#p!yoona

[nxmnatalie-blog]

queen of the sandbox, yoona.

Honestly, she doesn’t even know why she took this class. She finds it dumb: it has zero to nil connection with her power, and she near pukes at any and every injury. Of course, she reminds herself that the only classes they offer are either offensive, defensive or are not even relevant, and Natalie is sure as day she’s not going to sign up for offensive classes.

(Perhaps her inability to stomach images of injuries or going on the offense has some deep-seated meaning, but that’s a tale for tomorrow.)

After the nth time of failing to dress a faux wound correctly—she’s not a doctor; how is she supposed to know she’s supposed to clean the wound first?—she slams the bandage roll on the table in anger. She knows she’s throwing a tantrum, hears her mother’s voice singing in her mind—something she used to do to calm her down when she was younger—then take a deep breath and hopes that she either gets it all of a sudden, or the class ends immediately (which is never going to happen, because class started ten minutes ago).

And in her agony, she hears a lilting voice flood the room, giving instructions to probably another helpless soul, and she knows enough to recognise it’s not coming from the teacher; which means that it could only come from one person: Im Yoona.

Now, in every movie set in high school, there’s always the class clown, the hero and the unobtainable girl everyone just knows who the scriptwriter makes clear is perfect in every way. If there’s any girl who reminds her of those characters, it’s Yoona.

She is envious of the latter, because everything seems to come rather easy to her: beauty, attention, friends. But as much as Natalie tries to hate her, she can’t; because Natalie is enthralled by the other girl, and though she pretends to hold a petty dislike for the girl, deep down, if the girl were to talk to Natalie, she’d reciprocate the enthusiasm a tenfold.

And so, when the latter walks down the class, closer to Natalie, she freezes up. She makes a poor attempt at cleaning up her station, trying to contain the unravelled bandages, rapidly wrapping the bandage around the fake arm and overall, failing to look like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Oh God, this is how she’s going to remember me. I’m going to be the nutcase. Nice.

(But it’s just another typical day for Natalie, she supposes.)

[nxmeggsy]

roses are red, yoona.

He’s been here for nearly a week, and despite being used to not seeing his mom for weeks at a time back home—mostly because he’s a delinquent—it’s different knowing his mom isn’t close by in case he needs her. He likes to think he’s a malcontent—always looking for danger, always running with crowds whose unspoken motto is live like there’s no tomorrow—but he knows, deep down, that he’s his mother’s boy.

Plain and simple.

He’ll do anything to protect her, be it physically or otherwise, and as uncool as that may seem, he’s not going to apologise for that.

And right now, he knows that she’s missing him as much as he is her. (At least, he hopes.) And because it’s been just the two of them the whole time—except her many boyfriends, but he likes to pretend they don’t exist—he knows her well enough to know she loves sweet gestures.

So here he is, on a Saturday morning, strolling to the flower shop instead of getting high or drunk (because with Eggsy’s, it’s never too early to drink). He’s ignoring the world around him, paying attention instead to the web browser he opens in his phone. He googles ‘flowers for mom’, almost missing the entrance to the flower shop as he does so.

Snapping his attention back to his surroundings, he holds his phone tightly in his hands, feeling awfully befuddled by the types of flowers there are (he didn’t even know petals could move like that) as he shoves the door open with his shoulder.

“Hi, uhm—” he stops when he sees who’s behind the cashier, blinks to make sure he’s not imagining it, then puts on the best charming smile he can muster, “hey.”

What is with this place and hot girls?

He saunters over towards the counter, and he almost gives up buying flowers for him mom (because God, that’s lame), but decides quickly that between his love for his mom and his love for women, he’d—oh, so sadly—pick his mom. And so he proffers the phone in his hand, a grimace painted on his boyish features.

“Yeah, can I get a dozen of…that flower? Thanks, love,” he requests, and points out the bunch of red roses top left of the search (hey, he’s seen red roses offered to girls before, so he supposes that’s suitable? for this situation). He scratches the back of his head in embarrassment, because she’s probably seen the google search input, and he just knows he’s not on his A-game today.

He was going to ask for a note, but even God himself cannot get Eggsy to do that now.