i fucking love this character like he’s my child but i’m going to have to put him on an indefinite hiatus — i have toooo much going on. not literally, but i have other accounts to take care of and this one’s inspiration juices are running very, very low. he’s not gone for ever, i don’t think. just for — i don’t know, a long time, maybe. sorry to those i was writing with.
His eyebrows barely have the chance to furrow before he turns his neck slowly, careful not to bring too much attention to himself as he prepares to inspect Abel with the scrutiny usually reserved for hardwood floors. “I-I didn’t know that,” he manages to stutter through the blanket of confusion that muffles any rational words that he could have replied with. In fact, the odd sense of displacement he begins to feel creates a lack of preparation for the eye contact that follows. Soo’s heart stops, his eyes threaten to widen—more than they already had, even his fingers trip over themselves, leaving a light scratch on the back of his hand that would soon burn with a nearly transparent crimson hue, not that he even notices.
"I don’t know either."
The words themselves are so delicate, whispered, hushed vessels that break down in the middle of their trip to Abel’s ear, reaching their destination in horrible condition. It’s as if all the nerves in his bodies had stopped responding and died off as long with any confidence that he was doing something right, that the social interaction hadn’t been a complete disaster but something passable and normal. Yet his outer appearance remained the same, most of his body keeping its still composure except for the index finger that was now trailing over the still smooth area that he’d scratched. Abel’s words are the anchor that limits the trail his thoughts can take, the taller man’s simple question ringing in his ears louder than it should have but much clearer, bringing with the simple request an immediate embarrassment.
With an averted gaze and a shy smile he replies almost as quiet as his last string of words, “That’s—are you sure you’d want to hear it? I mean it’s one thing with more than one person around…” His voice trails off once his eyes catch a glance of Abel’s shaking hand which immediately becomes a distraction. Before he can think of what he’s doing his fingers move to wrap around Abel’s thin wrist, propping his hand closer to Soo’s countenance for closer inspection. The taller’s fingers become a reflection on his round umber eyes as he turns the hand around, half in worry and half in wonderment. He was real, he had flaws, he wasn’t the silly specter that Soo had convinced himself was the true identity of the mysterious figure. Something so extraordinary turned out to be just ordinary, a simple man with health problems and his share of addictions.
Repeating the delicacy with which he’d picked up the hand he replaced it atop of Abel’s lap, careful not to brush his own fingers or hand against the man more than the minimal necessity. Even if he was real it didn’t mean his temper wasn’t, the way the night was feeding his curiosity with more mysteries and discoveries to be made only helped him realize how bad he wanted to leave a good impression. More than that, he wanted to dig a tiny seed of friendship, acquaintanceship, anything that would bloom into more time with such a strange creature like Abel. “Why are you always alone when I see you?” Soo asks with the innocent curiosity of a child once his hands clasped together over his left knee, his dark eyes clearly set on Abel’s, “Why do you leave through a different exit than everyone else? Do you hate them?”
— The orphan holds a significant amount of power over the awkward boy, given the evidence of him completely freezing up with an act as mundane as making eye contact. It’s quiet in there and Abel almost hears Kyungsoo’s heart skip a beat. He swears so. Despite Abel’s knowing of how uncomfortable he’s making the other boy by simply being, he’s going to try his best to make the other feel at ease. Though by now he’s running out of ideas and he’s wondering if it’s completely hopeless. Or, maybe the boy’s aloof persona is part of his charm. Either way, Abel wonders about him.
He’s about to respond with something along the lines of yeah, I’m sure but he’s not impulsive so he’ll think it over carefully. Yes, I’m sure or of course or you don’t have to if you don’t want to—what would make the other feel most comfortable? He thinks too much. His original thoughts dissipate uselessly when the awkward boy lifts Abel’s hand. Ah, had he been shaking again? He needs to go to a hospital. But he hates them. So he’ll never go to one as long as he can help it.
He’s never seen his own hands as something awe-inspiring but he’s clearly been missing out because with the way Kyungsoo’s observing them, you’d think they were the hands that touched Elvis himself. They are much colder than Kyungsoo’s and more rough—his finger tips calloused from playing guitar and his knuckles cut from who-knows-what. His fingers are bony, boyish, and somehow they feel awfully lonely. The boy probably won’t realize this. Pretending like such an act isn’t that big a deal, as if maybe it’s something that happens to him often, he reaches out with his free hand to grab his beer bottle by the neck and take a thoughtless swig.
His hand’s back in his lap now, and he’s faced with a question he isn’t completely sure how to answer. He thinks it over, brown-hued gaze trained on the wall behind the television. He can feel the other staring at him.
“——I—don’t hate them. Or anyone. I just know myself best.”
It’s a good enough answer, he thinks. And it makes sense to him.
// i don’t know who you are but i think i probably miss you too! :’(
Staring up at the restaurant in front of her, a daunting feeling suddenly washed over Muni’s form. Clutching firmly onto the baggage in her hands, she set her lips into a thin line. A duffel bag hung from her shoulder; filled with cameras and temperature sensors and other things of that nature. She’d made sure to bring all the things she thought would be necessary for the job. Only a few hours prior to this, she was bursting with excitement and couldn’t wait to get out to the site to investigate the claims. Now, however, she was battling with familiar doubts on whether she’d actually be able to find any paranormal evidence or not.
Shaking the unpleasant thoughts from her head, she squared her shoulders and entered the restaurant with newfound determination. It was cute and quaint and she probably would have visited it often if she had known about it before this. Gliding her fingertips over a shiny counter-top as she walked further into the restaurant, she let her eyes wander. Little things like the paint and the style of the tiles caught her attention. There were decorative items in here that seemed like they were older and probably had come from some other diner that operated decades ago. But that was the motif, it gave her that same feeling watching Grease did and appealed to her greatly. Perhaps the older items had memories that clung to them? Just maybe these memories manifested to their new owners?
It was giving her a new sense of excitement and she pulled herself from her observations to approach the counter. Waiting patiently for the owner, she set her bags down and rolled her shoulders. The straps had bit into her skin and made the area they contacted ache terribly. She was positive red patches had formed as well.
Glancing around, she tried to catch the attention of an employee even though she hadn’t wanted to bother anyone while they were working. Chewing into her bottom lip gently, she let her nails strum along the counter top. After a few moments, she saw someone approach and called out to them. It was a male that, though much taller, looked to be around her age. “Excuse me, sir,” she said in her soft voice, offering a friendly smile. “My name is Muni and I’m here about the reports of ghostly activity.”
Bending her body in a bow, she straightened up with a pleased smile — quite proud of her introduction. At this rate, she was on her way to being a professional ghost hunter in no time.
"Could you show me to the owners?"
— Look after the restaurant while I run over to Mrs. Kim’s place. There’s usually no one around at this time, anyway. You can handle it, can’t you, Abelard? I know you can—you know how to make the usual specials. That’s all they’ll order.
Oh, how he hopes he won’t have to hear the bothersome chime of colliding metal above the door anytime soon. He’s currently in the kitchen, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows as to not get water on them as he washes the dishes. He might be quietly singing along to the music playing on the radio (he was never that great of a singer, instruments are more his forte). Nonetheless, he’s focused. He might also be trying to distract himself from the thought of having to tend to a customer on his own.
♫ My baby loves loving, my baby loves lovin' she's got————and suddenly the door chimes and he’s thinking fucking hell. He’ll sigh, set down the plate he’s working on with careful fingers, dry his hands with a flower-embroidered dish towel and head out there anyway because they really need all the money they can get.
It’s not often that new people enter the restaurant. It’s mostly regulars, like the foreign couple renting a few blocks away, the family that coincidentally has relatives in Canada, the pretty female that made Abel spill soda on himself—there’s more but, you know, it’s mostly regulars. He wouldn’t be so surprised if it was a business man on his way home from work grabbing a bite to eat, but, when a small girl (which he assumes is no more than seventeen years old) with some form of heavy baggage slung over her arm strolls in he’s at least a little bit surprised. Instinctively, he’ll head over to her while wiping his hands with the dish towel and offer her a place to sit. He blows a gust of air up at his bangs to get them out of his eyes but before he can actually say anything she’s introducing herself.
He’s not expecting the words that come out of her mouth at all, really.
“Are you sure you’ve got the right place? No one’s mentioned anything about ghostly activity here—”
She’s bending over in a bow so he’ll return it with one of his own (his perhaps more shallow out of confusion), boyish curls falling back into place against his forehead once he returns to his normal stance. His expression reflects that of peaked interest but she probably can’t tell. His bangs are too long to see his raised brows.
“You’re speaking to ‘em.”
The orphan has the dishtowel in a loose fist resting at his hip. He’s lying. He’s not the owner but if he heads next door to inform his mother, god only knows what she’ll do about it. He wouldn’t be surprised if she rushed over to read out mile-long prayers and hire a priest to rid the building of “evil spirits”. Yeah—not exactly a good idea. The girl will just have to deal with him.
— Abel’s wondering why so many are paying attention to him as of late. Not that he’s complaining, no—he’s just amazed. What would they want with an average, sloppy-lookin’ kid like him? He’s not going to ask that, though. Instead he’ll just peer at the other from beneath coarse, tangled curls and return the bow. He’s not going to say anything just yet because he’s awfully shy around strangers unless under the influence. He’s diverting his attention back to the informative print of his magazine, legs crossing at the ankles.
Wandering through the streets of Seoul, it was a pretty warm day considering it was October—that didn’t bother her though, she still wanted her hot cup of coffee. She felt bright and happy today, it was as though she was awake, usually she felt exhausted for no apparent reason so today was a nice change. Ambling into the small café she smiled at the woman behind the counter, “just the usual, please.” She giggled as the other gave her a knowing look and a friendly smile.
— He’s sitting by himself at the café, bony elbows propped against the smooth, crumb-free surface of the table and dull, boyish fingers curled around a coffee mug, his bleary eyes trained on the dollop of whipped cream floating in an aimless jitter amongst the bitter liquid. There’s a window next to him, chilled with condensation which he, earlier, decided to draw two eyes and a smile on with his little finger. He’s like a child with how easily he’s distracted.
He’s thankful for his thrift store, over-sized sweater because despite it being fairly warm outside, the heating system is down for maintenance indoors. However, he’s not so thankful for the five-minutes-ago coffee stain on his sleeve. Also, why is he even drinking coffee? Café mocha or whatever they called it. He would much rather be sipping on a beer or—or any sort of alcoholic beverage, really. It doesn’t matter. Oh, now he’s thinking about drinking again. Wonderful.
It’s because his mother suggested him being around people more often. ‘Because when is he ever going to settle down with a nice woman and start thinking about his future. As far as he’s concerned, there aren’t any couples to grow inspired by in this little café. Unless, you know—that group of three girls are in some sort of three-way relationship and that old man is on a date with his deceased wife. The place is nowhere near booming with customers and because of this—or because of his boyish good looks—the lady at the till gave him a discount.
Now here’s something—a pretty blonde walked in. Perhaps she’s meeting with someone. Abelard, get ready to be inspired.
The bare soles of Yoonji’s feet slap against the rain-dampened ground as she’s pulled along after the man who’s clutching onto her delicate hand as if she might get lost. His stride is much longer than hers, and she’s almost sprinting to keep up with him by the time they reach the baseball diamond at the far side of the field. She’s thankful when he slows down a bit, reducing the probability of her slipping on the slick earth as she continues to propel herself forward through the downpour. It isn’t long now before they arrive at the rusted gate they had entered through what felt to Yoonji to be hours ago, her abandoned heels still laying undisturbed where she’d carelessly kicked them off. In a rushed venture, the dancer tightens her grip on the other’s hand for stability and bows forward quickly to hook two of her unoccupied fingers through the straps of the black shoes, righting herself with a grin as she continues on through the unfamiliar neighborhood with her shoes dangling at her side.
Explosions of water erupt from the pavement as the two race through the shallow puddles forming on the pavement, the weak splashes only aiding the rain in soaking them to the bone. It’s pointless at this point however, she thinks, judging by the way her hair stings her skin as it whips against her shoulders and how tightly the fabric of her dress is clinging to her now; she’s already completely drenched.
— The female’s leading him into the core of his own apartment, the familiar scent of his home filling his chest with some sort of deep seated comfort. ‘Smells a little musky (how you’d expect a basement to smell) and it’s difficult to ignore the vague aroma of spring water incense. He thought it’d be a good idea, being a nature lover and all, but actually burning it did nothing but give him a headache. That was about three weeks ago. To this day, the smell remains, threaded through the fibers of his carpet and clinging to his drapes. Anyway, Abelard, in his ridiculous, temporary love-struck state follows her without a word. She stops, faces him, and he looks at her with an expression ridden with amusement. No—that’s not it. He’s charmed by her. Is it too obvious?
He could have just as easily pocketed his keys, but discarding them in a careless toss also works. He’d probably be startled by the semi-loud clatter of the metal meeting the sleek glass surface so abruptly if he wasn’t intoxicated. And perhaps if his mess of assorted nature magazines didn’t somewhat mute the twang of impact.
She saunters up to him and it isn’t really much of a saunter at all, but in the orphan’s mind the movement of her hips is so painstakingly languid that within the marrow of his fingers, the desire to touch her grows strong and unavoidable. Her fingers must feel the same, granted they’re landing upon his shoulders and—she’s pulling him down to kiss her. And so he does kiss her. While she’s dreaming of perfectly coordinated concertos and pirouettes, his mind is pounding with the heavy bass line of garage rock that does nothing more than scream pure, mindless sex.But he’ll kiss her because she wants to be kissed, as most girls do. Luckily, he’s awful good at it.