the comment doesn’t beg for an answer, but gin would like one nonetheless. in fact, he was almost always this way. he had gone through the conscious effort of bringing a small handful of sweets along to share with the younger boy, dressing himself down as not to seem intrusive walking through his front door.
“so, how’s your week been?”
he’s a pretty trusting person.
(like—Believed My Best Bud in Haesan When He Told Me Eggs Are Fake at the Tender Age of Twelve trusting.
...okay. so maybe he’s kind of stupid, too.)
still, sunyool’s come a long way from his mother being exasperated and concerned all-in-one that he might get swept away by strangers some day. he’s still trusting, but at the very least, he’s aware of his surroundings (and especially himself)—which is precisely why his nerves are a little frayed today, sitting too-straight and too-still in the chair in front of gin, anticipating both the best and the worst outcomes to this scenario.
“oops,” he murmurs, shoulders automatically slouching upon command. sunyool closes his eyes too naturally. it’s weirdly comforting when people touch his hair, and if he weren’t concerned about the before-and-after, he might fall asleep. “i am a little nervous,” sunyool confesses, eyes still closed, arms crossed against his chest, “but it’s not because i’m not confident in your ability!”
it’s true. he’s confident in gin’s ability.
but he was also confident in his grandmother’s ability when he was eight-years-old. that confidence crumbled into a fine dust when she’d sneezed while holding the scissors (blunt scissors, which could be both a positive or a negative, looking back) and sunyool had to sport the worst haircut known to mankind for what felt like a lifetime. said haircut only got worse after the haidresser in haesan attempted to fix it, and though his classmates’ laughter was short-lived, sometimes in his fondest nightmares, he recalls the class photo his mom refuses to burn for him.
(and in the worst case scenario, sunyool’s favorite character in slam dunk has a buzz cut. it’ll be fine.)
“good, i guess?” sunyool opens one eye, almost squinting, stray strands of hair splayed in his field of vision. “went to work on monday, took some walks—oh! grandma tried out a new recipe for preserves. she told me to give you some! remind me after we’re done and i’ll grab the jar...”
with each movement gin makes, the smell of lavender grows stronger and stronger.
sunyool almost sneezes (but he doesn’t—crisis averted).
“how was your week?” sunyool asks, stifling a yawn. “sorry, is lavender supposed to make you sleepy...?”
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