pressed flowers. for @kenhd 🌿
THEY’RE UNDER THE WINTRY GLARE OF YET ANOTHER EVENING IN DECEMBER, and yeonseok still finds himself warm. suffocated under bright white lights and rivulets of champagne. sons of investors and daughters of executives, and they’re all charmed, all delighted to meet him. they hear his accent and ask how he’s enjoying seoul. they hear of his age and ask if he’s started drinking. yeonseok is nothing if not sincere, so he answers: 1) i’m not enjoying it, and 2) i prefer banana milk. but for all of his sincerity, what he receives in response is only a prerecorded laugh track. something canned: fizzy and effervescent and ultimately tasting of nothing. almost every conversation that follows, with few exception, abides by this paradigm. he feels one corner of his mouth twitch upwards in answer, but his eyes meander the walls like he’s planning an escape. that is, until—
they catch upon him. tucked into the margins of the room like an afterthought, a trick of the light. contemplating the celebration like a detached third party. he’s doing nothing to demand anyone’s attention, but he's still so distracting. does he know this? the night, in all its radiance and exquisite luster. and then, okamoto kentaro, dark and silent as the eclipse.
yeonseok stares, shamelessly.
they’re separated by the length of the crowded room, and yet, he swears he’s certain of the exact instant kentaro’s eyes flick upward to meet his, because he feels it in his chest, the thrill. almost of their own accord, his lips part, and he mouths: having fun?
