#idjinwoo

[archiveidjowi-blog]

static.

@idjinwoo // radio recording prompt. 

delicate fingers toy with the edge of the stack of papers, folding the corner down, then unfolding it, repeating the process until the crisp paper weakens and softens, reacting more like fabric, until finally it begins to fray. she rips it in a clean line, stray fibers creating the illusion of a fuzzed edge. 

she feels like that. 

pulled back and forth, weakened, worn down until she’s fraying and crumpling and tearing in so many different directions. she fits the straw to her lips and drinks down acrid black liquid, watered down by the ice melting in the confines of the plastic cup. 

she feels like that. 

once strong and fierce and ferocious, undeniable and energetic, now weakening. now watered. now filtered to a burned tastelessness. she threads her fingers through her hair. she breathes out slow, a measured attempt at reigning in the ever present racing of her heart, rolls her head on her neck. 

there’s no mention of Him in her script, but they throw those curveballs sometimes. three months of a public relationship  - apparently - now and she’s almost used to it. she can almost say his name without the bile rising in her throat, can almost believe in the strained smile on her own lips, can almost survive the feeling of sickness that shakes through her core.  when the door opens she glances up, a sigh of palpable relief on her lips as a smile spreads thereafter, eyes softening. “oh thank god,” she groans, flops forward dramatically to press her cheek to the table, peers at him from behind the veil of her bangs. “i was hoping the other guest would be someone decent.” she grins at him, pressed lopsided thanks to the table. “how you doin?”

[breachelfs]

COMFORT.

@idjinwoo

         IT  REALLY  SHOULDN’T  BE  SO  embarrassing.  jianhong  feels  as  though  he’s  at  an  age  and  point  in  his  life  where  shame  should  be  a  nonentity  ---------  he’s  an  entertainer,  spending  most  if  not  all  of  his  life  under  scrutiny.  his  fans  know  a  little  bit  of  the  extent  of  his  supposed  ‘  chagrin  ’  because  of  what  he  leaves  exposed  under  vlives.  usually  it’s  just  the  big  ones,  excused  as  carnival  prizes  and  not  keepsakes  from  his  early  childhood  or  even  just  collector’s  pieces  he  spent  his  free  time  scouring  for.  it  wasn’t  as  if  he  cuddled  them,  anyway.  the  soft  dolls  just  framed  him  as  he  slept.

         kind  of  like  the  flowers  surrounding  snow  white’s  glass  coffin,  if  he  really  wanted  to  make  such  a  morbid  comparison.

         but  there  were  limits  to  his  secrets.  he  tried  to  be  an  open  book  with  his  member  out  of  respect;  if  they  were  to be  brothers  -  in  -  arms,  no  matter  their  feelings  on  each  other,  then  they  should  know  everything  about  him.  and  they  sort  of  did.  they  know  of  ye  lin  (  and  that  he  is  dead  ),  and  that’s  really  the  most  pressing  and  interesting  thing  about  him.

         he’s  got  favorites,  though.  it  would  be  foolish  to  think  he  didn’t;  even  parents  who  claimed  they  couldn’t  pick  between  their  children  deep  down  had  some  sort  of  preference,  let  alone  a  young  man  who’d  effectively  been  forced  to  work  with  a  group  of  strangers  for  the  past  six  or  so  years.  (  strangers  he  had  ended  up  letting  down,  of  course.  )  so  can  one  blame  him  for  suddenly  flinching  at  how  uncool  he  might  seem  to  one  of  the  members  he  likes  the  most  ?

         “  when  did  you  come  in  ?  ”  the  words  leave  his  lips  more  accusatory  than  he  intends,  skewing  a  bit  rude.  there’s  almost  a  year  between  them.  he  almost  balks  at  his  own  disrespect.  and  the  fact  the  words  give  the  impression  he’d  have  tried  to  hide  the  stuffed  animals  if  he  had  known  jinwoo  was  going  to  enter.  hands  finding  their  way  to  his  hips,  jianhong  decided  instead  to  turn  to  bravado.  he  had  nothing  to  hide,  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  ---------  right  ?  “  did  you  need  something  ?  ”  stop  looking  at  the  giant  bear  against  the  wall  that  looks  like  it’s  going  to  fall  right  on  top  of  me.

[idryusan]

empty.

@idjinwoo, school festival performance ( prompt, +5 exp, +5 skill )

he’s nearing the end of solo promotions, so it makes sense that he’s here by himself. part of the lineup for some college festival or another. might as well wring as much money as they can out of him before he has to get benched from performances. at least technically, because he’s already been jammed into a meeting room to discuss his upcoming mentor-ship in the middle of a survival show. midas had okayed it without asking him, but san hadn’t expected it to work any differently. it was just how his contract worked. they pointed, he went. they told him to jump, and he did. until his legs gave out. and then he got up again. rinse, repeat.

it’s obvious though that it’s been too much. even for san, used to the brutal pace that midas tends to run olympus at. tell me promotions had been jam packed, and everything for danger had been rushed. he can’t remember the last time he’d slept properly. his legs feel hollow and like they’re made of lead all at once. his heart thumps erratically away inside of his chest, the the nervous, spent engine of a rundown car. and in the middle of his stage, he stumbles. catches himself on a heel. he nearly makes it look like it was on purpose. probably only his fansite masters could tell. a dizzying moment where the world felt a bit like it was tipping to the side. and maybe he’s dehydrated. probably. is just thankful for once that he has a backtrack to mouth along to. he’s sure he’d sound terrible live. 

he doesn’t even want to sleep at this point. he doesn’t even really feel capable of it. san doesn’t know what he wants. for his skin to stop feeling like static. to wipe away the swelling of nausea in his stomach. to blink away white spots and quiet the spiking patter of his heart. but none of those things happen. they just climb their way up his throat. demand to be felt until it’s all consuming. until he feels unhinged, vulnerable and torn open. like he might shake apart, like he might be incapable of breathing. like he might be dying.

and oh, it’s a panic attack.

san has them near-often enough that he knows what it is, even if half of his brain is still caught up and convinced that he’s having a literal heart attack. he also knows he hates being seen with them by anyone other than his manager while clutching a fistful of pills designs to shove him away from the proverbial cliff’s edge. so he stumbles off, past workers, stylists, prop up tents until he finds somewhere tucked away and devoid of people. lets himself drop to the grass to tuck his head between his thighs. digs fingers into the gaps of his ribs through cotton and tries to force himself into breathing before he does something really fucking stupid, before he passes out. before they have to haul him off to get an iv drip and that will be so much wasted time that san already hates the idea of it. too wound up in the throes of panic, in the alarming overwhelming nature of it that he misses the newfound company.