there are two places in seomri where hwayang finds solace — the farm (obviously, a given), and second, the library. although the books don't talk to him the same way the flowers do, they certainly offer him the wealth of knowledge he's collected all these years between his time tending to the soil and picking through every dusty, weathered leather bound floriculture book from the 1800s that the seomri public library has managed to gather (most of them, he's certain, donated by the seo family).
he visits when he can. there's the neighborhood cat that has found its own solace on the white painted brick wall outside the entrance every wednesday afternoon. and while hwayang hates wednesdays — a reminder that he's only made it fifty-percent through the week — she (he assumes) gives him that glimmer of something to look forward to in the budding spring evenings.
over the years it's become harder for hwayang to keep his attention on a book, even if he has been developing a growing interest in the use of natural insecticides especially now that cha inbyeok has begun insisting on spraying chemicals despite hwayang's adamant warnings not to. concentrating on a book in public is hard too, especially once someone begins speaking at a volume that to anybody else might be library-appropriate, but to hwayang is just far too inconsiderate of everyone else around.
he's been seated at the table in the farthest corner of the room for some time, headache brewing as he tries to read and re-read the same three sentences over and over in a poor attempt to re-focus himself. there's nowhere else he can really move himself to, unfortunately — this is his spot that he absolutely will not move from, and no amount of mindless page turning and shooting daggers into the back of their head is going to get this person to lower their voice.
his heart pounds as he stands, pulling his chair out carefully — slow enough that the legs don't scrape — and pushes it back in just far enough that it doesn’t touch the table's edge. this is the first time he's ever confronted someone about something like this.
but this is his routine. this is his wednesday. and it's never been like this before.
"excuse me," he says, voice tight but steady as he walks over. "you're being loud. not rude. just loud."
his face stays blank, gaze focused on the corner of some far-off bookshelf to avoid eye contact. "it's giving me a headache. not your fault."
YOU'RE HERE, THAT'S THE THING feat. @bergamor
