“Hey, it does fit.” He curls the skirt’s hem questioningly, experimental with his touches, stretching the pleated material brushing his hips with a deferential caution, its flared edges fanned out wider as he twirls around. She had described it as ‘high-waisted’, hadn’t she? The memory pauses him inquisitively, scrutinizing the mirror somehow challengingly with his confusion imparted like a threat demanding its answer.
“Noona,” inquiringly, a murmur, his head tilted toward the direction her closet was in, his reflection still thoroughly attended to, as if he would decide it for himself. “Is it supposed to look like this, do you think? I feel like it looks so plain.” His head leaned into the opposite direction, eyebrows knit with the same, pressing weight that purses his mouth, the bottom lip especially jutted. “Is it because I’m wearing it, actually?”
His suspicion is soft, though still almost childishly disappointing. It’s always like this. He’s unsure of his expectations, until he sees the piece and imagines himself in it. He realizes his expectations, then, and he discovers how frustrating it is to have those expectations, doubly so when he considers them unmet. “I don’t know,” he’s still quiet, as if he were trying to nurture his own conviction beseechingly against his doubt. A thought happens like a flicker as he’s staring at himself. He pulls up his shirt just enough to scrunch it beneath his chest, just enough to bare his abdomen, countenance then suddenly irrefutably alight with the make of his contour in the fabric’s clutch.
“Oh.” He’s loud abruptly and unapologetically, spinning again for himself three times to confirm it, footsteps thundering an excited stampede into the girl’s closet, squealing.
“I love it. I was looking at myself in the mirror just now and wow. I didn’t get it at first but then I got it, you know? It’s so,” hands flailing as he scours his vocabulary for the perfect word, “cute! I look so cute!” He’s circled himself around in another makeshift pirouette, breathing in his satisfaction victoriously, belting out another near-scream. “Like, wow! It’s amazing, actually! Aera!” Her name expands in a pleading drawl, propitiatingly, with him dropping to his knees, palms clasped tight as he begs. “Let me have this, please! I bet you don’t even wear this anymore, right? It’s so out of style for you. Look at you!”
And he means it. Look at her. To him, she’s picturesque indescribably, embodying perfectly what he envisions divinity might designate as its true host. He’s thought it always, even, maybe initially only superficially but beauty deepens impossibly with every moment he gets to spend beside her. There’s something about acceptance that feels too sweet to ever properly name, though he feels one such moniker would surely be her own. Maybe it isn’t always bad when things don’t turn out the way he thought they would.
“Please! Aera, you are sick for this. I am literally on my knees!” He’s unashamed of his whining, his hands reaching for her wrists, tugging desperately. “Okay,” one deep breath. “Okay, level with me. How about I don’t keep it, but I borrow it, you know? For a week.” He nods. “Or … A month.” He shrugs. “Or … Two months. Three.” He breaks again. “Please! You might not ever see me again once you graduate! Did you even think about that?! I bet you didn’t. Think of it like a parting gift. Something I can always remember you by!” He jostles her hands as he holds them, earlier pout returning obnoxiously.
“Aera, don’t be stingy! You have all this money! You really don’t need this. You won’t even miss it. It’s going to be misplaced after we take our pictures today.” His lips curve their smirk with a teasing snicker, winking at her. “Really, I’m kind of just being a hero.”
@thaera / 2014.
