#yfxryeo

[xyfxten]

kill me, heal me

The scent of coffee escapes from the two cups that are firmly held by Ten’s slender hands. He walks along the tapered hallway, silently contemplating that he shouldn’t have wasted his money on coffee--but hey, he feels a little bit rich today, maybe it’s the tailored button down shirt he got from the thrift shop. 

The sunlight looms through the windows, with a mix of stress, anxiety, and all around contentment of the academy that decorates the walls as they often do--yet they all settle about wasting time, and that’s what the scholar is doing now. Well, it sometimes becomes a routine, bugging  Ryeo from time to time.

He stops in front of a wooden door, regretting to have asked for carry out trays because he can’t find a way to knock. So he whispers, soft enough to prevent bombarding his favorite psychiatrist, but loud enough to let her hear “are you in?” 

He waits and traces his eyes over the sign ‘the guidance counselor is in’ and silently, he feels a little jealous. 

[yfxbobby-blog]

—metal heart

@yfxryeo / april 2016.

His shoes have worn trenches in front of her door.

Approaching, retreating, turning. Once, he raises a closed fist and holds it still, then turns with a frustrated noise and resumes his pendulum motion. His presence is unscheduled. Whether she’d recognize his face is disputable, he’s just one kid—one in five hundred, money in black credit cards and skeletons in their closets. This morning he read a headline on Facebook about the Syrian refugee crisis and honestly, his bullshit feels so trivial, so beneath notice. (How’s that teenage angst, Bobby? Where’s the body count?) But he’s run into Taehyun half a dozen frigid times today, one more and he’ll explode.

The door abruptly opens. He jumps, wide-eyed, caught in the headlights of her collected expression.

“Um, Mrs. Song.”

[yfxkmin-blog]

— freud is a farce / min&ryeowon

In all honesty, Min was probably a little off the rocker. But was a session with a guidance counselor really necessary? Administration certainly thought so. The more administration made him do silly things like see if he was mentally fit to teach, though there was probably logic in it, the more anarchism seemed enticing. He hadn’t had time for his usual coffee, which made him a bit crankier than he normally was, so he was surprisingly on time. This guidance counselor probably had a file on him, with all his history; family, medical, psychological. She’d probably ask him if he wanted to sleep with his mother and kill his father, all psychologists had a weird mental boner for Freud, that much he knew.  Worst case scenario, he’d be labeled a narcissist, but he already knew that. Best case, he’d be labeled a narcissist. Either way, he’d walk out unfazed. He was totally used to dodging anything involve emotional connections, he was cool like that. This situation would be no different, no sweat.  He wasn’t exactly skipping down the hall to this counselor’s office, more so dragging his feet until his dreaded final destination was in front of him. He knocked briefly on the door before pushing it open into their office, talking on the way in. “You can just pick whatever letters out of a hat and give me that 4 letter personality thing and then I’ll be on my way,” he called as he walked in.