risk / reward

close your eyes, close your eyes. do you want to feel alive? take a risk like this.

[solah9-blog1]

FIVE --

shiwoomoon‌:

“get on your knees.”

inside is a collar. leather and black— and a little too small for sol’s neck. “i got you a gift. say you like it. I’ve been waiting to give it to you all week.”

“you hate even more.” sol challenges. maybe it’s not true. an educated guess. but he knows, at the very least, that mav finds distaste with a great many things. sol thought for a while his body might’ve been one of them. maybe it still is. he hasn’t really tried figuring mav out. he thinks he’s one of those puzzles that should probably just stay unsolved. 

sol shrugs his shoulders back stiff-muscled when mav lets his voice drip out syrupy-sweet. it’s all cloying, too much. until sol all but feels it in his molars, a toothache. that fake sort of sugar that’ll make you sick in the end. that’s how mav is. he’s doing it on purpose, probably. the same way sol lashes back defiant. they’ve been around each other long enough to figure out how to sneak under layers of clothing, and then skin. but it hasn’t caused a split. not yet. they just poke and prod at already formed bruises of situations. until it hurts. a toxicity spreads and sol embraces it. foolishly, perhaps. against his best interests. a lack of self preservation, isn’t that what everyone tells him? at this point, it probably toes the line of a death wish.

“bullshit,” sol scoffs it out at that statement. “i can’t imagine you wanting to take care of anyone.” harsh, maybe. and perhaps sol doesn’t really know mav. he knows the faces that mav allows him to see. but even if he’s different away from him, sol figures that’s pretty far off base from what he wants to do with him. not that sol would want it anyway. that kind of debt would start to make him feel claustrophobic. 

“just buy me a pack next time. cherry tobacco, i like that shit.” sol tells him when he watches the subtle crinkle of mav’s nose when he lights up. shrugs a shoulder before he plucks it free. exhales and doesn’t wait for mav’s reaction to unfurl in front of him. though he pivots on a heel and wanders back toward his voice when it picks up. stops beside him and takes another drag as he listens to the demand. order? is there a difference? maybe mav can illuminate it.

“i obviously don’t fucking like it.” sol points out with a look, props the cigarette back between his lips and for the moment, stays standing. so that the power imbalance isn’t immediately tilted in mav’s favor. “i just told you i’m not your dog and now you want me in a collar? you don’t own me, mav.” sol reminds him, another drag. long enough to peel at paper and give way to ash. rifles around the coffee table for an ashtray he knows mav keeps stowed. “i’m human.” sol reminds him offhandedly, like mav might’ve forgotten. he slips to his knees as he rummages anyway, stubs out the cigarette and cuts his eyes up to him.

[solah9-blog1]

TWO --

aszion‌:

    "i suppose you can say that — we are branded after all.” there is a tattoo of a jade on his forearm, and his eyes flit towards it before meeting sol’s gaze again. “what about you though, that’s what i’m curious about. keeping your head out of trouble?”

it feels like falling off that last step that you don’t realize is there on a long flight of stairs. something familiar that betrays you in a moment of blindness. that stutter of a heartbeat, adrenaline in your throat, a dizzying moment of nothing. that’s what it is between them, at least from sol’s perspective. biased and mistrusting as he is. all guarded now, coiled tight with a resentment that he can’t shake. that he’s not sure he wants to shake. betrayal, and that taste is hard to stomach. wants to spit it up at jae’s feet.

he can’t read jae’s expression as well as he’d like. the cut of his eyes, a shift in posture. he wonders if back then it’d be easier, or if he’d be in this same state of unknowing. if the organization’s changed him. he can’t tell, and he’s not sure he wants to ask him. isn’t sure he’d get a straight answer, either. so sol chews on the tip of his tongue instead, until he feels it sting and swell. paints the pain over with alcohol. it’s how he limps through things nowadays. that cyclical sort of non-living.

an elaboration question that didn’t really need it. but maybe sol stills wants to play the role of the fool, if only to sidestep out from underneath answering him in earnest. opening up is hard for him. remaining open for someone who walked out of his life even harder. “the same as always.” that’s what he goes with for an answer. an answer that’s mostly true, even. but there’s no interpersonal aspects to it. it’s probably not what jae’s really after. but sol doesn’t want him to know. doesn’t want him to know how hard it is to keep up on his bills. doesn’t want to talk about getting caught and beat down -- not having enough money to visit a real doctor. doesn’t want to talk about lonely nights that settle like lead in his chest. pull him down-heavy bodied until he aches with a longing he can’t place. it feels humiliating, now. a shame to it he can’t describe. so he hides himself away, behind his acerbic declarations.

he sneers in clear derision when jae nods down to his arm and sol glances along with him. the thought raises at his hackles. being marked like that. belonging to someone like that. sure, there’s plenty about his life that sol hates. but the monetization of people is lost in his current line of work, and he hasn’t been jumping on the bandwagon for that particular epidemic. “so, they own you. i guess it’s a step above friendship bracelets.” his voice, when it’s pulled forward is dry. sapped of emotion. it makes him itch. this entire situation. looking at jae now. like hives rising to his skin. “seems plenty smart. might as well have it out in the open. all your marks can play spot the thief.” sol rolls his eyes, slumps in his chair. another drink. he wants the world to wobble. wants to fall off of it altogether.

“my job’s to stay in trouble.” he reminds him.

[kitaecat]

[iriscoded]

favors.

[solah9-blog1]

iriscoded‌:

Eojin sits up, fixing his posture and holds his hand up when he notices the other man looking around the café, searching for him. And he can’t help but flash a small smile once the other approaches him, “Hi, Sol!” He says, sounding a bit too hyper than he had intended —  definitely because of the grape fanta. “Did you get it?”

sol’s been getting sick of cafes lately. he doesn’t get the appeal. probably because everything costs too much money, and he has a can of instant mix jammed in the back of his cupboard at home that -- in his uneducated opinion -- tastes mostly the same anyway. he wonders if he could bully eojin into paying for him. probably not. he might try anyway. he’s broke enough that he doesn’t really mind if eojin decides to meet the request with derision. rent was just due, and he had a water bill to pay. a water bill that was going up. it costs him too much to live nowadays. sol’s sometimes starting to wonder whether or not it’s even worth it.

he pushes his way inside, a hood pulled up high enough that’s it’s hard to make him out. not too many people glance over anyway. shoulders hunched, and his stance doesn’t read threatening, or even close to intimidating. sol’s made a living out of going unnoticed. it’s easier that way. he’s never been one to chase after the flashy. 

he doesn’t order, just circles. a vulture to the calling of a carcass. a carcass named eojin. 

finds him tucked away at a table, though eojin calls out a greeting before he gets there.his voice is a quick spike, too loud. it punctures the white noise of the cafe, and sol grinds his molars as he drops opposite him. “you’re not even drinking coffee, you could’ve gotten that out of a vending machine. why are we here?” he asks, and he moves a hand up like he might flip the hood of his sweatshirt down. a moment of hesitation follows, and he slips his hand beneath the fabric to drag fingers across his nape instead. 

“yeah, of course.” he defends himself. hand sliding from his neck to dig around his pocket until he finds a pen and tosses it across the table to him. “anything important or did i just steal a homework assignment?” he asks him, voice derisive. nearly bored. there’s some amount of judgement stuck to the bottom of his tongue. embittered. but sol’s a brittle thing. he doesn’t have a lot of affection to share. still, he’d say that him and eojin were on alright terms if anyone bothered to ask. “buy me a drink since you asked me here.” nearly a demand, and sol cuts a grin across the table at him.

[solah9-blog1]

FOUR –

hirxdo‌:

     sejo shakes a pack of sugar loose against his fingers, gaze shifted down to his mug as he pours the content into his scolding tea. “you know, ever since google companies have this obsession with being unique and they think slapping some grafitti on the side of their building is going to set them apart. there’s a lot of rich and cowardly people who would love to pay you for pulling another one of your billboard tricks in their name.” a shrug rolls off sejo’s shoulders, eyes finally fixating on sol’s features. “look, i get the appeal of being a rebel. a vigilante. all i’m saying is that you can be all of that and get still get paid for it at the same time. it’s simply a matter of making the right connections.”

“i don’t, but if you want to buy something i already made you might be out of luck,” he answers him back. his eyes are half-mast, and it nearly reads bored. sol’s testing the waters. you don’t get anywhere tripping over yourself in an effort to endear, that’s what he’s learned over the years. sometimes he blows things. maybe he’ll blow this. but people, real people, have flaws. too cocky, or too stubborn, or a liar, and the list goes on. so he needs to match a role, and a street artist growing like a weed out of the same place sol did? well, he thinks he can play that kid. and that kid wouldn’t suck up to sejo, even on the promise of notoriety. he’d probably half-trust him at best.

sejo drags on, about art. predictable. not that it’s a bad thing. predictability is good in this line of work. it gives sol ample opportunity to prepare ahead of time. he really just needs to get close enough to sink his claws into something good. a code to a safe, a credit card in a unwatched wallet. maybe an art piece with one of those irrationally high price tags attached. something worth his while. something that’ll allow him to relax on the riskier jobs, opportunities he’s been carving out for himself lately. he’s tired, and underneath the ill-fitting clothing he’s got on, battered and bruised. 

sol sips at the coffee in front of him, tries not to scowl at the taste. he mostly succeeds at it.

he leans back, splayed limbs, an elbow thrown over the back of the chair. sol’s bangs are in his eyes. too-shaggy, and when’s the last time he’d gotten a haircut, anyway? “so, what? you offering to pass along my name on good will, or are you gonna tell me the catch?” sol asks him, and he lets a twist of a grin curl into place. sol at the heart of it doesn’t trust this type. businessmen. too much wealth to their name, still impossibly greedy. haughty. like they forget about everyone else in the world. that’s how he sees it, anyway. like they want to show him his place ( it’s usually down, underneath their feet. knees to gravel ).

he eyes his coffee, eventually takes another sip. he paid for the damn thing, after all.

[solah9-blog1]

seven.

running from bruises with @inkache, late inside inked parlor.

sol’s heart is lodged up somewhere near his throat. it’s a struggle to breathe. the soles of his shoes slap down hard on the pavement. hands grasping for bars or ledges. anything he can pull himself forward by, up. give himself the advantage. there’s someone behind him, and that’s the reason for it. all the fleeing. a fat wallet stuffed in his pocket that definitely doesn’t belong to him. bad luck in getting spotted before he’d managed to slip away. angry shouting. sol nearly stumbles once, skids enough to embed broken gravel into the palm he catches himself on. road burn. but he doesn’t feel it. not yet. too much adrenaline coursing through his veins.

he puts enough distance between them that, when sol figures out where he is, makes a quick dart left. has enough time to fling himself through a front door without being assuredly spotted in doing so. the bell jangled frantically to announce his arrival, along with a flail of limbs. the linoleum’s hard on his knees as he drops and rolls away behind a front desk. sol’s chest rises and falls with a heave. his ribs ache. his face aches. can taste blood on his upper lip. it’s running down from his nose, and he runs the back of his hand haphazardly across it. winces once and finally meets rin’s eyes when he looks up and catches sight of him.

he’s not with a client. for the best, probably. the steadiest hand in all of the city, but maybe that promise doesn’t pack the same punch when an on-the-run boy comes clattering inside. the door creaks open, and sol tenses. the familiar drag of an angry voice. it’s obvious, probably. rin knows him well enough by now, that sol’s usually up to no good. that the money sol pays him with for projects here or there isn’t necessarily clean and well-earned. not in the traditional sense of it all.

he meets rin’s eyes again as he holds his breathe. the taste of blood makes him feel nearly nauseous. like coins  on his tongue. he wants to spit up copper. he thinks rin won’t sell him out. that’s what had him careening into the shop. they’re good enough friends, by now. but maybe sol doesn’t always have the best read on people, for all he thinks he does. so he waits, muscles held tight and rigid, for rin to answer a question on whether or not he saw a guy running through the area. more or less. definitely phrased a bit less politely.

[solah9-blog1]

SIX -- 

bleeding out at a moderate pace with @hannutrix, late at hanbin’s place

he shouldn’t go to his place, hanbin’s. first, it’s above his pay grade in a literal sense. the districts above his means. he’s just waiting for the day they finally imprint them all with bar codes, so he can be denied right to enter in a proper political fashion. not that sol couldn’t worm his way inside if he was insistent enough, probably. but it’s a bit harder when he’s bleeding out. he has a hand pressed hard to his side, down near his hip. balled up fabric of his sweatshirt. it’s black, so the blood doesn't show. but it squelches under his hand when he shifts,presses down too hard. waterlogged and weighed down.

it’d explain how lightheaded sol feels. dizzy on his feet. but not too bad, that gash. but bad enough that he’s not sure he’ll wake up in the morning if he does what he usually does -- slaps down a wad of gauze and duct-tapes it into place. so he’s here. unfamiliar territory on the way to a familiar person. he’s not there though, when he staggers up and knocks. nobody is. does hanbin even have a room mate? sol can’t remember. he’s not part of hanbin’s life in that sort of way. he feels like a stain, relegated to the past. sometimes he half-wonders if hanbin would rather throw everything into the wash. crank it up and toss in some bleach. wash sol right out of his life.

but he’s too scared to ask questions like that. so he never does. just keeps his mouth shut and lets himself be selfish.

he picks his way into hanbin’s room while he waits. slow going with trembling hands. fights back the urge to dry heave, and when he gets inside borrows a towel. borrow might be the wrong word for it, because that’s jammed against his side next and he doesn’t think all the blood will ever come out.he sits with his back slotted against the wall until finally the door cracks. sol tenses, hand fit deep into his pocket, fingers coiled tight around the hilt of a knife. maybe he has a roommate. maybe sol’s paranoid. but all that tension melts away into exhaustion when the light’s flicked on and he makes out hanbin’s face.

“hey there stranger.” it slips out, sounds like it’s scratched against sandpaper. the blood, at this point, is obvious against hanbin’s towel. “got a needle?” he thinks he needs stitches. lets his eyes flutter shut, head knocking back against the drywall. “maybe a stiff drink?” he tacks on hopeful.

[solah9-blog1]

THREE –

aiden228‌:

     he arrives only shortly before sol does, with just enough time to wet the barrel with fuel and use the smouldering remains of his cigarette to light a little fire. one he doesn’t bother explaining as sol shoves the file into his chest. “yeah this is it.” he mumbles after a quick browse through. only to start over at the very beginning, scanning each page carefully before tearing it out and throwing it into the fire. “you made it back here pretty quickly so i guess it’s safe to assume you didn’t run into any unexpected twists or turns?” he asks, reaching into the inside pocket of his blazer to pull out an envelope with cash. “for your trouble.”

sol makes a mental note of that. files the numbers away in his head. they’ll be gone by tonight, leaving himself room for the next job. but he tries not to remember things that’ll be useless to him in the end. tries not to remember much aside what will promise him money. side jobs in the form of cons. manners of people who might try to demand them from him. not that sol’s ever that good at remembering those when push comes to shove. sol does’t like to remember much past that. about himself or his own past either. nothing good comes from it. best to outrun memories. best to outrun himself. it’s easier that way. it’s what sol clings to, like a drowned rat to a lifeboat. the easy way.

“fine.” he replies in turn, curt. doesn’t go off about how it’ll just make someone angrier if he runs off with fistfuls of usbs. what’s angrier than a man missing something important? a man missing five somethings. but he doesn’t think aiden will care about his opinion. doesn’t think aiden ever cares about his opinion. most people don’t, though. so sol doesn’t take it all too personally. doesn’t bother with letting it sting. “i won’t.” sol answers, something immediate. and he’s not lying. he doesn’t really care what’s inside, truth be told. it’s about aiden, he knows that much. but he’s not the type of interested to go prying in whatever clinical files someone has buried on him. that’s not the part of aiden that sol’s interested in anyway. and even if it was, sol’s at least learned to mind his business. 

he lets his head fall to the side, it’s brief. considering. eventually, he betrays thoughts with words. “d’you want me to? trust you?’ he finally asks him, uncertain. he’s not sure the point of it, after all. words drilled down, pseudo-offended. and sol’s not sure what to think of it past that. wonders if he’ll sneer at his latest statement. and if he said yes, what would it mean? a step toward their odd-take on acquaintances, or else, maybe aiden’s searching for a lap dog, too. sol traps his lower lip between his teeth and chews until it stings. distracts himself with words he means as superficial. but aiden’s angry again, so he pulls away and he leaves. off to finish a job. it goes more smoothly than it has a right too.

ends up in front of aiden not too long after with cold air trapped in his lungs and a folder shoves into his chest. he reaches out and plucks the cigarette free from aiden’s hand while he scanning the contents, careful not to touch him. fits the filter between his own lips and takes a drag as he waits. offers aiden a lazy looking smile when his eyes cut up to him. maybe he’s still angry. maybe he’ll turn away. or yell. sol wonders what it’d take for aiden to sink a fist into his gut. the kind of thoughts that clatter around his skull. “no, it was easy. kept my hood up. don’t think any cameras caught me.” he admits. takes another long drag, smoke in his lungs. stinging at his eyes. finally plucks it free and hands it back. trades it for the envelope he stuffs into his own jacket. 

“heading back?” to where, sol doesn’t know. just knows that sometimes aiden lingers. that sometimes sol wants him to. 

[yourghostcat]

TAEMIN for Harper’s Bazaar Korea ph. by Mok Jungwook

[solah9-blog1]

FIVE –

shiwoomoon‌:

he digs his fingers in sol’s pockets until paper crinkles. it’s a half-full pack. mav taps out a couple sticks. “these are cheap. you can afford a better brand.” and entitled to sol’s body– maverick thumbs down his lower lip. stabs in a cigarette and orders, “suck in.” as he draws out a lighter from the breast pocket of his suit and flicks his thumb once, twice, until the fire keeps. the flame skirts too close to skin before it catches at the end of sol’s cigarette.

“it’s a bad habit.”

he sounds like his father.

“but dying young suits you.”

“don’t call me that, you know i hate it.” it doesn’t matter how many times he says it, mav often doesn’t listen. sometimes sol thinks he does things just because he hates them. if he had more self-respect, maybe he wouldn’t come around to his place at all. but he doesn’t, and he’s broke. mav has too much money, sometimes he comes away with more than he started with. a cycle, just not a pretty one. blood-soaked clothes jammed into a washing machine. that sort of imagery, a real horror story. but sol thinks he can handle his own. he always believes himself to be more capable than he is against powerful people.

“might not wanna.” sol answers him, eyes half-mast as mav reaches out to grab at his hair. and he might not. he starts to feel suffocated when he spends too much time with him, especially here. like he’s stuffed up in a cage. something inescapable. something that makes him want to rattle at bars and scream. sometimes he stays for longer than he should anyway. sometimes he leaves despite what mav says, while he wears that anger-pinched look on his face. like sol cares what he thinks about it all. him. 

it’s not all nice, anyway. coming here. the lap of luxury, sure. but mav’s all about lording his power. translating it into pain imprinted to skin. sol can deal with it alright. sometimes he doesn’t even mind it. might think it’s alright as long as mav keeps his goddamn mouth shut. and sometimes he’s sick of it. him. when he gets that look in his eyes that reminds sol of a kid with a malicious desire to vivisect a frog. he’s got enough self preservation to roll out of bed and out the door when that happens.

he sniffs, tips his head back enough that his hair falls free of mav’s fingers. “it’s not like smoking makes me dirty all over again. i’ll chew some gum.” he defends, voice annoyed. stops himself from rolling his eyes when he feels a hand jam into his pocket. it’s all about stampeding over boundaries with mav. it can rub sol raw on a bad day. he thinks mav might enjoy his bad days. “you can afford better, i can afford jack shit.” sol corrects him, which is true. mav passes him off some extra cash when they meet up, sure. but sol’s no high roller. and it’s not like thievery is a steady income. he could be up one month and down for three. he’s learned how to ration over the years.

“give me one of yours if you hate ‘em so much.” the words cut off into a mumble at the end when mav pries his mouth open and props a cigarette inside. he does what he’s told, but for the promise of nicotine, not to please him. there’s a barb, but sol doesn’t mind it. just takes a long drag before he lifts a hand up, plucks it free. exhales a thin stream of smoke into mav’s face. sol’s sure he’ll be furious about it, and he’s also sure he doesn’t really care. “i’m not a dog, don’t treat me like one.” he toes off his shoes, steps around mav and wanders deeper inside. “it might suit me. anyway, it’s not like you don’t have bad habits of your own.” sol glances back at him over his shoulder as he says it.

[solah9-blog1]

FIVE --

busy playing pretend with @shiwoomoon, late at the ishikawa building

sol doesn’t like this place. it makes him uncomfortable, all that opulence. and he feels like he sticks out. all wrong. like a bone jutting out of skin, wrong in the way where people start to stare. wrong in the way where it feels more uncomfortable than it even looks. him being here is wrong, he can feel that. maybe he shouldn’t feel it. just one of the fucked up things about their society. that sol has to run around in the slums to feel like he’s himself. step one foot out and he’ll be the first to call himself wrong. 

so he says it doesn’t suit him, all this. he says it with a bite, like that might be his own decision. like he thinks the people choking down overpriced cocktails are gaudy. over-inflated. to an extent, maybe. but he’s also busy avoiding his own internalized self hatred. his self-worth hanging on a string, a string wound up and comprised of perceived value. monetary and otherwise.

but he’s here anyway. because there’s a message embedded in his cell telling him to come. so he did. pathetic. a lot of things sol does are pathetic though. sometimes he hates himself for it. for this. for a great many things. there’s an aching in him. something he's forced to feel. and it feels like a craving. a craving for touch, or for intimacy. and he seeks it out on an impulse. gorges on it, like too much sugar. a quick fix that makes him feel sick with himself after. but like any addict, he doesn’t stop just because of that. just puts himself through hell all over again, like maybe things might play out differently this time.

makes it to mav’s floor and ignores the churning in his gut. his skin’s rubbed raw. too much hot water, and now he smells overwhelmingly like citrus. it’s nearly cloying, but he’s learned through experience that mav will bitch him out and force them both into a shower if he doesn’t, and sol hates that more than near anything. so here he is, a walking-fucking-grapefruit as he waits for mav to let him in.

and then he’s in. a familiar place, but he feels just as comfortable here as he did in the lobby. read: not at all. sometimes he thinks it bothers mav, the way he holds himself here. he doesn’t get why. they both know he doesn’t belong. he lets mav treat him like a dirty secret after all. doesn’t bother contesting it -- it’s not like sol doesn’t understand. not like he doesn’t agree with him. but all that agreeing doesn’t make him an agreeable person. “so, what’s the emergency?” he asks, and there won’t be one. sometimes mav likes to pretend there’s some grand emergency in his life, but usually sol rolls his eyes at it. “can i smoke?” he meant to, before he came out. eyes mav like he already thinks he might tell him no. has a preemptive, can you not be a bitch for like, once sitting in wait on the edge of his tongue, just in case.

[solah9-blog1]

THREE –

aiden228‌:

a scoff falls from his lips, left brow quirked up as he quickly glances down to the hand that tugs at the cuff of his sleeve. he does not pull out of sol’s grip, like he would with any other human, but it does move him in a certain way underneath all the layers of pretend. “do i really strike you as the that kind of guy?” though, it’s not that far of a stretch. under any other circumstances, aiden would be. “i can go up with you if that gives you a better piece of mind.”

sol waits when aiden mentions a file. more information to be unfurled between them. he doesn’t mind it, when things are withheld. collecting only what he needs to get a job done and nothing past that. but really, sol likes it that way. it puts him in a safer position. when you know too much you can turn yourself into a target. he doesn’t want to be put into that position. doesn’t want to be tracked down because he got whispered too many lines in a sidebar. no, he’d fine shoving his hand in the sand. a description of a name, a picture of a stamp he needs to find. the bare bones that he can collect. so he waits for that piece to it as aiden talks. a folder with a picture, or a folder with a file number, or a... and the list goes on.

turns into a potential usb, and then the linking factor. sol nods. shifts his weight. a scuff of plastic to pavement as he moves a foot. “so i gotta look for your name? if it’s on a usb you better give me enough time to fuckin’ open them.” sol mumbles it out. “you have a tablet or something or do i need to track down a computer, too?” he drags his tongue against the sharp ridges on the insides of his teeth. he doesn’t mind it, necessarily. and he knows it’s a maybe. but he does enjoy guaranteed time, even if aiden is calling the target a coward.

he tugs once at aiden’s sleeve. a brief connection before his hand falls away. “i dunno. people can be nearly anyone they feel like.” maybe he should just say no, shake his head. but that’s what sol’s figured out over the years. it doesn’t matter how nice someone is, or how wide they smile. anyone can fuck you over if they feel like it, that’s all it takes. and he likes aiden. to an extent, he trusts aiden. but how well do they know each other? even in the beginning, and aiden had pulled the wool over sol’s eyes, just a bit. reason enough for sol not to trust him, even if he’s left in the dark about it.

he licks his lips. “if you go up with me there’s no point in hiring me. that’s the reason, right? if it’s such an easy gig, you don’t want him seeing your pretty face.” it comes out like a joke, and sol reaches his hand out again. this time to tap his fingers along the length of aiden’s jaw. spider-crawls them down light and fast. sol laughs, and steps back and away immediately after. doesn’t give enough time to swap him away, turns before he can catch sight of what he’s predicting is a grimace. 

and then he leaves. sneaks between bars and hefts himself up and through windows. follows directions to a room. empty, thankfully. leaves the light off and tucks a small flashlight between his teeth as he combs through too many files he finds jammed in a drawer under some sleek looking computer. it’s been a good twenty minutes by the time he finally finds something with relevant information. stuffs it into the inside pocket of his jacket and works on placing everything back where he found it. the more time it takes to discover a theft, the easier it is to hide.

back out again. avoids a few people milling around. his heart a jackrabbit in his chest. he calls it easy, and sometimes it is easy. but adrenaline is hard to just shrug off. that impending possibility of danger. but then, it could be part of the reason he likes it. his body spun up in fervor, into panic. it’s how he can really tell he’s alive. past the motions of moving, eating, sleeping. that there’s something in him. something that might matter.

he catches aiden at the meetup point. winded from too much running, shoves a file into aiden’s chest. “that it?” he asks, swallows down the night-chilled air and shoves bangs from his eyes as he waits for aiden to flip through it.

[solah9-blog1]

FOUR -- 

hirxdo‌:

obsession or a sudden surge of muse, flattery or stalkery… only time will be able to tell. or maybe the guy never asks. either way, sejo decides it’s not the time yet for labels, eyes scanning the little café as he searches for his unknowing companion. sejo spots him at a table in the back of the room, his cup of cold brew carefully placed on top of the table. “you must be wondering who i am.” he says, sliding the coat of his shoulders and draping it around the chair before taking a seat without permission.

“i’m a potential buyer. or employer. or whatever you would like to call it.”

here’s the thing, at best, sol’s a con artist. worst -- street rat? maybe. someone could probably come up with something a little more colorful. he’s usually not the flashy kind though, of con artist. with credit card numbers stashed up and smart looking suits to slip into. so he could pretend he’s a philanthropist out to stroke his own ego on a quest for less-than-hard earned money. he’s a cheap con. clings to an ability to blend and keep his mouth shut when appropriate. can stir up interests long enough to lean down hard, exploit. slip in through the cracks. take. and then he’s off again. if he gives himself too much time, then it all falls apart. he’d be a lot safer with a few snatch and grabs. your run of the mill thief. but it doesn’t pay as well.

so here he is, armed with a story built out of lies in the middle of a cafe he’d never wander into without this sort of reason. he’d rather spend his money on the cheapest of liquor that the corner store has to offer, rather than upper-class caffeine. a price tag to match. he’d picked what looked cheapest, and the taste matches. but sol’s used to that, scraping at the bottom of the barrel.

at least his fake persona isn’t supposed to be loaded either. scrappy. easy to pull off, considering that’s mostly what sol is.

but now, now he’s an artist. the kind that pulls feeling from the spray-nozzle of a paint can shaken up vibrant. he’s not, really. an artist. but he knew a few and picked up a some stencils. promised them a cut if the con worked out. but the art isn’t about the picture so much as the places sol hefts himself up to slap them on, though. too-tall buildings, and he’s smeared his latest creation over the face of some celebrity on a holographic billboard. it’d looked sort of cool. it was meant to be some kind of statement sol didn’t really believe in. was going to keep plugging away at it, an attempt to catch sejo’s attention. or maybe someone similar ( he wasn’t picky ), but. he has it.

now he just has to figure out what to do with it.

the question, he supposes, falls ominous overhead. it should. but sol already knows him. his mark. he wants to crack open his jaw, inform sejo that the opener sounds like it might land well in a bond movie. but that would be a distinctly sol thing to do, and then he wouldn’t get his payout. so he keeps his mouth shut and offers him a bland sort of smile instead. “just dying to know.” sol eventually coughs up when the silence stretches on. a bite of sarcasm, and sol’s lost without it. but he figures it fits. especially if he’s supposed to be in the dark about who he is. not like fake-sol knows how important he’s supposed to be.

“buyer? should i sell you a picture?” sol asks him with a grin. “i don’t use canvas.” he levels it at the other almost accusatory, like he might be judging sejo for not knowing what he’s talking about. too proud. but that’s how everyone acts out on the streets, as far as sol can tell. cocky. puffed up with bravado. how else are you supposed to live?

[solah9-blog1]

TWO –

aszion‌:

    the question feels backhanded, but jae knows that he deserved it, probably. by leaving the life of freelancing, finding an organization instead — by trying to make sol join. he had his reasons, but he understands. “no, sol, i don’t, really —” he begins, lips pursed before he continues. “i would really like to spend the night talking, if that’s alright? we have so much to catch up on, don’t we? i’m glad to —” see you alive? in one piece? would that be too much? “—see you.” he settles with instead, he doesn’t want to offend him. “i’m glad we crossed paths again.”

if sol’s learned anything about the past, it’s that it’s best left alone. forgotten. it’s harder to live the life of a shadow when people know your name. harder to pull yourself through the gutter when there are uncomfortable memories sticking to your skin like glue-traps. that’s how he tries to keep it. but here jae is, sitting across from him in this bar. looking at him like there might be something there. some connection that sol’s long buried. it makes the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up when someone stares at him like that. like they’ve got something worth knowing. it dredges up anxiety, off-kilter paranoia. what’s jae have a right to know about him anyway? it’s been long enough -- what, a year now? a bit longer than that, actually.

maybe the boy jae knew has long since been dead too. buried out back with those uncomfortable memories in a cheap coffin.

but still, jae sits. he stares. stares like he has something on his mind, on the tip of his tongue, even. sol almost wants to growl out a preemptive ‘shut up’ but he doesn’t. just drinks too much in one gulp and lets it burn-choke at his throat on the way down.

his name sounds too-familiar rolling off of jae’s tongue, and sol wants to unfurl the knife tucked away at his waist. make him rethink the way his name might taste. he wants it bloody. coughed up metallic with regret. not this bittersweet bullshit, like he might have something he wants to tell him, pulled up a weight. a rough, grating sort of thing before it lurches to a stop and jae cuts himself off. sol eyes him, nearly a warning. “about?” he asks him next. more to drink. he’ll need another soon, but at least it’ll be an excuse to peel himself up off the wobbling chair, away from jae’s eyes. if only for a moment.

sol can’t stop up the laugh that shakes free when jae finishes talking. it’s not what a laugh should sound like though. it’s dry. caustic. and sol’s smile reads vile. the extent of his good humor spread thin. sol’s never been all too good at forgiving. “at least it makes one of us.” his smile widens, and he reaches across the table to crack their glasses together in a cheers. drains the rest of it and muffles the following cough into the crook of his elbow. the smell of smoke lingers like a distraction, san inhales. 

and now he wants a smoke.

“but, fine. whatever. how’s your new clubhouse going? got a friendship bracelet you wanna show me?” he asks him, and it sounds nearly conversational, despite the sarcasm laced tight through the words. he shakes out a pack, glances around to see if he can catch a no smoking sign before he props a cigarette between his lips. 

[solah9-blog1]

THREE –

chasing empty dreams with @aiden228, night pre-job.

sol doesn’t think of himself as much of a tool. but sol doesn’t think of himself as much of anything. it doesn’t change the fact that aiden’s been using him like one. something to be exploited, leveraged, used. the question becomes: would sol even care if he figured it out? maybe not. not at the beginning of it all, anyway. what was it to him? who cared what happened to him, and who cared who used him. there’s not much that sol has going for him, not much of a future he’s striving toward. a questioning void. much of the same, except maybe worse. so who cared, as long as he got a cut of the pay?

but sol didn’t know from the beginning, is the thing. so he thinks they’re genuine. not all of it. he’s not someone swayed by fairy tales, not someone willing to look toward the stars. pull out some positive prophecy. he knows, for instance, that it started out as a job. only a job. and that was fine. sol likes keeping to himself. but those jobs turned into a collection, and he got to know him. aiden. he thought he got to know him anyway. 

sol doesn’t like to trust, but maybe he has. a little. here or there. he believes in him, anyway. believes him at face value. considers him something of a friend. maybe. in the right mood. when aiden’s not shuttered off in anger. when sol’s had a drink or two. when everything feels easy. it’s not all the time, but nothing ever is. sol knows that better than most everyone. and aiden’s presence chops at long stretches of loneliness and self-imposed isolation. he starts to crave for him before he even realizes it. now still and sol can’t figure it out. 

but they’re both huddled out in an alleyway anyway. sol wants to smoke, but he doesn’t. just keeps his eyes trained to aiden’s face, tries to decipher anything found there. he’s never been too good at that. figuring people out. or ai. sometimes he forgets that they’re not the same. sometimes it all blurs together. and most of the time sol doesn’t get it. a problem larger than him. a problem he was never made a part of.

sol jams his fists into his pockets, rolls his weight from heel to heel as he waits. there’s usually a plan. sol’s usually the help. “what am i grabbing?” he asks him, because that’s usually the case. a file. a usb he needs to fit into a computer, compressed data. maybe money. he usually doesn’t ask questions. he’s not all too interested with aiden’s end game. he just minds his own. “a lot of people, or?” and he means the ones that’ll be after him once he finds whatever aiden’s after. it’s rote at this point. the running, the chasing. but the habitual nature of it all doesn’t quell the adrenaline stopping up his throat like cotton, the uneasy patter of his heart against his rib cage. and hey, maybe this time they’ll finally catch him. and hey, maybe sol won’t really care all that much anyway.

“not gonna cheap out on me right?” sol asks, reaches out to tug briefly at the cuff of aiden’s shirt. he was promised a bigger payday, and he needs it. needs it to make rent. to eat. he tosses him a grin, and it settles off-kilter against his lips.

[solah9-blog1]

TWO --

revisiting ghosts with @aszion, late in an undisclosed bar.

the glass feels clammy against his palm. the room feels too warm. the people too loud. a crackle of white noise that buzzes like a swarm of flies overhead. discomfort, and it wraps around him like wet wool. it didn’t used to feel like this, a claustrophobia that chokes at him. jae’s presence a rope wound around his throat. he used to be a comfort, back then. someone he’d seek out. a balm, a thick and honeyed thing, their relationship. like jae knew him. and he knew him better than most. sol has a way about him, a thorny disposition and it’s hard not to cut down deep in the process.

it softened though, over time. at least around jae. at least a little bit. sol identified with him. a kinship that was built up from a shared profession and the loneliness it struck them both with. it made sense, to come together. camaraderie. a shared experience. sol doesn’t have a name for them, really. what they were. but he knows what they are now. that’s easy enough to figure out.

nothing.

and yet -- here he is. crammed into this bar with him. sol’s got his shoulders hunched, and his eyes keep sliding toward the doors, like he’s contemplating making a break for it. probably because he is. jae might be able to spot that. if he remembers much about him. not that it’s all too fair for sol to cast judgement. he was technically the one who cut and ran. but he also thinks jae forced it out of him. went off and joined something bigger, something sol had admitted he could never be a part of. it felt a lot like being cut out. cut down. 

cast aside, and that wasn’t new. and that’s what he got, wasn’t it? for trusting someone.

and how did it make it better, when jae asked him along? like an afterthought, and it burned him harsh and raw. because sol hated the thought of it. all he wanted to do was carry on, keep his head down, keep himself afloat. he didn’t want to make waves. he didn’t want to catch attention. he wanted to continue his dead-drift. a ghost of a boy. but what did jae care? and what did jae know about him in the end, anyway? fuck all as far as sol’s concerned. 

“so...” he starts. stops. what’s there to talk about? what an unfortunate meeting, didn’t know you still worked these low-circuit jobs that i do? it tastes flat on his tongue, and so he doesn’t push it past the barrier of his teeth. he drinks it down instead, drowns it in liquid reminiscent of acid. too strong, but that’s what sol’s after right now.

“so.” he tries again, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “don’t you got somewhere to be?” that falls flat too, but it least it doesn’t feel as personal. 

[solah9-blog1]

ONE -- 

fallenqod‌:

he hums , pensive about his reply as fingers take a turn at the nearly burned out cigarette . ares takes a lungful before billowing out smoke overhead . ‘ it’s not like you want me around anyway . ’ he replies , a touch more bitter than he’d like to admit — especially with sol’s fingers brushing stray hair off his face . eyes locked and harden , ares sighs . he crushes the dying cigarette atop the bedside table as his fingers move towards his companion , fingers dancing on lithe limbs — up and down sol’s bare arm . 

‘ the fraternity wants you , sol . ’

his skin’s marked, he thinks. from hands and lips and bad intentions. in the morning he’ll ignore it. flip up a hood, bang himself up in a chase. dented ribs and knuckles rubbed raw and bloody. a split lip and maybe sol would prefer gore to residual markers of whatever this time spent together is. but part of him craves it, too. those bruises pressed into skin, memories with a physical marker. not that he likes him, ares. because he doesn’t. there’s a hatred that simmers. and then builds, the longer they’re around each other.

until it licks at his bones and spreads into a wildfire that consumes him. and then they end up like this.spent bodies, a lack of space, and sol busy trying to chase a nicotine addiction. it’s many things, what they have, but pretty’s probably not a word among them. even when it’s all over, and they’re sitting like this. knee to knee and all semblance of privacy stripped away, that hate doesn’t fade. quieted, maybe. but still there. sometimes sol can’t figure it out. why he plays into it. him -- ares. the next bullet on his long list of self-destructive behaviors, perhaps. one day he’ll load ‘em all into a barrel.

but here he is anyway. a cigarette one hand, and the other moving too-rough through ares’ hair, before he drops his hold on him altogether. sinks away, into the depths of a concave mattress.

“yeah, well. take the hint and leave then.” sol breathes it out, the words interspersed between a mouthful of smoke as he lets his head drop back. his eyes are fit to the ceiling, and he wonders if ares will do just that. roll his way out of bed, fish around for his pants. listen for the familiar metallic clink of a belt before he disappears, swallowed by the night. he counts down from twenty in his head. usually that’s the marker where he can tell. tell if ares has had enough of him. or else, tell if he’s going to stick around. bargain for something more. bargain for something other.

it’s not even a surprise, really, his next statement. it doesn’t mean sol likes it all that much though, because he doesn’t. he’s getting sick of it. “you want me.” he corrects him in something knee-jerk. it almost sounds petty, a childhood sort of retort where an insult is spun around on someone like a grand reveal. but sol thinks it’s not that off base. what does he know of the fraternity, after all? not all too much. sol knows he wants to keep his head down. figures most of the people inside of it wouldn’t care much one way or another about him, essentially a street rat when everything’s boiled down. “or, no.” sol corrects, and he sits up when he does, spine curved, and he ruffles a hand through already-wild hair. “you don’t even want me, you’re just pissed i don’t want you.” the words are muffled around the filter as he takes another harried looking drag.