heaven.

[xxxxneojinsol]

oblivion.

@neosiwoo / subway car, phase 1.

they rocket through the vast tunnel with a speed that shouldn’t seem possible. but that they’ve all somehow grown accustomed too. in that way where the impossible morphs into the expected. jinsol keeps his eyes half-focused on the window. occasionally there are quick blurs of color. warped and blotchy. signs, maybe. or missed stops from the express car they’re currently occupying. him and siwoo. at the reminder of his presence jinsol drags himself from his daze and turns to face his cohort. is that what he should call him? they feel like friends, sometimes. siwoo offers him attention and offers himself up with a ready sort of neediness for what jinsol’s able to provide.

and jinsol eats it up.

predictable, but only if you know him well enough to spot the pattern. that’s his trick, most don’t. not that this is for pleasure, their rendezvous. work oriented, and they’ve been slinging secrets for money for a while now. jinsol’s an ardent supporter of the revolution, but mostly only when he’s in the same room as siwoo. fake as the holo-girls those desperate sort pay arm over fist to see. jinsol doesn’t find a problem with it.

he does find a problem with the way the lights flicker overhead. a quick snap of light-dark-light. that static pop-crackle of electricity that fizzles like imitation fire. and then the grinding drag of metal. a spine-shivering screech that burrows into his ears and has jinsol flinching. by the time the subway’s stopped, the cart is completely black. it’s silent, too. half because there’s nearly nobody on their cart, half out of what he assumes to be shock. he can hear the thud of his heart in his ears. amplified by panic and adrenaline. he tries not to let it show in his voice.

“what the fuck?” it’s a hoarse sort of whisper he hadn’t meant. wraps his fingers around siwoo’s wrist, if only to prove to himself that he’s still there and stuck with him while his eyes adjust to the lack of light. he doesn’t have a mod to help with that.

[neosaeyi]

inflection.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neosaeyi‌:

she watches the way his face turns up towards the sky, devoid of the man-made stars that are all elysium has. the coil hums at the back of her cranium. she has about fifteen more minutes before she should switch it off. saeyi leans against the wall, tugging jinsol a little closer to rest her head on his shoulder. “long day, sorry,” she says, completely unrepentant. whatever physical intimacy issues he has aren’t organic to him, with how much she sees him restrain himself; this is the first of boundaries she’s been chipping away at. it’s an exchange. she gives him a softness jinsol hadn’t been privy to yet, tempers the wildfire of their usual interactions with whatever soft bullshit this is and the help of her implants; she wants a softness from him, something to dig her fingers into.

jinsol quells the urge to roll his eyes. he’s never liked moments like this -- namely, where he isn’t the center of attention. he’s not necessarily the type to fight for it, not right away. once he’s hooked on someone? well, then it will take over, consume. leave him curling serpentine around competition looking to find some weak point he can sink venom into. but until he hits that point, of all-consuming need, of his self-defined love, he mostly just gets annoyed with it. probably for the best, if he lashed out at everyone it would leave him exhausted and empty. 

and him and dambi aren’t really at that point. he’s too honed in on rua, and maybe theo. even if theo is sitting firmly in the realm of denial still. no, he doesn’t really know dambi. just knows he thinks it’s bullshit she’s turning away from him to talk to someone he doesn’t know. so jinsol turns away from her, too. enough to light up a cigarette, shield the flickering, shy slip of fire from the oncoming wind. “you know ‘em?” jinsol asks around the filter when she returns. he’s not sure if a yes would make him more or less annoyed. 

regardless, his mood settles into something ornery. the situation at large likely doesn’t help either. but something soothing washes over him, like balm. maybe it’s the cigarette. not usually so strong, but it takes shaves away the rough edges of his mood in the moment. finds himself exhaling out long, tension leaving his body. muscles smoothing out the coiled knots they’d bunched up into. a weight on his shoulder, and jinsol glances sidelong down at her. he doesn’t reciprocate, but he doesn’t move away. he likes touching, he always has. especially when he’s anxious, upset. but conflict has made a home in his head lately, and all he knows is that rua wouldn’t like it. he tends to follow that thought wherever it yanks him off too, what she likes or doesn’t. it’s stupid. they’re not even together. 

jinsol takes another drag.

“what’re you gonna do then, go home?” jinsol wonders out. there’s uncertainty in his tone, like he’s not so sure what he should do with himself either. he lifts his free hand to drag it through his hair. leaves it messy and in his eyes. “wonder how long this’ll all last for,” hes gestures around the immediate area with the glow-tipped end of his cigarette. something that burns into a flickering magenta. his own creation. “not sure going in there will do me any good.” he means the afterlife. at this point, it feels like a magnet of a location. forever drawing him closer, whether he needs to be there or not. he’s starting to resent that.

[xxxxneojinsol]

alone.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neotaeoh‌:

jinsol’s hand flutters, moves, and theo squeezes his eyes shut. the hint of a smile crosses grayed features. “yeah, it’s gonna fucking hurt.” he admits this easily enough, “but then it might stop. if i don’t g et it off it’s gonna keep up like this.” it’s a half explanation. he doesn’t realize his hand is still clutching the other’s wrist. his knuckles have gone white with the grip. “okay? please?” he repeats, finally disentangling his grip to jab at the mechanized failsafe locks, a few tries to apply the pressure he needs with trembling, weakened hands. 

jinsol likes it when he understands things. likes careful measurements and predictions. likes when the formulas he has etched out on a page come together. he likes his experimentation done in a contained setting. a threat he can predict. there’s a certain element of control to it. not that he needs control always. but there are times when it feels like a comfort, similarly to the times when it doesn’t. but at the moment, it would be. a set of directions, or a pill he could slip under his tongue. but that’s not what theo’s asking from him, and so jinsol finds himself caught up in a stare, hands all but useless. 

“i can get…” he trails off, gestures lamely behind himself. there’s not even a name to draw from. he doesn’t know who’s still left outside, who has time for them. jinsol presses his lips together hard enough he feels a sting. it acts like a pull to his focus. gets him to draw his eyes back to theo. reel his wandering mind in. “i’m not good with this level of responsibility, why didn’t you lie to me.” it’s nearly snapped out. funny, considering jinsol’s managed to build himself up a tiny, niche empire. but comparatively, it seems different. and even then, he’s not a particularly responsible person. most just don’t seem to realize it. “just twist and pull,” it’s muttered underneath his breath as he repeats the words back out. whether or not there was an intention for theo to hear, he couldn’t tell you.

his mind’s busy cartwheeling again, but this time theo yanks him back in. fingers curled tight around his wrist and the fuzzy static line of focus it honed back in. he clicks his molars together a few time, nervous contemplation. theo’s hand disappears and jinsol swallows down at the lump in his throat. it feels like jammed cotton. it makes his tongue feel thick. “just twist and pull,” he repeats it, though it sounds more like a mantra this time than a jab. lets fingers find purchase on metal. “just don’t fucking scream or some bullshit.” it’s muttered out before he follows the shortlist of instructions. there’s a strange noise, the sound of metal. the arm’s too heavy when it pops free. jinsol hadn’t expected it, and it clattered to the floor. he lets out a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. 

“is it, like....?” did i fuck it up? fuck you up? he wants to ask.

[kitaecat]

[xxxxneojinsol]

alone.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neotaeoh‌:

“i just gotta - “ he shudders out a breath, poorly controlled. his lungs feel as if they are spasming, like everything is  scrambling to identify the cause of the damage that doesn’t exist. this phantom ache that spreads down a limb that can’t feel. cold steel hangs limply by his side, thumping a bruise into his hip as he walks after the other, as he moves to lean against the table in the room. he clutches a hand tighter to the arm and groans, frustration and pain comingled. “i’ll undo the lock but - “ he glances askance, voice raw and somehow amused, as if at his own expense. “i need you to yank it out.”

it’s hard for jinsol to comprehend it, sympathize entirely. the loss of a limb to that extent. the force of a mod shutting down. he doesn’t have many himself. one so back alley hack-job that it operates through a springboard rather than anything mechanical. could still use it now if he wanted. so he can’t just drop himself down into that mentality. but at this stage he cares about theo. to the point where he doesn’t just let himself tilt around him, around this problem jinsol has no way of fixing. a situation he often hates putting himself in. hates that helplessness of it. to the point where he doesn’t continue his singularly focused quest to find rua.

he can’t fix it. he can’t understand it. but he can relocate them. away from the unpredictable mass of people and into a backroom. his knuckles throb, but there’s too much adrenaline and panic for him to feel that after-ache of pain that will no doubt find him in the morning. 

he’s used to theo pulled upright and broad, a grin spilling across his face. sunlight living underneath his skin. not so much now. like he was half-comprised of electricity himself, the life sapped out of him of dulled. skates his fingers through the other’s hair. his forehead clammy and too-warm under his palm. red-ringed eyes. has jinsol wondering if this is one of the rooms he’s jammed backup supplies into, could dig something out for the pain.

but theo’s voice hits him before he has time to go looking. “i need to what?” there’s some amount of disbelief to be found there. a skeptical look clouding his eyes. fingers dragging from his hair down to his collar. his hand fits there, near his throat. like he’d managed to get lost within the map of his body, a selectively chosen bout of blindness on the way to his arm.

“can i fuck it up?” jinsol asks him after a slow-rolling minute. chews at the end of his tongue and takes half a step closer to glance more critically at the mass of metal and wire. reluctance all but radiating off of him. likely the only thing keeping him rooted in place is the sheer desire not to develop the traits that mirror his mother even further. “will it hurt?” his hand comes up again, that same hesitant flutter. like he isn’t sure where to touch. what to do. and he isn’t. he hates this feeling of unknowing, far prefers his one-step removed method of helping people -- through chemicals that mask the pain. it’s all so much easier that way. less complicated. less brutal.

[maneoxiseul-deactivated20200323]

interludium i; 11 PM

[xxxxneojinsol]

neojinkyu‌:

Jinkyu is buzzed in and it feels good just for a second, up until it occurs to him Jinsol lives on the 9th floor. The elevators are of course dead. Even not using his busted leg to haul his weigh up the steps, he stills feels his knee pulsating with pain with each step. He wonders if just camping out on the landing between the 4th and 5th floor would be a reasonable thing to do. It takes a lot of time until he finally stumbles in front of Jinsol’s door, and when he does, he feels sweaty and lightheaded with pain. He leans heavily on the wall and raps on the door hard.

he’d been working.a fire curling hot and greedy around the base of a vial. a slow simmer painting the liquid inside a deep, neon orange. pulling it from something bracken and bronze. everything is scattered haphazardly around the sprawl of tables and equipment he’s jammed into a spare room for work. crushed plants and carefully measured powders. 

been being the key word at play.

with the flickering stutter of lights, that electro-pop fizz that he swore he could hear as the world dimmed around him. there had been a fluttery few minutes where jinsol wondered if he’d blown out a breaker. but he’d eventually ended up by his window, hands pressed to glass and a maw of darkness sprawled out before him. a sight that settled over him off-kilter and wrong. the kind of thing that feels like a kick to the gut. a downward tilt. just a bit off balance. he’s been pacing ever since. rounded loops with no end, though he doesn’t quite realize he’s doing it. doesn’t quite recognize the anxiety blooming underneath his skin like unwanted weeds.

by the time it grows, he won’t be able to yank the sentiment free from his chest.

jinkyu’s call comes to him in the form of a distraction. so he latches onto the voice, the request to come over. it’s a regularity. jinkyu’s a staple in his life. if the concept of trust wasn’t entirely lost on jinsol, he most likely would’ve given it to jinkyu.

there’s a knock, the second distraction of the night. and when he pulls it open, the third. the first expression that crosses his face is a grimace. the corners of his lips down turned, eyes narrowing fractionally. he doesn’t like taking care of people. there’s a certain degree of selflessness needed for the act. that and his complete lack of confidence. he often feels like he’s read a manual re-translated through three different languages, the tools he has to deal with problems faulty. still, he doesn’t let the door swing closed again. jinsol would never hear the end of it.

“you look fucked.” he says instead, sympathetic as ever. steps aside enough to let jinkyu inch his way through. “bleed on anything and you’re replacing it.” he lets the door click shut, goes off in search of a towel. “don’t sit on my couch, it’s vintage.” he sounds nearly condescending.  

[xxxxneojinsol]

alone.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neotaeoh‌:

“so my arm’s down too i guess.” he grins tight lipped, pressure building in the back of his eyes. it’s heavy and it hurts, nerves screaming at the sudden disconnection,  without the chance to properly shut it down, they’re in a fraying scramble that tightens his stomach with nausea. “it’s kind of fucking with my nervous system, actually.” his teeth are gritted around the words and sweat is beading over his brow, dampening his temples. 

it’s hard to piece the world together presently. like it’s breaking apart between his palms, more of it crumbling as he tries to reconnect. can make sense of bits and pieces he grabs at. that things seem to be cutting out one by one. lights and wires and mods. what’s there left to follow? but inside his head there’s no room for that thought yet. just this jagged present; a rise of frantic voices, and a face to match, the terror of it worn like a mask. jinsol wants to rip it off of him. one of those impulsions that feels like a kick to the gut. a clawing sense of urgency that’s not chased by logic. just a gripping urge. 

he curls his fingers in at theo’s wrist instead. floats a question as his eyes hang from the motionless arm at his side, adds to the weight of it. jinsol finds himself chewing at the inside of his cheek without realizing it. later, it’ll feel raw and sting when he gulps down mouthfuls of straight vodka. but for the moment, it’s all tangled in that numbed sort of daze. the slight tang of blood on the edge of of his tongue. that urge is back, to fit nails to theo’s lips and dig that mimicry of a smile from his face.

he digs his nails into theo’s flesh instead. feels the hard jut of bone like the ragged bottom for an anchor to catch.

there’s a sick pallor to theo now, even in the dark. has jinsol pulling at him, half a step behind as he shoulder-checks his way through bodies. off to the back end of the club, where the private rooms are set up. a brief, frustrated interaction with a dead key code that ends with aching knuckles and prickling fingers. another door, heavier and half hidden as he fumbles around his neck. eventually comes up with a small key dangling at the end of one of the necklaces hanging from him. yanks it off to twist it into place, pushes his way in. another turn, another room. 

a silent balance to the noise he’s gone accustomed to in the fray of it. the echoes of panic ring in his ears. “will you be alright?” jinsol asks him when he finds his voice. his hands flutter like uncertain fledglings around his mechanical arm. “what might happen?” he abandons hovering around something he can’t makes sense of, lifts a hand to comb sweaty bangs from theo’s face instead. presses the heel of his palm to his forehead. like that might help. it probably doesn’t. but jinsol’s never really learned to take care of anyone else, not like that. getting sick’s always meant curling up in the corning and out-sleeping that feeling of death in a fit of fever-chills and nightmares.

[neosaeyi]

inflection.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neosaeyi‌:

she doesn’t approach him first, wants him to spot her like it was his idea to seek her out. someone pulls at her, high evidently soured by fear, and she cups their face and tries to calm them down. “how do you feel?” she asks, leaning in close to let the coil kick in. tension bleeds out of the stranger and she nods encouragingly, letting them hold onto her for a while. carefully, letting the stranger catch all her attention, she watches jinsol in the reflection of the building. she’ll give him, say, ten minutes before he spooks and leaves; after that, she’ll have to go to him herself, but she does hope he likes her enough ( feels lonely and confused enough ) to seek her out of his own volition.

does he know her that well? no. is it a thought that’s busy circling him right no? no. jinsol’s been busy ignoring those vultures, the signs that she’s been waiting to pick clean at his bones, scavenge him raw. 

but they still aren’t close, despite the recent time spent together. but it’s how jinsol operates in the best of times. gets too close to people in a rush. but that closeness is of his own definition, something formed through time and a wave of impersonal hobbies. too much to drink, half-remembered dancing and fits of laughter. everything done in a way that feels like a rush, like excitement, like the world is a little less lonely. and he still doesn’t know who dambi is, the same way that she has the slightest clue about jinsol. so impersonal that she doesn’t even know his profession. it’s a little freeing, in a way. with most of the people he hangs around, it becomes an unavoidable fact.

so he messages her, the same way that he messages a few of the recent names on his contact list.

and finds her only after he’s shivered his way through smoking a cigarette and a half. a semblance of normalcy in the middle of the blatant loss of it. and jinsol’s not too sure he’s keen on that. the way the world’s dimmed. the loss of light. it’s haunting. it’s through an inhale that burns at his lungs that he turns his head and catches sight of her. shifts closer, past small clusters of people streaming in and out of the thankfully-open club. a brief hand on her shoulder to grab at attention before he pulls it back to himself. “dambi,” it’s mumbled around the filter, and he remembers to pluck it free from his lips before he speaks again. “you alright?”” he wonders out. it’s hard to tell where everyone’s at. it’s hard to tell much about anything, currently.

“wonder how long this’ll last...?” is tips up into a question at the end, the same way he tips his head back to stare at the sky. like he’s waiting for everything to flicker back into light based on sheer poetic coincidence.

it does not.

[xxxxneojinsol]

alone.

@neotaeoh / the afterlife, system failure, phase 3.

when the communications crash down, it feels more serious. like the world is crumbling out from beneath their feet. a pixelated wipe of memory that leaves the world blank and drowned in a black expanse of nothing. the mods come after, but jinsol doesn’t notice that so much. his only tell is on the back of his neck, hidden from view. a sun that refuses to rise. how fitting.

all he’s focusing on is the anxiety in his stomach. slithering and lashing out like serpents. intent on forcing their way up his throat. blocking off air. leaving him gasping, in the throes of panic. he doesn’t do well like this, being severed from the world. being thrust into the unknown. rua doesn’t either. it’s what pushing him to her apartment. the electronics down, keypads non-functioning. but he managed his way far enough alone to pound at her door. was greeted by silence. and back again, into the heart of the city. into the afterlife, searching for hope. or her. at this point, they seem nearly interchangeable. 

he doesn’t find her. though this is when he starts to notice that more is falling apart, the seams holding everyone together coming apart. a distinct lack of the neon mods elysium has become known for. fritzing mechanics. and as he pushes through more people on his hunt, he finds someone. just not the one he’d been after. but they make him pause. he might’ve moved on, if not for that look of panic, the way he was clutching tight to his arm in a deadened way jinsol doesn’t think he’s ever seen. “are you okay?” it’s a rush of words, and jinsol’s not sure if he’s entirely coherent. but he fits a hand to his wrist. can feel the unsteady thud of his pulse, an erratic scatter under his thumb. “down?” jinsol makes an educated stab at it. 

[xxxxneojinsol]

shallow.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neochaesol‌:

“trust me—i didn’t wanna ask you for shit, but i also can’t really afford to ruin my career since i’m just starting to really take off. if you have something that, like, you know, offers euphoria or creativity or whatever, that’d help… but i’m not interested if what you’re gonna do is get me addicted to something that i can’t shake. i’d be even worse off then.” that lingering fear was still present, but she did her best to ignore it. that’s all she could do right now, anyway.

“obviously i don’t know anything about drugs, but i figure that you’re the best person to consult. i just hope i don’t regret talking to you anymore than i already do.”

“i’m trying my best not to,” jinsol isn’t sure what the point of the interaction is. if she’s drunk enough that it’s reoriented her general modus operandi. if it’s a change of heart. a desire for change. a moment of fleeting insanity. he’s not sure he wants to be a part of whatever odd game chaesol’s playing at either, however. not unless he’s certain it will bring him a decent chunk of money from the exchange. however that guarantee is still hanging in the air between them. enshrouded by words that he can’t find the point to. 

something rolls closer and clicks into place when she continues to talk. like everything is being pieced together in a slow-revealing architectural representation of what chaesol’s after. and jinsol, sharkish in nature smells blood in the water at those words. it’s a mangled thing -- need. a word that’s driven into his own weaknesses. a word that, as far as he’s concerned is paramount to power. she didn’t say it outright, no. but it feels like it. if someone doesn’t want something and still strives toward it, what else could it be but need? so he shoulders that assumption with a smile that reads too sharp, jagged. a shark-toothed smile to fit his disposition.

“of course,” he nods in ascent. and he can. concentration and creativity, a project he’d undertook long ago. it’s a well sought after combination. 

“asking me for something’s a favor. you’re buying.” jinsol corrects her, taps a few fingers against his own elbow in time to the music. “people get addicted to the emotions, or their capabilities while channeling those emotions. i don’t know what you’ll do with them, or if you’ll depend on them.” he states, and it reads almost like a disclaimer. he often doesn’t care about the predicament that his clients can drill their way into. but he’s not so sure he wants chaseol in front of him, accusing him of lying simply because she wanted to start playing with fire of her own volition. 

he slips his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through a few pages of presumed products. settles on one, taps at a few buttons and a small floating holographic picture form. a brief description, along with a price. it’s been inflated in this exact moment. but she can afford it, and she’d gone and made her necessity apparent to him. who would he be to do otherwise? it’s not as if she knows the going rate anyway. and if she did, would he care?

not really.

[xxxxneojinsol]

[xxxxneojinsol]

calculation.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neofei‌:

“But, hey, at least you already have people like Yani in your life,” he added, seeing his chance at that moment as his fingertips began tracing the rim of his drink over and over again. 

“I would know, being an old friend of hers and all,” and Fei looked up, eyes sharp despite the smile still playing on his lips.

there’s an understated comfort in privacy. a control that’s given out. the keeper to a locked-box, the one with the key. and jinsol likes keeping it that way. he has his past, that stretch of time he went through that he regards poorly. a certain shame that hangs over the strange relationship he had with his mother. things he did -- things he might even be better off forgetting -- but refuses to. because to do so would be giving away that particular brand of control that jinsol finds solace in. it’s no surprise he turns away gun and his promises for absolution, even when paired with an offer for a hefty discount. 

so he doesn’t appreciate it, an unfamiliar face attempting to push in past his boundaries. rob him of information that he isn’t willing to give, even in the best of circumstance. his mood turns. his smile curls into something feral.”most of the people in this club are clients, or know what i do. i would hope they wouldn’t call themselves my friend. but i’m not really sure why you’re trying to turn my social life into your business.” the tone is caught in a strange flux between conversation and not. his voice isn’t raised, and there’s an eerie sort of calm to it. but the words are pointed, and sharp.

insecurity is no stranger to jinsol, but not in circumstances such as these. not when they come from a face he can’t put stock into. not when it seems like they’re being shotgunned into empty space, hoping for a target to hit and focus in on. a generalized way to try and dig underneath his skin, and jinsol is immediately guarded. suspicious. with what he does, the work he does on the side, it’s impossible not to be. there are people like him out there in the world, after all.

“so i don’t have friends and then i do. a twist to the conversation i wasn’t expecting. i’m on the edge of my seat, really.” he illustrates the statement by sliding forward against the bench, sliding his body up and out of the seated position he’d been in. “that sounds super exciting for you. but being yani’s friend doesn’t mean i really want to entertain whatever the fuck this is, so.” a shrug, and jinsol tries to remove himself from the situation. 

[xxxxneojinsol]

black magic.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neogun‌:

tonight, he asks for fun of it, for that look on jinsol’s features (and maybe more importantly, for the opportunity to steer the conversation elsewhere). so he retreats quick, leaning back in his chair with a grin still on his face. waving his hand dismissively towards the blonde head of hair before him, “i know, i know what you’re gonna say, but ’m just saying. i’m sure there’s some stuff in that tortured head of yours you want to forget. everyone’s got something.”

secrets may not be jinsol’s primary trade, but he does deal in them. they both too. it explains the guarded edge they both regard each other with. not-quite trust. it comes from the understanding that they would both be interested to crack the others skull, let well-kept memories leak free like a runny yolk. it comes from the knowledge that, locked up tight, everyone commits atrocities. is seemingly capable of the worst. and gun is right to be guarded, in the same way that jinsol likely is to be too. there’s no need at the present, and jinsol doesn’t have a reason to. but would he double-cross gun if the situation were right? 

absolutely. 

an unsurprising end coming from a man incapable of trust. but in the present, they’re friends. jinsol iteration of what a friend is, at all. stirs up a conversation and pretends to be content with the bland taste of it when gun barely answers. just floating around the periphery. jinsol smokes, pretends to be enthralled. “if anyone comes in asking you to wipe my name from their heads you better turn them away.” jinsol says instead of pressing the issue. ashes his cigarette and lets a laugh slide free. light, but cutting. a joke, but not.

gun leans in, so jinsol mirrors the action, not that he’s a particular fan of the conversation gun brings with him. sours at his face, like he might’ve ordered the wrong drink he’s sipping at. “of course i would, and that’s exactly why i shouldn’t.” they’ve had this conversation a handful of times, and jinsol’s reasoning largely remains the same. along with the belief that gun is a hypocrite for continually bringing it up without going under the knife -- so to speak -- himself.

“and you’d be fun to dose up with a truth potion for me to talk to for a couple of hours. should we trade our services?” also true, and also something jinsol knows gun’s avoidant of. he has to assume there’s something he’s covering up, protective over. and jinsol, as nosy as he is, would love to loosen his lips just enough to get it to slip free.

“even you, then? when’s your appointment?” jinsol asks him around the filter when he trades out his drink again. quirks a brow, but keeps his forearm pressed to the table. “hypocrite.” it’s teasing, even if the word drops heavy from his tongue. even if his smile looks just a bit off-kilter.

[neoyani]

safehouse.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neoyani‌:

not to mention, as a loyal friend, she can’t appreciate anyone who drags jinsol around so easily, ragdolls him from one extreme to another. but maybe she’s not got the levelest head for that assessment. “i don’t want her for a client,” she returns easily, glances sidelong at him, fingers threading into his hair to tug at the strands lightly, scratching softly at the nape of his neck. “you don’t want me to take her on either, i think. or you’d have just closed the door in her face last time.” she’s not sure when last time was, but she finds it to be a reasonable guess. she slides her tongue over her lips, spins on her chair. “it’s fine though, you know. you’re allowed to have a terrible, terrible taste in women.” she adds, drawls it sardonic, in what she hopes to be a comforting manner. 

jinsol’s used to seeing yani like this, caked in dirt and her hair tangled, impersonating the vines that cling to the walls. it’s the same way she’s seen him hunched over test tubes and fire, frazzled and barely coherent. they know each other at this point. intimately. the kind of intimacy that comes from being around each other long enough that the edges are worn down. a comfort in the flaws. a knowing of what to expect, of who each other is. ugly flaws and all. it’s surprising, maybe, about how things settled with them. that jinsol has never once offered to let her escape out from the mod he required at the start of their business venture. 

but he doesn’t want to rescind that requirement. it’s perhaps because of it that he’s allowed himself to let his guard down so much, to let her in. as strange as it is to say, their relationship might change if it were to happen. if the mod were to disappear. if yani were given free reign to try and replicate what he does, take the business elsewhere. would a trusting person not begin to feel paranoid at the thought? but jinsol can’t put himself in that pair of shoes. he’s often incapable of viewing things through the lens of others. 

“it’s not like you know her.” he counters, which is somewhat true, but also largely comprised of misdirected anger in the moment. especially considering he’d leapt into this by telling yani to take her off his hands, which would point to a bigger problem. there’s no point in defending her, and yet, here is is. doing just that. he hates himself for it. “it doesn’t matter what you want, she spends a fortune.” he mumbles it out, which is true. she makes more than most in elysium, and she lets it show with the purchases she’d made from him over the years. he’s annoyed, and shows it by shaking her fingers off of him when she reaches out to stroke. a sentiment he might normally appreciate. 

there’s a tangle of words forming in his head, but jinsol isn’t sure how to glue those fractured pieces together in any way that makes sense. it’s just a mass of anger, indignation, confusion, and self-hatred. so he swallows it down instead, lets him choke him into quiet. “we’re not together anymore.” he reminds her, his voice stiff. it sounds like a door closing. if he could throw the deadbolt, he would. but yani often has a key, is willing to yank things open and disturb his attempts at seclusion.

[neotaeoh]

denouement.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neotaeoh‌:

“solie,  baby,” he half-shouts happily, blissfully ignoring differences in station or wealth or whaat have you  that might require him not to speak so informally. this is, he might insist, another of his many talents. a number of people who are not jinsol turn to look at him, since he’s interrupted the quiet rumble of chatter. “come on over,” he continues, blissfully unbothered, because he’s seen the stiffening of the other’s shoulders as he registers theo’s presence. he lifts his good hand, beckons the other, “have a seat.” he grins, and it stretches wide, wide, wider, the glimmer of his eyes and the flash of teeth belying the firm, hyper focused intensity of his continued, “i really must insist.”

sometimes the noise becomes redundant in the afterlife. on most days he likes it, craves it. the flurry of bodies under the sway of music, disorienting and distracting all at once. faces that belong to stars with a colorful array of bottles behind the bar. but he works there enough that sometimes he wants to shake it off. step out of it. fall into somewhere quieter, where he can still indulge in his vices. sometimes even more so than at the afterlife. can pour a potion into a drink and smoke until the world starts to blur, pull at curtains and tuck himself away in the corner of a speakeasy without risk of friends, customers spotting him. outside of the afterlife and it becomes harder to do with the niche circles he runs with. on the peripherals of fame, exchanging business with those involved. but never in the spotlight himself. 

it’s why he’s here now. there’s tension knotted between his shoulder blades. something tight, that winds through his body and leaves him tensed. he orders a drink laden down in too much alcohol, sets up a tab, and then that string is grabbed at, yanked. at the tension gets pulled higher. he knows that voice. he knows the face to that voice. he likes the face to that voice, but that’s the problem of it. there are two reasons, really, that jinsol doesn’t want to get involved with theo presently. 

first, him and rua seem to be in a precarious position of not-quite over. he can feel in his bones that she’d get angry over it. that they’re wobbling on top of this tightrope of almost-back-together. waiting to see if they can cross it to the end entirely, or if they’ll plummet. second -- and this is perhaps more important presently -- theo is a regular customer. sometimes he goes to yani to pickup, sure. but he’s an addict. and jinsol’s had a terrible track record in dating addicts, in dealing with that complicated, nebulous jealousy and loneliness that often comes with it. 

but he’s pretty, and he makes for good company. and now, loud. drink in hand, and jinsol wanders closer. if only to get him to shut up. “did you need to announce me to the bar? maybe you should go see if they’ll hire you as an host at the casino.” jinsol deposits himself next to theo instead of across. he does it to nearly everyone, he likes being physically close to people, at least ones that he likes. a reason he’s often deemed as too much. one among many, really. “didn’t know you came here.” jinsol chews at the end of his straw, enough to pepper indents to shiny plastic between sips. it’s almost too sugary, but it hides the amount of liquor he’s consuming. “what do you have?” he asks him, slides an elbow to the table and inches in a little closer to peer in at theo’s glass, perpetually nosy. their knees brush underneath the table, and jinsol doesn’t dwell on the fact that he’s making poor decisions. 

but then, jinsol hardly ever does.

[xxxxneojinsol]

nostalgia.

[xxxxneojinsol]

neoorua‌:

but she’s stubborn still, and she doesn’t leave the couch. as if claiming some place there would force her way back into his life, when she’d been the one to ruin it all in the first place. she bites down on her lip, watches his gaze dart around before it finally glances onto her once more. her toes curl. “i want- “ she sighs, nose scrunching. “if i just wanted drugs i would have gone to yuor stupid lackey.” fingers feather back through tousled blue hair, shoveling it into further disarray. “isn’t that part of whatever this is? i come to you for the drugs, just like you tell me when they’re ready, we both pretend yani isn’t the one who does all that grunt work for you, and we both pretend you don’t hate to deal out of your house, and i come over, and,” she waves a hand in a quick circle. “so why? why can’t you just admit it, that you don’t want me to go to yani, that you want me to..be here? with you?”

he ignores the words, because he doesn’t necessarily have an answer for them. jinsol let her in because he has difficulty locking people he loves out. away. there’s always that small seed of hope. and no matter how many times he swears, believes it to be gone, it isn’t. that everything will somehow magically mend and leave them both in a place of happiness. the trouble with this delusion though, is that neither of them seem to have an organic base of what happiness is. it’s the manufactured sort. and being so desperate that jinsol’s willing to twist nearly any emotion into the caricature of it to fit his odd shade of romanticism. 

jinsol let her in because he doesn’t what to let her go, even if they’ve technically called it quits. even if they’re not really together anymore. he can’t treat things like a bandaid to be ripped off. it’s all hesitancy and second guessing himself, flinching away from the pain. decided to let it sit and infect. he can’t say that. and he can barely figure it out himself. he just knows he yanked open the door. knows it’s hard for him to gather enough self-control to leave it hard, even if it were to happen again. even if he were to say that he wouldn’t. and does she know that? is it part of the reason that she continues to show up on his doorstep? a flip-coin chance on whether they’ll fall into each other or clash? 

“but you want them.” jinsol begins, and then clarifies, “came for them.” it’s a point of contention, something built on his own self-doubt. and perhaps even experience. it’s not as if they’re playing with simple elements. it’s consuming, everything at play. and despite manufacturing, selling (and as reluctant he would be to admit it) jinsol would prefer being treated like one himself. that same sense of urgency, need. that level of want and addiction. it’s not a sane thing to ask of someone. and it’s not a healthy state to live in. jinsol often creates cycles that seem to reinforce his own beliefs, and then digs himself in deeper. 

“because part of me doesn’t.” he snaps it out, and it feels almost like stepping on a tripwire. like he set off something terrible that will blow up in his face. “because this doesn’t feel nice, does it? right now?” and the words are tinged in desperation, like he’s hoping for rua to agree with him. so he feels less insane. like he’s not the only one caught in this strange stasis. “i’m just-” he cuts himself off long enough to drag his fingers through his hair. leaves it wild. “we broke up. and so. we’re not a thing. we’re not together. and it’s just, now. time to screw around, right? you get drugs, and we screw around. and that’s never what i wanted.” 

a pause, something drawn out. punctuated with a scratchy-sounding “want” that kicks at the back of his throat on the way out. jinsol rolls his eyes up toward the ceiling to stare at it, frustrated. there’s no sense of belonging, and jinsol’s struggling to find the beauty in this strange dance they have with each other. 

[sagexcr]

↬ jekyll

[xxxxneojinsol]

neohansol‌:

Tonight his hair is a shock of red, tousled from his performance and damp with sweat at his temples. Even under the erratic lights of the club, his glamor-green eyes shine, and there’s no missing the amusement dancing in them as he scrutinizes the man sitting across from him. “Did you watch my set?” He tilts his head in consideration, a faux pout already beginning to form on his lips, “You know I hate it when you’re all work and no play.”

there’s a certain decadence to art. colors, sounds, questions that don’t always lead to answers. melancholic, to jarring. there’s a range of emotion, feeling. and it’s often something mimics within his own capacity as well, with potions and pills. but it’s never quite the same. jinsol’s always had an admiration for artists. musicians or poets or painters. and then, on top of that, there’s a status of celebrity. something that jinsol is inexplicably drawn to, but not in quite the same reverent way. this one is based on something more selfish. that wanting for reputation. a need to feel like he fits in, like he matters. put them both together, and it’s a perfect storm of an experience. 

he can become a little too obsessed. a little too fervent. with rua, it spun into a relationship. something that was almost too-intense. blinding. and with han, it went into a different direction. platonic, but definitely not casual. it should almost be disconcerting, how often they find themselves inserting themselves into each others lives. but jinsol can’t find a problem with it, and han seems to be happy enough with the arrangement at the moment. jinsol hangs off the edge of his performance. lets it resonate past body and bones. 

moments like these make him feel alive, and he acts at times like leech. he wants more of it. wants to rob han of this feeling, to suck him dry of it. it’s not purely born out of selfish desires, moreso a poor attempt to fill the void that seemed settled deep in his core. han is his, in a way. his friend. and people shouldn’t be possessive over their friends, but jinsol very much is. problematic, especially when said friend is a rising star, lavished with attention. paranoia and jealousy often nips at jinsol’s heels, and he demands a lot from the other party to make up for it. luckily, at the present, han is willing to give. to feed into the emotional labor that jinsol often requires.

“nothing for me?” jinsol greets when hansol topples next to him, drink in hand. a pointless statement, considering there’s a half-empty bottle and a few glasses scattered around the table. some from shots ordered (and then consumed), some abandoned from previous company. he lets one hand fall to hansol’s ankle when he kicks his feet up next to him. “rude,” he scoffs out, but does nothing to push him away. just taps an eclectic rhythm to the jut of hansol’s ankle in an attempt to match beat. 

“i always watch your set, don’t gloat.” and here, jinsol grins. it’s not like he makes it a mystery that he enjoys hansol’s music. there’s no point in that. “don’t make that face.” here, he digs a nail into skin. not enough to cut, but enough to make him feel the jagged pinch of it. “i always have time to play.” at the very least, he can force it into a reality. whether he should or not. “it sounded nice tonight. you seem to be getting more popular.” conversational, even if the conversation is half born from jinsol’s masochistic tendencies to dig himself deeper into emotions that he should definitely avoid.