valentine’s Day!” -a red heart is drawn around the phrase-

kyungsoo quirks an eyebrow at the foreign item sitting in front of his mansion gates. remaining completely stoic, he picks up the flower carefully, watching with vague apathy as one thorn pricks at his index finger and draws a small stream of blood, then tugs the note off with his other hand to tuck it in his breast pocket. he tosses the flower aside: it's as if it were never there.

[survivorren-deactivated20140920]

NIGHT TRAIN - Ren & Kyungsoo

[survivorren-deactivated20140920]

Ren’s body trembled, his expression desperate as the young man who’d happened upon the bloody scene seemed to stroll closer. He expected him to rush over, to ask if he was hurt, offer to stop the train, call an ambulance…but he didn’t. He didn’t do any of those things.

It seemed like an eternity that his unfortunate situation was stared at before Kyungsoo kicked the heavy body off of him. Ren couldn’t even move at first but realizing his clothes were in disarray motivated him to sit up. He pulled his soaking and sticky shirt down and buttoned his pants, glancing up with a horrified expression upon hearing Kyungsoo’s callous remark.

Ren met Kyungsoo’s eyes and then looked back down. His mind was grasping to understand the stranger’s reaction. How could he be so cold? He seemed just as inhuman as the man who’d attacked him. Ren pulled his legs under himself, trying to stand but he couldn’t get his footing. He got half up and then half fell onto the train seat, hanging his head as he came closer to losing his control and breaking down.

There was a dead body on the floor - a man that he’d killed. A very strange man had found him but…Ren felt worse due to this man’s presence and he hadn’t thought it possible to feel worse about what had just happened.

"Are you…are you going to call the police?" Ren spoke up.

[sabxkyungsoo]

the boy looked horrified, and it was incredibly tempting for kyungsoo to take back his mental statement about not being heartless enough to laugh, because right now, he could feel it struggling to break past his lips. his suave façade remained steady, but it was funny how frightened one could be at the lack of someone else’s panic. given, if he’d a bit more empathy in the recesses of his mind, perhaps it wouldn’t be so comically ironic. he wondered, briefly, how the boy would feel if he let himself laugh.

as the boy pulled his crimson-stained shirt back on and redressed himself, kyungsoo simply surveyed the boy’s features—his thin frame, his timid disposition, his oddly… pretty face, perhaps misguiding enough for kyungsoo to mistake him as a girl had he had his shirt on—and stared with the same disinterested, uncomfortably lingering glance he’d walked in with. it occurred to him suddenly that he wouldn’t be surprised in the least if this had happened before, or if this boy had put those traits to use in the brothels. cruel thoughts were for cruel people—he wanted to laugh again.

siphoning off a small bout of his amusement to fuel the shamelessly cold smile now lifting up a corner of his lips, he stepped over to the other and crouched down in front of him, tilting his chin slightly upwards to make the boy face him with a steady, gentle finger.

"that depends if you can be of any use to me," he mused, searching the boy’s eyes with false sincerity. "if you can be, we can hide the body, clean you up, keep it all under wraps—i have the means to do that. but if you can’t, why do i have the incentive to help you? tell me, kid—why should i spare you at all?"

[simply-quotes-deactivated202002]

Life is funny isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, just when you finally begin to plan something, get excited about something, and feel like you know what direction you’re heading in, the paths change, the signs change, the wind blows the other way, north is suddenly south, and east is west, and you’re lost. It is so easy to lose your way, to lose direction.

Cecelia Ahern, Love, Rosie (via simply-quotes)

[scrxhoya]

diamond in the flesh ● hoya | kyungsoo

Hoya arrives for work two hours earlier than usual, at five p.m, when the sun is just barely dipping into the earth and the sky just barely dipping a shade darker. He arrives, and the club is empty, save a few employees milling about, getting ready for the evening’s work. He arrives, and the club is blessedly quiet, chattering just a low murmur - not the usual EDM remixes over the speakers, the usual shout here and there of the particularly drunk patron.

Maybe he’d sooner fall in love with Scorpio’s if the club were always like this. Maybe.

He’s here at the request of his manager, who asked him to come earlier (something about a business meeting - very important, but Hoya’s memory has never been remarkable). Sacrificing his sleep for more work - and consequently, more money - has always reaped its benefits, so Hoya agreed, and here he is, in a place he knows well, but not like this. The manager leads him to one of the back rooms, the ‘private’ rooms, and Hoya’s eyes take in every detail— the eerie glow of red lights, shadows on wallpapered hallways. They arrive at one of Scorpio’s biggest rooms, and he peers in, meekly. A long table sits at its center, lined with dozens of chairs, and it’s almost a ghostly scene, a sad scene, that such a large room is filled with so much nothingness.

Hoya is put in charge of seeing to it that by the time these chairs are filled with people, the feeling of nothingness is eradicated.

It’s an easy job, really, because he doesn’t actually have to do anything; he just needs to make sure things are being done. Honestly, it’s just like babysitting adults.  Hoya stands to one side of the room and watches as everything around him slowly comes to life - brighter lights, simple decorations, a table of finger foods. Check, check, check. He resists the urge to sit down in one of the swivel chairs and spin the minutes away.

At six-thirty, he’s told to round up the employees working the event, and he does so, easily, because most of them are just spending their time waiting, restless and anxious to get things done. The only thing that confuses him about the list he’s given is its last item: musician, one Do Kyungsoo. Musician? Hoya furrows his eyebrows. Surely, they’re not hiring a DJ for this supposedly ‘important’ event? He brings the question up to his manager and gets scolded briefly for not listening. They’ve invited a classical musician for this meeting, to provide a ‘casual but professional’ atmosphere. It’s something that Hoya doesn’t really understand because reading moods isn’t exactly one of his strongest points. "Okay," is his only response to the explanation. He’s told their musician is waiting outside.

Outside, the sky is dark, and the streets are only illuminated by Scorpio’s gaudy club lights, the twinkling stars, the white-faced moon. Hoya’s eyes immediately catch sight of a young man standing beside the front doors, unfamiliar, unknown.

"Mister… Do?"

[sabxkyungsoo]

they say that the closer you get to the speed of light, the slower time passes. kyungsoo’s never been one to keep track, but evidently, it’s true. he’s spent eons of time racing at record-breaking speeds across asphalt so rough the corners come off in pebbles and get stuck in his tires, flying to every edge of the globe to gain renown in the form of trophies, golden toys collecting and dusting on his shelf like battered action figures left to disintegrate under the bed. the closer he gets to the speed of light, the more each shining metal craft goes to dust; the closer he gets to the speed of light, the more frozen the world seems to be, an ever-fluctuating blur of nothings and trinkets, snapshots of life that never quite passes by.

he doesn’t remember how many years it felt like, but it certainly hasn’t felt like two, and these weeks of tedious, mundane city-life have slipped through his fingers like days, hours, minutes. seconds. a snap of the fingers, a blink of the eye. he doesn’t remember what living in standard time entails—not anymore.

he gets snippets now and then when he tries to live but they all fade away like the doppler vroom of streaking past another formula one in his own; he remembers reading, so he reads, but the words feel as though they’ve been there forever in no time at all; he remembers painting, so he paints, but piece after piece and transaction after transaction, he can’t even recall the work previous to the current; he remembers sketching blueprints for top-of-the-line aerodynamics, but he doesn’t want to think about that anymore despite the fact he shuts down off-roads to race by himself every night when there’s no competitive opportunity to; and from a long, long time ago, memories locked away in cabinets where the dusty trophies used to be, he used to play the violin, the piano, the cello.

buried in the depths of the piles and piles of never-quite-nostalgia he’s shoved under the rug and stowed away behind inifinite sets of locks and chains, there’s sheet music that his mother used to compose when she wasn’t out capturing the hearts (wallets) of men or writing out ingenious cross-examinations. notes upon notes and chords upon chords that he hasn't touched for the longest time. this is no longer something he used to do. it’s almost like he’s never seen them.

when all the used-to-dos are exhausted, he thinks, he could give it a try. street music is fun.

he sneaks out at twilight with an 1816 venice montagnana cello strapped to his back and a hoodie pulled over his eyes and wanders into the depths of who-knows-what back alley. clandestine whispers tell him that street music can wait. street music is fun, but undercover gigs are so much better.

at the door of the scorpio club, he waits, watching his shadow dance over the jagged edges of archaic paved road as he breathes, not motionless enough.

mister… do?

he glances up, arching an eyebrow; tugs on the lapels of his tux. smooth, composed—he hasn’t touched his cello in years—suave, gentle. professional. he lets the very corners of his mouth twitch upwards in a smile and very carefully doesn’t look disgusted when he holds out a hand to shake. “that would be me.”

[yuki06-deactivated20190410]

Sometimes I think they’re all acting, At times I’m scared that I’m acting too.

La Dispute- Why it scares me  (via yuki06)

[survivorren-deactivated20140920]

NIGHT TRAIN - Ren & Kyungsoo

Bad ideas.

Every single one Ren had today had been bad. The moment he’d decided to drag himself out of his warm cozy bed had been the first and the day had just continued to get worse with each resulting decision. It had all lead up to where he was now, this pivotal moment that decided, potentially, whether he lived or died.

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[sabxkyungsoo]

as kyungsoo remembered it, late-night seoul was defined by asphyxiating blackness: a suffocating sense of dread perpetually bubbling in the gut, tar coating the trachea and making each breath uncomfortably unnatural. it had always been the most extravagant of all times, frivolous entertainment boundless in the illegitimate tangos of gang activity, drag races blurring in multi-color against the night, roaring engines and cheering crowds. this had been—what?—two, three years ago? something of the sort. it had been weeks since he’d returned. months, maybe. but the soil of his hometown remained foreign still, plagued with a nagging sense of unfamiliarity. the chokehold of caution around his throat played games with his adrenaline as it always did, curling his lips into something wry; certainly not a smile, certainly not a grimace—perhaps something smug, daring, a challenge to the stifling aura of threat that held the city captive at late hours such as this one.

there was no reason for him to be out. comically enough, this was his very reason to be out where he was now at the train station. why waste time with the boredom of slumber? he was part of a gang and already jaded with it—what had he even been thinking to join the ranks of anathema, anyway, given his disposition for isolation?—yet he was not jaded enough of the action that he could waste away in the confines of his comforters, staring at the stars outside the window in the dull recesses of tranquility. so he’d come here to take a train to nowhere, perhaps, or to take the train to anywhere he could find his share of trouble.

stepping into the ominously empty car that had pulled up in front of him certainly seemed like looking for trouble enough. it was completely silent, with the eerie sent of peeling paint and seats so overused they looked to be rotting. after the train began to move, however, kyungsoo wondered if he should jump off; it was a little disappointing, to say the least. the silence of his surroundings provided an almost just as asphyxiating sense of boredom as the foreboding atmosphere of dread did. he had been quite ready to pull open the car door and leap, actually, when he heard a muffled voice from the adjacent car.

you fucking little bitch! i’ll fucking kill you!

quirking an eyebrow, kyungsoo stepped toward the door connecting to the final car, peering curiously through the window. he was not heartless enough to say he was amused by the scene playing out before him, but he could not deny that he was entertained by it: a scared boy gripping glass in his hand, the perpetrator ever so slowly slumping over. this was indeed the share of trouble he had come looking for—having found it, he would continue to pursue it and, as such, took it upon himself to stroll casually into the car, blinking at the effeminate face that peered up at him. sighing, kyungsoo took in the scene for a few seconds more before shoving the man’s body to the side with a strong push from his foot, noting the dangling security camera in the corner and then turning back to raise an eyebrow at the helpless wreck, bloodied as he sat on the floor.

"well," he began, blatantly disinterested in helping the other at all as he glanced away from the wound on the man’s arm. "isn’t this quite the spectacle?"

[sabxkyungsoo]

{`— monaco — ; self para

d.o. loses his triple crown to a lie unearthing itself from lips chapped with envy, right after he passes the finish line to take his rightful place as the gold medalist of the monaco grand prix of 2013. he remembers thinking that this will be his legacy as a smile makes its home in the curling corners of satisfaction.

it would have been the real first smile in a decade. should have been. but the smile, along with the gold, had been stripped from him no more than five minutes after he'd driven past the finish line.

the world ends with a bang, bitterness birthed from a boy who cried wolf.

contestant number one, d.o., is disqualified from the monaco grand prix for unfair play resulting in death.

kyungsoo remembers them throwing him in a detainment center, stripping him of his high-end leather jackets and brand-name skinny jeans, exchanging them for ugly suits of orange that smell like dog excrement, for something he did not do. they tell him that he loosened the screws on the spoiler of contestant number 17's car, the predicted second-place winner. he tells them that he didn't. they ask him why he did it. he tells them that he didn't. they tell him to stop lying. he tells them that he isn't. they tell him that he's already disqualified, that he should admit it was him. he tells them that there's nothing to admit.

they show him the pictures of the crash; slow motion frame-by-frame flip through of the crash that killed contestant number 17. he rounds the turn and the spoiler loosens, loosens, loosens, one side pops off the rear and then the other, and the car is up and flipping over and exploding against the wall.

"i told you," he says, "i'm telling you, i didn't do it."

the truth of the matter is, it's not big enough. he could be proud of playing dirty if he wanted to. there's nothing wrong with wanting to win. but this isn't impressive—not enough for him. he doesn't want it under his name, to have played dirty at the monaco grand prix, and to have done it in such a petty way as this. this is nothing to be proud of; more than that, it's nothing to have his triple crown stolen for.

they ask him why he's lying. he stands up and says he can prove it.

they don't let him.

(mama, dead and silent, massages his shoulders and cries for him and tells him that they are like her.)

he says he'll give them money for the chance.

they ask how much.

he says, "more than whoever did this gave you."

one of them laughs, and kyungsoo understands that he is alone as he always is. he fights against the world, and the world is fighting back; every contestant could have been in on this. every contestant except number seventeen probably was in on this.

the officials take away every single remaining gold medal he owns, hundreds and hundreds of them, and tell him he's not a pro-racer anymore. he smiles and leaves. the world does not play fair. in this day and age, no one does.

he takes his cars with him and flies back to seoul.

fairness is juvenile. he was never naïve enough to overlook that.

but the bitter taste of growing up will never leave his tongue.