there was a plan. he’s stuck in a room of concrete walls and barred doors, and he’s got a spoon in his hand. he’d plucked it from the dining table on his lunch break, smuggled it into the broken seam of his trousers, and now, all that’s left to do is dig. see, that’s the thing about people like him: it always has to be a fucking effort to get to where he ought to be. he wasn’t born with the sort of privilege that saw to him being so preciously cocooned in shears of cream wool, feathered kisses on his forehead and a large pay-off to send harm on its merry way. no, kwon hyunsik doesn’t get offered a silver spoon, much less a spoon, and even still, he has to dig.
fine, then. he digs. he digs, and digs, and digs, until— “you’re up.”
im seryung. bright and early in the morning yet she roams as a ghost in last night’s dress, and suddenly, he realises why gossip girl, along with all of seoul, are so obsessed with her. she brings the light, and in this way, he reminds himself that there is still a plan.
“don’t worry, i haven’t kidnapped or done anything to you,” his tone is casual and he greets her with a teasing smile he supposes is meant to reassure her, “door’s that way if you have somewhere else you need to be.” a beat. “but uh…” he turns away from her and back to the stove, brings that spoon now to his lips to taste and when he’s happy, he turns the fire off and scoops the broth he’s made into smaller bowls. just as some girl had done for him a couple years back. “if you’re interested,” there is a cloth hung on his right shoulder that he wipes his hands with, tosses it onto the kitchen island and he carries and sets the bowls across each other on the dining table, “i made some hangover soup and i was hoping you’d stay.”
he crosses his arms atop the backrest of his chair and there is a sigh to follow, one to betray that he’s spent all morning making sure he’d gotten the recipe just right. as if to say that he’d done all of this for her. ( all to indicate that he’d dug all through the night, as he’d done every other night, and finally there’s an opening, and on the other side of that opening is unmistakeably and irrevocably im seryung. ) “for the soup, of course,” he jests, and his intentions are as thinly veiled as the pretty gold lace of her bodice, “never for me.”
PRISON BREAK / @sevoir
