Not even in the movies. They were cocky and so damn uptight, like they had barbed wire shoved up their asses and turned three times for good luck. The way they talked, the way they dressed. For anyone’s sake, who would wear a long sleeved dress shirt in the middle of July?
It was his last year in high school and he’s already missed twelve days of school thanks to his asshole of a dad (and these stingy lawyers, goddamn - they know nothing about interior decorating), this would probably get him another weeks worth of detention, which would get him to the principal’s office, and then he’d need a parent meeting. Jisoo let out a heavy sigh, just thinking about the whole process and effort had him on edge. He had to somehow cover up the fact that his dad was beyond gone, ten years in jail - for what? - no, he wouldn’t answer that.
To a minor extent, Jisoo didn’t like this kind of change. Aside from having to sneak past the bar, through the hallway that led to most of the silent rooms, and into a small room he had to call his own; he didn’t like the change he’d have to make for the next ten years.
Would he have to change his name? The way he looked, was it obvious?
Maybe it wouldn’t do anything at all, ten years - that’s not long. No, not at all.
Was the voice sudden? Not necessarily, it blended perfectly well with the rest of the atmosphere. Tired, bleak, unassuming, and straight up bland. Am I okay? That’s a question worth asking, yeah. Am I okay?
For the most part, he seemed to be shocked by the whole thing. The way he had to hide exclusive files in his backpack for the past few weeks, bringing them home and stuffing them behind the shoe closet. He knew exactly where the pistols were hidden, just in case. He was going to start working after he graduated, starting in the kitchen at first - where everyone else started. Dad never really was a guy that would cut his kid some slack.
Compassion, what a rarity.
This moment of thought only left Jisoo in a daze, he simply stared blankly at the bringer of the small - yet incredibly personal - question. So he simply shifted his gaze a bit and adjusted the slouch in his back, letting his long legs stretch out to peek out from the other side of the long narrow table. Seventeen years old and he was already growing out of article from two years ago.
He replied without thinking, the word was a bad habit coming from his few friends at school. They asked the same thing at a quota: Are you okay? You even listening? Guess not. Do you wanna’ hang out later today then? Sure.
Why not? It’s not like he had much to give, it was worth a few free acting lessons.
Pretend you’re okay, pretend you’re strong, pretend you’re an adult, and at least pretend that adults would the the last people on earth to break such an incredible human being named Song Jisoo.
And here it is, a dead-end. The silence pools into the room with a viscous consistency, thick and oozing as it settles in, its very presence a heavyhanded deadweight. Maybe it’s not as bad as far as analogies go—there's not an elephant in the room, just yet—but certainly something about this sticks out like a sore thumb. Slouched, nonplussed and tall, too tall in the way an adult would look like a giant from a child’s worms-eye view, as though this is some sort of overcompensation for how very much unlike a grownup he is. In the back of his mind occurs a reversal: the years peeling away from the contours of his face, memory rendering an image of himself that’s definitely younger, brighter even, but not anything near to how Jisoo presents himself.
Or so he thinks. It’s principle to never depend on something so unreliable. So he lets his grip falter, and the idea slips past his fingers, soon swallowed up whole, forgotten as quickly as it had taken shape. Slowly, he lets out a breath.
Shortcuts, right. That’s a start.
A brow is arched, amused despite himself because irony’s always been a funny thing, more so when there’s been a reversal in roles. Sure—neither a yes, neither a no, but it likes to dabble, double-dip in both.
And suddenly, despite his own thick-skinnedness, his own opacity that tends to obstruct how he looks at everyone else appears, Yoon Doojoon can see right through him for what he is.
Key word: convenience. Otherwise known as: the criss-cross what can be done and what cannot, the grey interlude in between stark colors, the middleman that stretches himself thin for the sake of comfort. Any practical person would want that.
But then there’s the question of sympathy. Forget want, from the looks of it, it’s the last thing that Song Jisoo would ever need. Pity, empty condolences—having any of it would be enough to make anyone feel sick to their stomach, make their skin crawl from the effort.
So he gives none. Instead, Doojoon matches him word for word, both by quantity and what’s meant to be read between the lines.
He leans back and makes space, folds his arms over his chest.
“That’s probably the most off-beat reaction I’ve ever gotten. But okay, suit yourself.”
Tragic upbringing, daddy issues, the onslaught of teenage angst at its peak, he goes through the cliches one by one, but doesn’t bother with the pressing questions. One thing’s for sure—kid certainly doesn’t have a mouth for the definitives. Maybe they’re more alike than he’d thought.
“Your old man’s gonna be here the entire night.” He pauses, lets it sink in before he continues. “You got anyone to drive you home?”
