#gonna save up for some art work and maybe make a gallery wall above the tv console/cabinet in front of my bed

[red-winters]

Finished painting the room (& repainting the ceiling)!

(pls ignore the dirty windows, I’ll wash those eventually 😅 it’s been a very dusty few months & we live in a desert)

[xmint-conditionx]

☆ flanked ☆ ch2 | knj

(verb) flank -

guard or strengthen (a military force or position) from the side.

attack down or from the sides, or rake with gunfire from the sides.

☆ pairing: soldier!namjoon x widow!reader; namjoon x fem!reader ☆ word count: 3.1K ☆ summary: you’re a recently widowed military spouse who is stationed at camp walker, south korea. you’re dealing with the tragedy of your husband’s recent death, and in the process, you accidentally meet a k-pop idol you’ve had a crush on for years. who knew you’d both be at the same post while he’s doing his compulsory service? who knew he’d be so damn nice? who knew it would be impossible to get him out of your head? ☆ warnings: angst, mentions of death, grieving, lots of fluff in this chapter tbh and you might die because dork namjoon has come to the party ☆ a/n: hey everyone c: sorry this repost is a little late; i've been sick the past two days and holed up in bed for the last one. i'm so excited to release this for you and start on the next chapter.

It is 6:05 in the morning, and you are awake. Not wide awake, but awake. You can’t believe you let Namjoon convince you to get up this early, because frankly, nobody has ever convinced you to get up this early. When he said that you’d have to get there first thing in the morning so you can see everything, you really didn’t think he would mean you’d have to get there at 7 AM. It’s always been your philosophy that it’s wrong to wake up before the sun, and you’re finding that getting out of bed in your pitch black room isn’t easy. You’re gonna have to make sure to clarify everything that man says in the future. Ugh, military men, you think.

You groan, muscles stiff as you finally manage to get yourself out of bed.

Bananas is obviously not getting the memo, the only sign of him being his fluffy tail poking out from under the covers. He’s never been into early mornings either.

Namjoon sent you a text yesterday and told you that the exhibit that he really wants to show you requires tickets. He then told you that because they only sell 100 tickets per day on a first come first serve basis; getting in line any later than 7 AM would surely be entirely too late, apparently. The Daegu Art Museum opens at 10, tickets go on sale at 9:30, yet you need to be in line no later than 7? Sure.

He seemed really excited about the exhibit, though, saying that Yayoi Kusama, whoever that person was, was a genius. So… you couldn’t exactly turn him down. Her works were deep and breathtaking and spoke so much about life, according to Namjoon. He had promised it would be worth it, and you thought about that promise as you groggily did your morning routine. Yeah, you thought, it had better be. If only he hadn’t sent too many pleading-eye emojis.

You grabbed your over the shoulder bag and gave Bananas a good belly rub before heading outside.

Despite being almost non-functional this early in the morning, you beat Namjoon to the museum. Gawking at the massive modern building, you walk up to the front doors, where a decent line has already formed. Okay, maybe he was right.

You find yourself a place at the back of the line and just as you reach in your bag to grab your phone to text him, you see Namjoon walking in your direction, long legs making short work of catching up to you. You catch his eyes lingering on your bare legs as he approaches, and for just a moment, you’re glad you chose to wear this skirt.

“Morning, Namjoon,” you groan, leaning up against the museum’s outer wall. More people start filing in line after you, and you’re thankful Namjoon wasn’t too late. “I guess you were right. Look at all these people.”

“Morning, peach,” he says with another one of his dimpled grins, “Glad it’s warming up out? It’s supposed to hit 20 degrees today.”

“Okay, it is entirely too early for you to be this happy,” you say, voice groggy. Namjoon just shrugs.

“Guess I’m just excited.”

You look around the small crowd that has formed and notice that a lot of the people are sitting up against the wall while they wait. You decide to do the same.

“I am too, trust me,” you say, back resting against the cool stone, “I’m just not usually up this early.”

“I see. Maybe conversation can keep you awake. Are there any other places in Daegu you want to see?” Namjoon inquires.

“Well, there is that aquarium I keep hearing about. One of my coworkers on post says that there are mermaids that do a little performance with the fish.”

“Oh! I know which one you’re talking about! I’ve actually been there a few times. I love it there! Fish are so cool.”

“Before I went into veterinary science,” you say, “I was originally planning on being a marine biologist.”

“You’re a vet? I didn’t know that! No wonder Bananas looks like such a happy pup!”

“Yeah,” you say, letting your head fall back, “he really is. But, I really want to go check it out. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to an aquarium.”

“The mermaid performers swim around with a bunch of stingrays. Stingrays are actually not that dangerous, especially if they have the barbs removed from their tails.”

You feel your eyes growing heavy.

“Wow, I didn’t know that.”

“A lot of people think they’re really dangerous because Steve Irwin died from a sting from a stingray, but his injury was a result of the barb piercing his thoracic wall. Most stingray injuries are actually very mild.”

“That’s interesting,” you say quietly, eyes fluttering closed.

“Some people think that cutting down their barbs is abuse, but it’s like cutting off a fingernail to humans. They don’t feel it at all and it grows back over time.”

“Mhmmmmm,” you say as you feel yourself slipping back into sleep.

“It’s the touch tanks that can be a little problematic,” Namjoon continues, oblivious, “Stingrays have a type of mucus that covers their body that protects them from bacteria. If that gets rubbed off, they become vulnerable. A lot of zoos and aquariums are taking plenty of precautionary measures though, like making sure the guests wash their hands before and after they experience the touch tank. In fact, I think that given the proper precautions, touch tanks…”

______________

The warmth next to you feels like home, and threatens to pull you back to sleep. You feel yourself holding onto something... firm and yet so soft, but it’s comforting, so you tighten your grip and nuzzle further in. You then feel a gentle breeze run across your legs and wonder where your blankets have gone. Bananas has probably hogged them all. You breathe in and smell laundry detergent, a little musk and… men’s deodorant? There’s the quiet chatter of birdsong, and an unmistakable trickle of water, and you instantly remember where you are.

Your eyes snap open to find yourself snuggled up to Namjoon, arms hooked around his bicep and cheek against his shoulder. He seems un-bothered by your lack of respect for his personal space; he doesn’t even look up from his book. Like it’s the most natural thing for you to be attached to him like this. Embarrassed, you quickly distance yourself from him and apologize profusely while he just chuckles a bit. He puts his bookmark in to keep his place and turns towards you as you blink yourself awake, tasting the dryness in your mouth. Oh god, you must have had your mouth open.

“It’s fine, peach. I didn’t even realize you were asleep until you started snoring.”

You gasp. “I did not!”

“Oh, you did,” he says, eyeing you playfully, “It was only a little though. And it was really quiet. Kind of cute, actually.” You play hit him in the arm that you had just been latched on to.

“Hey, don’t be mad at me. I bought your ticket!”

“You what?! What time is it?” you ask, scrambling to look at your phone. It was 5 minutes until open. “Namjoon, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I was going to, but you were sleeping so hard...”

“Well, at least that means I wasn’t all over you this entire time.”

“Oh, no," he says, "you were.”

You groan. “How did you get up and buy the tickets then without me knowing?”

“A man has to have some secrets, you know. Come on, let’s go look at some art.”

The inside of the Daegu Art Museum is stunning. The lobby is bright and open; the sunlight pours into that first room through the large windows, casting a lovely morning light on all of the bright and cheery visitors. Some of the larger pieces are displayed in this grand lobby, some towering ten of feet above you.

“Namjoon, this is beautiful.”

“Just you wait, Come on, first we’ll do classical, then lunch, then modern art. The best one we’ll save for last.”

Classical art wasn’t your favorite, but Namjoon got absorbed in just about every piece. When he saw one that really grabbed his attention, he would sit there gawking at it, mouth open as he read from the little plaque next to it. The way his eyes filled with wonder and widened with discovery at the newly rotated paintings was absolutely adorable. He almost had this child-like wonder about him, eagerly looking back and forth from the plaque to the painting and back again. You almost enjoyed studying Namjoon instead of the art.

You let him take the lead, showing you some of his favorite pieces as you navigate through the galleries. He is definitely in his element here. After he finishes his embellished tour of the classical works, you both decide it would be a good time to break for lunch. The museum has a little cafe, so Namjoon takes care of waiting for your orders while you are tasked with finding a nice spot to spread your blanket outside on the grounds. You see a spot beneath a tree offering up a little shade, so you spread the blanket over the soft grass and take your place, closing your eyes and breathing in the fresh air. Namjoon soon arrives with your food, and settles down next to you.

Before you start to eat, you remove your cardigan, exposing your chest and arms to the air, hoping to enjoy some of the new warmth in Daegu. You hear Namjoon take a sharp inhale, and thinking something’s wrong, you quickly look over at him. He’s got his eyes trained on you, and he swallows hard before he realizes you’re looking at him. He jerks his gaze away, finds something else to look at and shakes his head, as if to clear it. Was he… checking you out?

“Sorry, I thought I uh…” he trails off, “thought I saw a bug. It was, uh, just a shadow.”

“Uh, thanks for uh, looking out,” you say, before a thought strikes you, “Hey, Namjoon. I brought my painting stuff with me today. I was hoping to paint a little while we eat, is that okay? I don’t want to be bad company.”

He perks up, “Oh, yeah, sure. I can just keep reading my book. Hypervelocity stars aren’t going to learn about themselves!”

You set about getting out your watercolor palette, planning on using some of your bottled water to wet your paints. For some reason, you glance back over at Namjoon. He’s sitting with his back against the tree, legs crossed at the ankles, book in one hand, and bao in the other. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed together in concentration, and he lazily takes a bite, not even looking at the bao bun. You hold back a giggle when you see he got some sauce on his mouth. You can’t help but point it out by getting his attention and tapping your own bottom lip. Namjoon studies you for a minute, and slowly licks his bottom lip, almost too slowly. Before you can register what he had just done, he just smiles at you innocently and goes back to reading his book.

This man is going to kill you, so he might as well be the subject for your art. The way he’s positioned himself is just too adorable to ignore.

After getting the basic shape of his outline done and halfway through the details in his face, he stirs from his place under the tree. You watch him as he places his book down carefully on the blanket and walks toward your back, steps ever so gentle. You turn your head and see a little bird hopping around on the grass, and Namjoon is after it. He breaks off a piece of bread from his second bao and extends it towards the bird, who eyes him suspiciously. To your surprise though, it hops forward and takes the bread, chirping up at Namjoon. He goes to sit cross legged on the ground, but doing so ends up startling the bird, who then flies a short distance away on the lawn. Namjoon sulks and pouts a little before getting up and walking after the bird. This is the craziest thing you have ever seen. You love animals so much that you’ve dedicated your career to helping them stay healthy, but this is on a whole other level.

You go back to refining your art, throwing some color into the sky and on the tree, seeing as your main subject has wandered off.

You’re startled when he comes back from behind you.

“How’s the art coming?” he asks, looking over your shoulder at your book, “Hey! Is that me?!”

“Well, it was going to be until you started playing Snow White.”

“Yeah…” he says, looking down at what’s left of his sandwich, “the little guy ate all my bread.”

You laugh a little at him as he frowns at the char siu pork filling barely being contained by the thinnest bun dough you’ve ever seen. Widening his eyes, he downs the rest of the bao bun in one bite.

“Dind youh whanna fhinish youhr phaintingh?” he says, covering his full mouth as he speaks.

“I can finish it some other time. Let’s go see the modern stuff before I want another nap.”

Stepping into the large room that houses the modern art, you take in a sharp breath with how absolutely full it is. Sculptures, paintings, installations; and in the back of the room is a line leading to a small door. You don’t know where to look first, so thankfully your personal tour guide is there to show you the way.

You’re reading the plaque on a minimalistic piece when Namjoon comes and grabs your wrist, excitedly ushering you to follow him. He leads you to the other side of the room where he stops in front of a section of blank wall, gesturing for you to look at it. You sit there and wonder what in the world he could be talking about when you see it. A piece of bright pink gum is stuck to the pristine white wall.

“This wasn't here last time!” he exclaims in a whisper. “I can’t believe this.”

“Yeah, kinda sucks that someone did that.”

“No, you don’t get it. This is an installation.”

“... are you sure about that?”

“Yeah! Look, it's about how such a simple thing can ruin something so large. Like finding a fly in your chardonnay, or there being a hair in your food, or one small imperfection in a person ruining your whole view of them.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s actual trash, Namjoon.”

“Of course it’s actual trash. I don’t think the artist could have gotten the point across without using actual chewing gum. It says so much. It might also be depicting the actual process of tainting something too! Like, how long did the artist chew the gum before they stuck it there? How much time and effort did it take them to ruin this whole wall with their gum? Where’s the plaque?”

As Namjoon searches the nearby walls for a plaque, a janitor comes by and scrapes off the gum, smiling gently at the both of you. You send Namjoon a pointed look, one that’s screaming “I told you so,” and then you both start laughing, having to hold back most of the sound in the quiet of the viewing space.

“Okay, last but not least. You ready?” The two of you were next in line to enter that small door you had seen at the back of the room when you first entered. The lady taking the tickets had already informed you that you would have five minutes once the door shut. You still had no idea what to expect.

“Yeah, I guess I had better be.” The door opened, letting out the museum goer who had just been in there.

Namjoon leaned up to your ear from behind and gently said, “Close your eyes.”

You were about to protest when he continued speaking, placing his hands on your shoulders, “I’ll walk you in there and tell you when to open. Trust me?”

You answered him by letting your lids drop. You felt him guide you by your shoulders as you walked gently forward and then to the right. You could tell that the floor texture had changed from the concrete you’d been walking on all day to something more plastic. You heard the door softly click shut behind you.

“Open,” he commanded softly, and you complied.

You could not make sense out of what you were seeing. The view went on forever, but you could tell that the actual room was so very small. Directly in front of you and on all sides were mirrors, infinitely reflecting off of themselves into the horizon. You were both completely surrounded by them. Scattered around the part of the room that wasn’t the black platform that you were standing on were delicate fairy lights in a cool white tone. It felt like you were floating in a void, so endless and empty. There were specks of brightness, but they did nothing to change the darkness enveloping you. Though it felt infinite, there was a nagging sense of being trapped. Surrounded on all sides. It was beautiful and terrifying to look at. Consumed by everything and nothing. You forgot Namjoon was there until he spoke quietly against your ear.

“This is what I think grief looks like. If it could take a physical form, this would be it.”

He’s right. He’s so right. You’re being swallowed by emptiness. You both are.

You both stand there in silence for the next few minutes, Namjoon’s warmth radiating onto your back, his hands still on your shoulders. Occasionally, his breath would brush against the nape of your neck.

“You really get it, don’t you?” you ask quietly.

“I can’t say I understand what it’s like to lose a spouse, peach. But I understand grief in my own way. I know this sounds crazy, because I don’t believe in any higher power, but I think we were supposed to meet each other.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean... “ he starts, “I just feel better when I’m around you. I feel like a… better person. You don’t treat me like... “ he stops himself.

“Like what, Namjoon?”

“You don’t treat me like other people do. In a lot of ways. That’s... the easiest way to say it.”

You just nod, wanting to soak up these last few moments in this room with him. In this dark space, it’s not so scary to get close. You allow yourself to lean back into him, and he stiffens up for a moment before circling his arms around you.

“We’re gonna get through all of this together,” he says against your ear, “I promise. Together.”

[greasygyeom]

Title: Look at Me

By: GreasyGyeom

Summary: Graduation Ceremony and a sea of people, will you be able to make it through the day? Jinyoung x Reader. Angst/Fluff. Trigger Warning: Death

Playlist: 170830

Author’s Note: (i) San-nakji (산낙지) is a variety of raw dish made with long arm octopus. Although the octopuses are killed before cut into small pieces and served, the nerve activity in the octopus’ tentacles makes the pieces still squirming posthumously on the plate when served.

(ii) I’ve always thought music and reading goes really well together. It’s new format I’m trying. If you would like some soothing bgm that goes with the piece, hit up the link above! It’s a great way to share music too, so let me know if it worked out for you!! Love <3 <3

Graduation day.

Yes, it’s graduation day; the day you finally complete five years of studying art. The day you get that stamp of approval from a bunch of really old people that you are indeed qualified to freely express your mind via any visual medium necessary.

You lay in bed, twisted awkwardly, thinking about the day ahead of you and dread every unholy second that inches it closer.

Social situations make you uncomfortable and jittery. You talk too fast, you tap your feet a lot and your attention span reduces to that of a 15 year old adrenaline junkie in the worlds biggest amusement park, who is constantly nauseated but out of compulsion needs to experience every ride.

But, things are always different when he’s around. Suddenly being in a crowd feels less like a clown circus and more like an art gallery where you’re able to glide through without your head exploding.

So the only activity you are actually looking forward to is seeing Jinyoung, because he somehow manages to make things better, every time.

Thinking about getting on stage, your brain automatically begins to list the scenarios that could cause potential embarrassment. Tripping and falling on and over numerous objects takes up the first few bullet numbers — spearheading your decision to wear boots — flat boots.

You pick up a dress to go with it. Of course it’s all black — you rarely pick any other colour — and pair it with some simple silver accessories.

You force yourself out of the semi-coma you’ve been lying in and take a quick shower. The anxiety begins to spread through your body. You consider tidying up your room in an effort to sooth yourself, an invisible pros and cons list already forming in your brain.

The cons list wins, obviously. You possibly can’t clean every nook and cranny in the time available and if you had to leave the process of cleaning half way through, it would give you more anxiety than you initially began with. You really have no choice but to breathe and drink water.

Tissues. Your brain suddenly buzzes as you close the bottle cap, like a phone alarm springing to life on snooze; because what if something or someone spills liquids - no, worse, solids - on you.

You spend a considerable amount of time looking for the soft kind for runny noses in case you felt especially teary, the rough kind for cleaning that didn’t leave paper traces all over clothes and the wet kind for miscellaneous germ related quirks.

You take your time to get ready, switch on some music and mildly successfully dance away your nervousness.

But somewhere in the middle you let out a yawn.

Coffee, you need so much coffee to go through with this day.

As usual, your irrational fear of not waking up on time has kept you up through the night and as a collateral not only have you been awake for more than 24 hours you’ve also managed to get ready to leave almost an hour early.

“Should have listened to him.” You absentmindedly speak to your dull grey walls and proceed to ‘Netflix and chill’ on your sofa (without the innuendos involved, of course).

After 40 minutes of being on the edge of your seat while watching Stranger, you check the contents of your bag, one final time.

Time really does fly past when you’re engrossed in Jo Seung-Woo’s brilliant acting.

You quickly throw in your lip-balm and check the clock. Five minutes. You scramble to make sure all the plug points are switched off in your apartment — a quirk you’ve picked up from Jinyoung.

You lock up and head downstairs to find a cab.

Of course it rains down on the day you need to step out.

You don’t live too far from campus, you can easily walk it, but choose not to get splashed with muddy water by an inconsiderate driver. With your luck, the chances of it happening are magnified.

Your phone leaps to life as you sit inside the car. There’s an instant smile on your face.

“Hey Moon, all set?” he asks from the opposite end of the line.

“As set as I could be, I think.”

He can hear your anxiety through the phone. “You didn’t sleep. I told you I could call you and wake you up.”

“I know, I should’ve listened to you.”

He chuckles. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you yesterday. I really wanted to. I wanted to drive you up on your big graduation day.”

“Aw, it’s alright Peach, it’s not that big of a deal. But, I’ll be seeing you later yeah?”

“Of course it’s big deal! I’m actually just dropping some paperwork at the torture chamber right now, I’ll come as soon as I’m done.

Are you nervous?”

You laugh at his torture chamber comment.

“A little maybe? I just don’t want to…. be embarrassed in any way, that’s all. I just need the universe to be this kind today. Get in get out — no fu - udge ups,’ you sheepishly conclude, patting yourself for not actually mouthing the profanity.

His dislike for foul language is as vehement as your dislike for raw octopus, so you seldom cross that line.

You can mentally see his eyes wrinkle around the edges, at your syllabic swerve. A windy snicker reaches your ears. “Nice save dummie, you were so close to eating san-nakji today.

“Never.” you declare with an unwavering determination; the very thought of un cooked food — and not just any food, seafood — sending a shiver down your spine. “Anyway, I’ve reached Uni…. almost. See you when I see you, Peach.”

You hang up and mentally prepare yourself for hypothetical social interactions that may or may not take place, through the rest of the distance.

When you step foot on the cobblestones of your campus, you take in all the air you can. It’s not that you can’t breathe, you really can — but who’s going to convince your brain that.

In the five years you spent locked up in the art halls, studying anatomy, inhaling acrylic paint fumes, you acquaint yourself with a handful of people, none of whom you wish to bump into, at least not alone. Unfortunately, with your only actual friend away on vacation you’re left to suffer the sea of students alone, until Jinyoung’s arrival.

You push your earphones in and switch on your playlist, letting the sweet sounds of the guitar serenade your tense nerves.

Everywhere you look there’s parents following their children to designated seats, going to the art gallery where all the final projects are displayed, buying souvenirs, visiting the mess doing things together and that imagery starts unraveling a tightly sewn hole inside your heart.

You yawn again.

Coffee.

You’re not in the mood for any kind of physical exercise, but you could also walk to the edge of this earth for a cup of good coffee, Kunzum was luckily on a few ways away.

“Hey Minsoo.” you greet your regular barista, at the campus cafe - your safe place.

“Same order?”

“Yeah, Iced Caramel Macchiato, extra strong.”

“Coming right up. You need a doughnut to go with?”

“No, I’m gonna pass on that. I thought you guys would be shut today?”

“I kept it open just for you.”

You realise how much you would miss your bants with him. He’d been your only source of caffeine for 5 years. He probably knows you better than your classmates ever will.

“Should I keep an Americano ready for Jinyoung?”

“You’re the best, Minsoo.“

He grins through his heavy beard and moustache.

The cafe is in a quaint corner of the campus, surrounded by shrubs of Forsythia. Spring was never your season, but as you sit there by your favourite window seat and reminisce the divinity of your campus with the cold-ish winds and sun kissed yellow flowers blooming all over, you can’t help but feel slightly gloomy. You would no longer be able to watch your favourite cherry blossom tree unfold before your eyes.

A deep sigh escapes you, suddenly roadblocking your throat.

You spent five years preoccupied with deadlines and keeping up with your professors and libraries and finessing techniques and it only just dawns on you how empty your schedule is going to be henceforth.

A degree in art isn’t exactly a gateway to becoming a well paid corporate ring leader — not that you want to be one either — but your mind is making you second guess yourself at this point. Maybe you should have gotten that degree in psychology.

“Macchiato right out of the freezer.” Minsoo interrupts, placing the take away cup on your table. You check your phone - still almost an hour for the actual ceremony to commence.

You take in a sip of familiarity.

Your memories race back to a time when you were in your second year — when you’d met Jinyoung in this very cafe for the first time. You smile vaguely, picturing him in the seat by the wall, so engrossed in and visibly distressed by Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore.

The details are a little hazy — it has been three years after all — but what you remember with utmost clarity is the way his expression changed, as he read along the plot twist; how he nodded his head gently as he understood the subtleties of the text.

He had looked so genuine, diving into the depths of what you considered Mr. Murakami’s best work. He’d caught you staring and you had very uncharacteristically smiled back, instead of hiding your face in embarrassment.

He’d ended up buying you another coffee. You’d ended up staying there with him till closing time. The nostalgia makes you weary.

“Miss me?” His face comes into focus.

You’re unable to hide your surprise. “How did you know I was here?”

“I asked myself, where would my caffeine addicted girlfriend be on this campus and my genius brain led me here,” he replies, bending to kiss you on the cheek.

“Some day you’re going to get punched in the face because of your smart mouth.”

You grin, he pouts.

“Your coffee is ready by the way,” you inform, pointing towards Minsoo.

Jinyoung returns holding the donut you had earlier declined.

“Eat,” he says, shoving it in your hand.

You find it difficult to say no to him.

“See you later Minsoo,” you chime from the doorway, gulping in your coffee.

“I want to see your project,” Jinyoung tells you.

“You want to…. see my final project?’

“Why the rhetoric?”

“No! I was just wondering…why?”

He looks at you with a blank expression, his mouth slightly open and his very plump lips curving into a slight o; conveying his feelings with a slight exaggeration.

“Moon, you nearly starved yourself trying to finish it. I want to see what’s more important than food, for you.”

“Only food is important.”

“More important than I am?” he teases.

“You’re a Peach, you’re food alright.”

He laughs, habitually covering up his face to stop his teeth from showing. How you hate that habit of his.

You turn left at the next corridor and make way towards the gallery. Truth be told, even you hadn’t seen your work, post submission. You are just as curious to see what it looks like hanging from a wall.

Walking through those halls next to each other feels like déjà vu from Jinyoung’s graduation two years ago; a time when you weren’t even sure if your relationship would make it beyond the walls of your school.

“Nothing’s changed, but everything’s changed,” Jinyoung breathes in, entering through the gallery doors.

You look around, “It’s that one, the diptych,” you point at two frames, 3rd from the door.

He’s in disbelief and doesn’t hide it. You watch him watch the artwork carefully. He studies it the same way you remember him studying Murakami — with absolute diligence.

He finally looks at you. “You made us?”

Your eyes bolt to the floor. You don’t anticipate the embarrassment that is now painting your cheeks red.

“It’s beautiful.”

Did he really call it beautiful?

“You like it?” you ask, fiddling with your hands.

“Theres a boy, sitting and reading a book on the moon,” he analyses the diptych with a smile on his face. “The same boy is at a coffee shop with the moon shining above. It’s so poetic.”

“I — thanks,” you blurt out. “I tried to not be cheesy about it.”

It was, however, a mild confession of how deeply he had impacted your life. Somewhere in these 3 years he’d started calling you Moon, and somewhere — thinking about it in the last few months — your artwork had come to life.

He looks at you deeply, like he’s searching for something in your soul. You feel transparent under his gaze. He can see through all your walls and peek into your heart without you wanting to fight that feeling of being exposed and vulnerable.

You know what he wants to say, even though he doesn’t say it. He’s subtle like that, always talking with his eyes.

There’s an announcement about the ceremony and the gallery starts to empty out instantaneously.

You yelp and hide behind Jinyoung after spotting one of your acquaintances.

Please let him not find me — you’re quite literally begging the universe at this point.

“Moon, he’s waving at you.”

“No, oh god no.”

“Hi!” Daehyun excitedly greets you. He’s…..chirpy, as always. “It’s great I ran into you, I was just telling my parent’s about you! Your piece! It’s amazing!“

“Haha, thanks. It’s alright, I guess”. Your fake laugh is terrible.

“Did your parent see it? Are they here? Oh man! They must be so proud!”

Your heart falls to the bottom of your stomach.

“I’m with —“ your voice betrays you.

“I’m here with her,” Jinyoung takes over, wrapping his arm around you to keep you from falling.

“You said your parents were here? Are you making them wait? It’s not polite to make your parents wait like that”.

The harshness in his tone combined with the kindness in his eyes throws Daehyun off-guard. “Oh. Yeah, yeah, sorry. I should really get back to them. I’ll see you after the ceremony!” he smiles, bows and runs off.

When Jinyoung turns to you, there’s nothing but worry lines all across his face. “Are you okay?”

You nod, wanting to put his troubles to rest in one go, “I’m fine, Peach”.

He leads you through the arched hallway towards the ceremony grounds. “I’ll see you on stage. You’ll do great.”

You smile nervously as your mind edges closer towards panic mode.

“I should not have let you drink that coffee,” he sighs, catching your hands in his and rubbing them gently. He knows the numbness has reached your fingertips already, seeing how fidgety you are.

“It’s okay, I’m okay. They’ll call my name, and I will walk on stage and walk off stage and I will be fine,” you reply reassuringly, talking more to yourself than him.

“I can see you get your degree from the side, I don’t mind.”

You gently decline his offer, “I want you seated and looking proud of me.”

“I’m already proud of you, Moon.”

His encouragement gives you some strength, but against the influx of 6 year old repressed feelings, it feels a tad bit inadequate.

A high tide washes over you, drenching your consciousness with bitter sweet memories. You wish for your parents. You wish for them to be with you so desperately in this moment.

The speeches begin; your hear starts to race. You pacify yourself with the incentive of it being over soon. But then what?

What are you supposed to do when you get back home. Tomorrow? In a week? What about three months later when you’re still lying on your cold floor, still asking for a bus to hit you one day.

No no no.

No.

You’re not going to do this.

A violent siren triggers in your mind. The darkness begins to widen as an old wound stares you at point blank range. The accident. The cremation. The funeral. The people. So many people, sitting, waiting for you to say something. To tell them how unfortunate it is that your parents passed away. How regretful you feel that you couldn’t even tell them goodbye. How terrified you are of leading a life without them. How proud you wanted to make them.

Your name is announced — Once. Twice.

The third time you snap out of your daze.  

Stumbling forward with what feels like an anchor lodged in your chest, you step onto the stage, cross all the board of directors and shake hands with the dean.

“First Division, very impressive.”

“Thank you, Sir.” you absent-mindedly reply, taking the scroll in your hand.

You want to run away from there as soon as possible because you don’t know how much longer you could hold off the tears welling up inside you.

Jinyoung sees through your exterior, just from how withdrawn and controlled your body language is. His eyes follow you off the stage; you vanish in a split second.

He immediately dials your number.

The number you have dialled is currently busy.

“Ah no, Moon,” he sighs under his breath and gets up to leave. He apologises to everyone in the row for causing a disturbance and sprints, as soon as he’s away from the crowd, in what he thinks to be the right direction.

His foot steps echo through the empty buildings, louder than a snare.

He tries your number again, only to get the same response. He stops in the middle of the atrium; realising the absurdity of running a wild goose chase.

He rakes his brain for your hiding spots.

The cafe is out of the question, Minsoo would ask questions.

The classrooms are shut.

The park outside your main arts building is closed for landscaping.

It leaves only one viable place — the library.

He takes a u-turn and exits through the gym, going through a shortcut to your favourite place on the campus. Out of the 5 libraries, he goes to the one farthest from the main campus — the one closest to the forest.

“Did a girl come through here, maybe fifteen minutes ago?” he asks the proxy-librarian in a hushed whisper.

“Maybe,” the man replies.

Maybe — he could work with maybe. He skips three steps at a time on the stairway to reach the 3rd floor and heads to the section he’s hoping to find you hiding in.

His footsteps soften in an effort to not startle you.

You’re sitting on the small stool people usually climb on to reach the top shelf — hunched over, shaking, hiding your face in your palms, breathing shallow and fast, in the middle of a pool of tissue papers.

You feel some movement around you, but couldn’t be bothered by it.

“Hey Moon, please forget to fall down. Hey Moon, don’t you go down.” he sings, very softly, sitting in front of you, waiting for you to look up. It’s a line from one of your favourite songs. It’s a line he sings to you often, when you’re experiencing your world crashing down.

“Why do you keep finding me,” you groggily ask, sniffing in your tears.

“I’m your muse, aren’t I? I’m supposed to find you.”

“I want to vanish. Jinyoung. I miss them so much.”

He doesn’t say much, just puts his arms around you. You break down even worse than before. All the wind in your lungs empties out with your sobs and you hold onto him for dear life; fearing if you let go, the last glimmer of hope would disappear too.

You keep your head buried in his chest.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do”.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Nothing makes sense to me. I thought if I tried to forget about it — about the accident, I could convince myself it never happened. I thought I could forget them. I thought I could live without them. And most days I’m able to. I got pretty good at it. But then there’s days like today. And I can’t help but hate everyone and every thing,” you ramble.

“Do you need me to schedule a session for you? Tell me whatever you need, Moon”

You shake your head. “What if I fail Jinyoung? At life? What if I’m unsuccessful? And mediocre? What if I die without anyone knowing who I was and what I did? What if one day you wake up and realise you don’t love me anymore? What will I do, Jinyoung. I can’t watch everyone leave me again.”

Another wave of uncontrollable hot tears streams down your cheeks and onto his shirt. You weep incessantly. Your throat is so blocked you feel as if you could choke and die at any moment. And you’re embarrassed — so embarrassed for blabbing out everything on your mind without filtering it. So, not only do you feel like absolute shit, you feel like absolute clingy shit.

You let go of him.

The library tiles below hold your attention for all the excruciating minutes that pass.

“Hey-hey-hey, look at me,” he says, cupping your face. Your cheeks are damper than a riverbed.

You keep retracing the concentric patterns of the floor, unwilling to face him. He nudges your chin, his palms still generating heat on your flesh, forcing you to make eye contact.

You fall fast and deep into the black liquid swirling in his soft eyes. You’re overcome with the same warmth you feel wrapped in a quilt on a cold night. Everything suddenly seems…. manageable again.

He grazes his thumbs over your eye-bags, wiping the residual saline liquid off your face.

“Do you trust me?” He asks.

Do you?

You think back to all the times he had come through for you. How he’d witnessed so many of your firsts, when even after two years you felt like a stranger in the city. When you had moved to a new dorm and he’d carried your belongings, for you. When you had moved into your first apartment all by yourself. When you had accidentally burnt your new apartment kitchen and had called him even before thinking about calling the fire department. When your kitten had passed away and he had come over with a tub of ice cream without saying anything.

All the times you’d driven him crazy and he’d never let you feel any less loved. The times he’d waited in the parking lot during your psych visits even though you’d asked him to leave.

He’d been there for everything, no questions asked.

How could you not.

You dip your head low and mumble a barely audible “I trust only you.”

“Then will you trust me when I say you’re going to do something good with your life?”

The tears well up in your eyes again.

He boops your nose with his before placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

“I could wake up and not be in love with you one day Moon, humans are fickle — you taught me that. But, so could you. So, how about we cross that bridge if we reach it?”

You bury your head in his chest when he encloses you in a tight embrace, settling a whirlpool of uncertain emotions in your mind.

“I’m sorry, I unloaded all of that dead parent baggage on you again.”

He gives you an unforgiving, incredulous look which softens as soon as he sees your innocent bloodshot eyes. “You’re supposed to unload your baggage on me. You’re my only Moon.”

You smile. “You know I love that you call me Moon, right?”

“No, you never told me. But I’m happy,” he hums. “I’m here, I love you”.

“I love you too“.

You hold him tighter as he snakes his arms around your waist.

In that moment you wish you could stay like that with him forever, because you wanted nothing — nothing — to ever change.

[judememories]

#001 CHARACTER SHEET:

Full Name: Jude Bellamy Hayward Meaning of Name: Jude means ‘praise’ in Hebrew and was chosen by his parents as an ironic joke about the fact that they’re adamantly Atheist.  Nickname: Judas. Birth Date: November 29th, 1994. Astrological Sign and Details: Sagittarius. Known as the most independent and flighty of the star signs, as well as being philosophically geared. Birth Place: Saint Francis Memorial Hospital, San Francisco. Age: 23.

Nationality: American. Race: White. Hair Color: Brown. Hair Style: Short, messy, always in his eyes or mussed up.  Distinct Features of Face: Full lips and prominently defined jawline.  Glasses or Contacts: Wears glasses when he’s reading, in spite of the fact that he despises them. They’re old fashioned and vintage looking to keep up his Indie Soft Boy aesthetic.  Eye Color: Hazel. Skin Tone: Fair. Scars or Distinguishing Marks: A thin scar, predominantly hidden, that laces through his left eyebrow from an ill healed split he got there when he was fifteen. He got into a fight with a boy being pushy to a drunk girl at a party and since he was much bigger than Jude, it was a quick and ugly loss. He ended up having his head smacked into a kitchen sink and needing stitches. He also has a cigarette burn on his arm from when a drunken poet laureate staying at his parents place disagreed with Jude’s take on his recently published anthology. Jude had to go and knock on the neighbouring apartment door in the building and sleep on a pull out sofa because he was too scared to stay at home alone again with him around when he’d been drinking. Disabilities: None. Build or Body Type: Broad shoulders, somewhat gangly. He has subtly defined muscles in his arms from years of playing guitar but nothing too obnoxious or over the top. Height: 6″1′. Weight: 170 lbs. Speech Patterns: Talks reasonably slowly, mostly as a result of being high and sleep deprived a lot of the time, therefore it takes him a while to string his thoughts together.  Tag Words: Says “uh” and “you know” a lot. Also refers to most people, gender irrelevant, as “man” or “handsome”.  Gestures: Rubs at his jaw a lot when he’s sketching or trying to think of something. He also frequently nods and chews at the corner of his thumbnail.

FAMILY AND CHILDHOOD

Mother: Bethany Hayward. Father: Jack Hayward. Mother’s Occupation: Trust fund baby, currently co-owns an art gallery with her husband that she travels the world to buy pieces for. Father’s Occupation: Amateur photographer. He used to be a bartender to support his art and has had four collections of his photos showcased in popular galleries. Ever since he met and fell in love with Bethany, he gave up working as a bartender and pursued the arts full time, opening up a gallery using her parents money.  Family Finances: Reasonably wealthy but not in the millions by any means. Brothers: None. Sisters: None. Other Close Family: Jude has a handful of cousins he knows only vaguely, although he’s actually close with Elias Elliot. Best Friend: Teddy Lawrence. Other Friends: Blake Knox, Ophelia Knox, Gabe Leitner, Frankie Vigo, Wesley Costa, Imogen Bauer, Anastasia Costa, Jesse Harmon, Lana Jameson. Enemies: None. Pets: None. Home Life During Childhood: Jude was always treated like a distant acquaintance growing up rather than a child. His parents would leave him for weeks on end to live in their loft apartment alone, surrounded by numerous mid thirties adults all smoking pot and using the place as a glorified sort of squatter den. He grew up seeing and hearing things that no child should particularly have to, always walking in on drunken hook-ups and hearing lewd and suggestive comments that made him feel uncomfortable. He gets on with his parents in the respect that he can always make them laugh and vice versa, but they don’t particularly care about what he gets up to or how he’s doing. He’s merely a conversational piece and a tick off a checklist, a failed science experiment that they long since grew bored of. What Did His, Her or Their Bedroom Look Like: Mostly bare. Jude was too paranoid to keep anything of sentimental value in his room because of how many strangers were always sleeping in his loft and nosing around in there. He had a few sketches tacked up onto the wall above his bed with scotch tape and a lock box beneath it that he kept his actual valuables in. Very minimal. Very impersonal. To Jude, his house had never once looked or felt like a home. Any Sports or Clubs: He used to be on a baseball team until he got drunk one night and was spotted using his bat to beat up a dingy Volkswagen parked just off school campus belonging to one of his parent’s friends. She was actually a teacher’s assistant at the school and therefore they took it extremely seriously. He got pulled from the team and put in detention for six weeks. Nobody ever asked why he did it. Schooling: He went to high school in downtown San Francisco before moving to New York in order to pursue his higher education. Favorite Subject: A tie between art and music. Popular or Loner: Unwillingly and begrudgingly popular. He tries his best to shake people and can never seem to manage it. Important Experiences or Events: The second time he had sex, it was with his girlfriend of the time at sixteen. He only got maybe two minutes through until he started having an anxiety attack, something that he still finds hideously embarrassing to recall, even to this day. She’d insisted that it was fine, that she didn’t mind and he’d blamed it on the fact that he’d smoked two joints prior to it and it had triggered some sort of weird reaction. The fact that there might still be some sort of underlying issue and baggage there from his first time dare’n't even cross his mind.   Health Problems: Anxiety, insomnia and severe depression.  Religion and beliefs: Atheist.

PERSONAL

Bad Habits: Smoking weed instead of coping with his problems in a healthy and rational manner, repressing things rather than confronting them, trying to save everyone. Good Habits: Writing out odd snippets of poem lines on napkins when he’s bored in restaurants and leaving them for the waiters to find and blink at in confusion, keeping a secret sketchbook where he draws the profiles of all his favourite people, investing his all into people in spite of how many times he’s been hurt before. Best Characteristic: His dry and sometimes absurd sense of humour. Worst Characteristic: His proneness to acting pretentious or condescending when someone has different interests to his. Worst Memory: At a small party when he was sixteen, they decided to go around in a circle and play truth or dare. He chose truth and everyone waited with baited breath for someone to cook up the kind of question that would get even Jude Hayward, master of playing it cool, squirming with embarrassment. “Are you a virgin? If not, how’d you lose it?” A dozen crinkle cornered eyes had all curiously blinked back at him mid broad grins as he offered a limp shrug, face glazed over with something that looked like an oddly forced attempt at pride. It was only after he’d told them and the room had fallen quiet that he realised it perhaps wasn’t quite something to be proud of, but for parents to anxiously whisper in the corner over and worriedly shake their heads. The fact that it had been with his mother’s best friend while she was out of town had never truly struck him as strange until he saw the dawning horror on all of those faces staring back at him. Needless to say, he never went to one of their parties or mentioned it to anyone ever again. Best Memory: The old lady down the hall from his parent’s loft used to make homemade cherry pie and cut him a slither to eat after school. One sun soaked afternoon they sat in front of her dingy television set, chomping silently during a leaked new episode of Mad Men, and when she ruffled his hair after he finished in a record breaking five minutes, he found himself pretending and believing for those set few seconds that she was actually his family. Proud of: His artwork. Embarrassed by: Ever speaking honestly about his emotions. Driving Style: Fairly regulation. Bumps up onto the sidewalk a lot, chuckles under his breath and calmly recites the Harry Potter floating head that says “it’s gonna be a bumpy ride” in a Jamaican accent. Strong Points: Charismatic, witty, laid-back, easygoing, independent and undemanding.  Temperament: Fairly neutral unless you give him reason not to be. Weakness: People that seem just as sad and lonely as he is deep down. Fears: Being left alone in a room with strangers, eating bad chicken and getting salmonella, heights. Phobias: Moths and horses.  Secrets: How bad his relationship with his parents actually is. How he lost his virginity. Regrets: Not trying harder to grow into someone his parents would find interesting enough to stay. Feels Vulnerable When: People notice how often he pretends to be something he isn’t. Pet Peeves: Chart music, chino pants, modern art. Sexuality: Heterosexual. He tried to experiment once and just couldn’t get into it. Exercise Routine: None in particular.  Day or Night Person: Night. Introvert or Extrovert: Introvert. Optimist or Pessimist: Pessimist.

LIKES AND PREFERENCES

Music: Indie rock, mod rock -- any shade of rock, really. He loves The Smiths and any kind of broody sad boy music, too. Books: Anything classic and old, he loves. He’s a huge Kerouac fan as well as Kurt Vonnegut and Chuck Palahniuk. Foods: Hates to admit it but he loves Chipotle. He also loves sushi and any kind of noodle soup. Drinks: He tends to mainly drink beer or cider but most of the time at parties he’ll just drink whatever someone gives to him. He isn’t fussy. Animals: Doesn’t care much about any of them. He’s pretty neutral. Sports: N/A. Social Issues: Democrat. Walked in the women’s march and got black out drunk before waking up on a public bench with a pair of bachelorette party antlers where they’re dick themed instead of deer. Favorite Saying: “In the land of gods and monsters I was a fella. Lookin’ to just hang out.”   Color: Blue. Clothing: Wears a lot of thrifted shirts over thin white t-shirts. Dr. Martens and cuffed jeans. Almost always has some sort of charcoal smudge on his sleeve. Band t-shirts and t-shirts with a scan of obscure and unknown artworks also feature heavily in his wardrobe. Games: Once he played Red Dead Redemption for three days straight and the first time he tried mushrooms, he hallucinated that he was riding along on a donkey besides a river with a strand of wheat chewed in his mouth like a lone ranger on the run from the law. In reality he was just sat on a swing at the local park.  Websites: Vine and PornHub. TV Shows: Breaking Bad and Mad Men. Movies: American Beauty and Trainspotting. Greatest Want: To flee civilisation and abandon his responsibilities by moving to a remote goat farm in Cambodia. Greatest Need: Therapy.

LIFESTYLE

Home: Currently lives in college dormitories. Household furnishings: Very minimal. Pinstriped duvet and an obnoxiously bright desk lamp for when he wants to do his sketches there. He has stacks of lined up, overflowing sketchbooks by the wall beneath his window and he’s plonked a cushion onto the sill so he can sit there and draw while he smokes some mornings. That aside, the only other stand out piece of furniture is his acoustic guitar.  Favorite Possession: His oil paints. They were a departing gift from his elderly neighbour before he moved to Rochester. She saved up for months to afford them and they mean a great deal to him, sentimentally. Significant Other Before: He’s had three ex-girlfriends. His first meant a lot to him and he was head-over-heels in love with her, but the second was more of a fling to get over the one before her. His most recent was Saskia Cohen, who he still hasn’t managed to get over just yet, particularly so given that she cheated on him and the breakup was hideously messy. Children: N/A. Relationship with Family: He texts them every so often and receives an updated photo from their travels. It’s very impersonal and more like having a long distance pen pal than a family. Car: None. Pets: None. Career: Student. Salary: N/A. Other Income: N/A. Dream Career: Photographic journalist. Love Life: A board certified mess. Sexual Turn Ons: Dirty talk that is subtle and not over-the-top, prolonged foreplay, confidence. Sexual Turn Offs: Pushiness, foot fetishists, people who try too hard to sound appealing. Hobbies: Drawing, reading up on philosophical theory, collecting dollar store vinyls from thrift shops, practising his guitar, writing short stories and poems that he deletes after reading them back. Guilty Pleasure: Watching Spanish soap operas and making up what they’re saying as he goes along. Almost always occurs when he’s hideously high. Talents or Skills: Drawing, photography, playing guitar. Intelligence Level: Jude has an impressively high IQ, although this isn’t something he ever boasts about or makes a point of asserting.