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ohmygirlexchange2017-08-14 11:58 am
[jiho, binnie, mimi, hyojung] wasted away (for tonyang)
Title: wasted away
Written for: tonyang
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: jiho, binnie, mimi, hyojung
Warnings (if applicable): swearing?
Word-Count: 4.5k
Summary: (prompt) some kind of summer relationship - they meet when one is on vacation to somewhere far away, something that has to end at the end of the summer ):
Author Notes: hello lovely recipient!! firstly, i'd like to apologize. in addition to being an awful writer, i am also an awful human who can't keep deadlines. of course, i intend to thoroughly finish this fic for you asap, once my mental state is a bit more stable. but in the meantime, i hope you enjoy these 4500 words of preamble, which have admittedly taken me the better part of the last month (i'm hopeless...)
As Jiho stares at the blurring scenery beyond the car window, the endless yellowing farmland and rusted guardrails interspersed along the side of the road, she is frustrated by how bleak it all looks, how dismal. The sky is concealed behind grey clouds, droopy and dim like they may soon leak out a sudden thunderstorm and—what a goddamn cliché . What a coincidence that the somber weather somehow exactly matches the somber atmosphere that had been draped over the four of them for the past forty-eight hours. It’s like the opening scene of some terrible angst film—black car speeding through a lonely open road while the melancholy tears of God rain down upon them. They even have a funeral scene set up for later. They’re C-list tragedy, at the very least.
With a soft thud, a head suddenly falls heavy against her shoulder. It’s Dylan, who had fallen asleep the minute he trudged behind her into the backseat of the airport taxi. Jiho wiggles her shoulder back and forth, making his head drop another floor to lie facedown on her lap. It’s preferable to him weighing down her single shoulder for who knows how many hours.
Beside Dylan, she glances at Mimi, who is bent over her phone, tapping incessantly. She wonders briefly what her sister could possibly be typing, seeing as they aren’t allowed to use international data or messaging. It’s the only reason Jiho’s own phone is tucked safely into the pocket of her suitcase. The mobile device was rendered useless the minute she’d realized she left her earbuds at home.
Jiho reaches over her little brother and taps Mimi on the thigh, prompting her to look up, startled, and immediately lock her phone. Jiho nods at the device and asks, “What were you doing?” She makes sure to keep her natural disregard for using “inside voices” in check by speaking quietly, because the car is completely silent and the driver might want to eavesdrop on them. Not that he’d understand English anyway, but safety first.
“Wha—oh. Uh, nothing special,” Mimi whispers back, grip tightening around the slender phone.
“How are you getting data? You know we have to pay for every megabyte used, right? And every text,”
“I’m not texting anyone. Also,” Her mouth twitches a little. “I don’t even think I could use the internet if I tried,”
Jiho raises an eyebrow playfully. “You tried, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Wasn’t even any service.”
Jiho persists. “So, if you weren’t texting or anything, what were you doing?”
Mimi laughs, a little nervously. “Nothing, for real! Why are you so interested, anyway? Also, you do realize there’s more stuff to do on a phone than just texting or using the internet.”
“But, if it was a game, then you wouldn’t be hiding it from me!” Jiho accuses, leaning over. “So what else is on your phone then, huh? Photos? Were you just staring at pictures of someone? Of, hmm, Tanya ?”
Mimi’s eyes widen, shooting their mother a quick glance before turning on Jiho. “ No , Jiho, what the fffff—igs. Figs.” She casts another panicked peek at their mother who, fortunately, is not paying the backseat any mind.
Jiho laughs at that, a little too loudly. The driver looks back at them through the rearview mirror. “Nice save,” she whispers.
“You’re the worst,” Mimi grumbles, retreating into her seat, with her phone facing inwards in front of her so the only thing Jiho could see was its golden case.
There’s a silence between them then, in which Mimi is distracted by her phone while Jiho is still, trying to match her own breathing with Dylan’s tiny snores. Of course, she’s not just sitting there. She’s waiting for the quintessential moment of attack, which will arise in 3...2…
Jiho grabs at her sister, arm flying in the direction of her phone but not quite aiming for it. Mimi’s eyes widen and she leans back against the window, hugging her phone to her chest as Jiho leans in for the kill. Mimi spurts out choked bouts of laughter while Jiho tickles her neck. “Stop!” she cries, either slapping at Jiho or trying to tickle her back, Jiho wasn’t sure which. Either way, it hurts, but she still laughs along.
They must have been creating quite a ruckus, because their mom turns around and barks (in Korean no less; the driver is all ears), “Stop fighting, you two! Stop, you’ll wake up Dylan!”
Jiho and Mimi simultaneously draw back, Jiho cradling Dylan, who is still conked out, in her lap. But they don’t calm down for a while, hearts pounding, still sharing hushed giggles between them.
At some point, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the trees and the foliage had begun to disperse, making way for civilization. When Jiho’s eyes flutter open after what felt like barely a two minute long rest, they have to adjust to the sudden darkness before she sees what she thinks might be the first set of actual buildings since they left the city that the airport was in.
The taxi pulls up into the collective driveway of a row small-ish houses, in what looks to be the more rural side of suburbia. A few lit porch lights help Jiho deduce that, in honesty, the area doesn’t look much different than any other neighborhood she would see in the outskirts of suburban L.A. The row of houses—six in total—alternate between being white or light brown, each with two cute little bay windows perched on the second floor and individual brick-edged gardens out front. They even have numbered mailboxes, which Jiho doesn’t expect. She’s not entirely sure what she was expecting. Maybe something more...farmhouse-y, or something not as ordinary-looking as any other old American locale. She doesn’t know.
Her mother deigns to perform the arduous task of waking up the dead-to-the-world Dylan, as Jiho wobbles drowsily out of the car. The airport driver heads to the trunk to retrieve their luggage, and Mimi and Jiho assist him by rolling their suitcases up to where the driver stops, in front of a white house with a brightly shining lamp hanging from the porch ceiling. Jiho inspects the gold lettering engraved on the decrepit mailbox. House 23.
Her mother politely bodes the airport driver farewell as he hops into his car, ready to drive away, somehow still being able to offer him a bow whilst carrying a sleeping nine-year-old child in her arms. The three of them drag the suitcases up to the porch and their mother rings the doorbell. Jiho wonders if her aunt and cousin are even awake. While they had been informed of their predicted landing time, they didn’t have any other form of contacting them, so they couldn’t know exactly when they’d be here.
Luckily, the door opens after only a few moments, and a middle-aged woman wearing slacks and a nice salmon-colored dress shirt greets all three of them. Jiho is chanting the Korean word for her “mother’s brother’s wife” repeatedly in her head before said wife finally turns to face her. Her eyes are tired but her smile is warm and genuine, and Jiho is instantly comforted by it.
“Jiho-ya!” Her aunt gives her a nod and Jiho nods back, putting her shoulders into it. Her aunt holds her hands tightly. “I haven’t seen you in front of me since you were a little kid, you’re so grown-up and tall now! Such a pretty girl,”
Jiho smiles. “Hello, sukmo-nim,” she says, unsure of what else to say.
Her aunt simply smiles larger and ushers them in, where they all slip their shoes off. “Here, we don't want to wake your son up, let's bring him to the bedroom. In the meantime, get to the kitchen. I have dinner set up for you. My daughter already went to sleep, but I can wake her up to greet you,”
“Oh no, don't wake her up, let her sleep. She must be exhausted.” Jiho’s mother says, and her aunt acquiesces before showing her mother to the guest room where they'll be staying.
Jiho leaves the luggage in the doorway and walks tentatively forwards in search of the unspecified kitchen. The house is nice, if simply furnished, with cream-colored carpeting and walls painted a dusky yellow. Jiho passes through a hallway lined with framed photos, mostly of their three-member family. Or, what was their three-member family. Jiho’s heart pangs as she looks up at the pictures, at her uncle’s kind, age-spotted face beaming down at her. It’s surreal to know that, even if she hadn't seen him all that much anyway, she would never be able to see him ever again. That last day that Hyojung’s family had spent in Los Angeles, eight years ago, was the very last time she had ever seen her uncle in person. She can’t imagine how her mother must have felt. Jiho squints, so the tears can't escape their barrier. She's let too many of them fall in the past few days.
Dinner passes between the four of them, consisting of her mother and her aunt conversing and really good food—seafood soup, kimchi stew, rice. There are some things that her mother and aunt say that Jiho doesn't catch, but it doesn't bother her too much anymore; she doesn't really care enough to listen in. She does make sure to look up and react accordingly whenever her own name is mentioned in passing, however.
“You all should get to sleep,” Jiho’s aunt says, as they're clearing out the dirty plates and chopsticks. “The last day of the funeral is early tomorrow morning, at 7:00.”
Apparently, Hyojung is sleeping with her mother in the master bedroom, while Jiho’s mother and Dylan get Hyojung’s bedroom and Jiho and Mimi receive the guest room. They’d finally received wi-fi, and their phones redirected to inform them that it was 2:46 in the morning.
Jiho is about to fall asleep, snuggling into the blankets—they're green, and kind of itchy, but Jiho supposes they're comfortable enough—when Mimi taps her shoulder, making her start.
“What,” she mumbles, looking over at Mimi. She's facing the ceiling, but her eyes are closed—tightly, though, as if she's forcing herself to fall asleep.
“Hey, about earlier in the car,” Mimi whispers, not opening her eyes. “The Tanya thing.”
Jiho blinks. “Yeah?”
“Don't—I mean, I don't want—” Mimi fidgets. “Look, I know Mom didn't hear anything, but please, be careful with mentioning stuff like that, or making fun of me about it. Maybe I'm being paranoid or whatever, but I think Mom suspects something, and I can't.” She exhales loudly. “I know she won't be okay with it. Especially here. So, please,” Mimi opens her eyes this time, looking at Jiho dead on. Her eyes aren't fully widened, but they carry a certain heaviness that makes Jiho’s throat close up. She reaches blindly under the comforters and grabs Mimi’s hands, tangling their fingers tightly together.
“I won't,” Jiho says quietly. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”
“I know. It's okay.” Mimi closes her eyes again. “Just don't mention it. Or her. Okay?”
Jiho's heart constricts itself into a tight ball, and its rapid beating keeps her awake all night.
The funeral the next day is a solemn occasion, or, in layman’s terms, a complete drag. Jiho is barely awake for the majority of it. She was heralded up and out the door by 5, sleep still crusting in her conjunctiva.
They had arrived at a funeral center behind the local hospital. Her mother had told her the Korean word for it but she doesn't remember. All she remembers is the cold mist that surrounded them, like a shroud, raising goosebumps like [a rash] on the bare parts of her legs that her modest black dress failed to cover.
The room that Jiho and her family went into was clean and white, dotted only with foldable metal chairs lined in rows in the middle of the room. Facing the chairs, in the front and center was a table, draped with blue fabric and decorated with flowers and candles and a single large photo frame showcasing her uncle. They were the first ones to arrive, naturally, but little by little people started to mill in, occupying the chairs scatteredly.
The funeral starts at 7:00, and mostly consists of a priest-like man giving a long speech, and then Jiho’s aunt and grandfather and a bunch of guys in suits pitching in with their own small speeches. Her mother went up once as well, but for the shortest amount of time. It’s tedious, but perhaps Jiho wouldn't have felt that way if she understood what they were saying. Everyone spoke in what her mother called “difficult Korean”; the vocabulary that was used in literature and news broadcasts and formal events.
The speech-giving and the crying went on for a while. Jiho knew that this was the last day of a supposedly three-part funeral. The first two events had occurred in the days following her uncle’s immediate death. Her uncle had already been cremated and everything, but this final occasion had been postponed, just so Jiho’s family could get here from Los Angeles and attend. This event was, in truth, the only reason they'd taken this vacation and Jiho could barely stop herself from falling asleep, too tired to even think about her uncle. Afterwards, she would feel inexplicably guilty about it. But now, they were ushering everyone in the next room over, where a breakfast buffet was being served.
The car ride back home is not as dreary as its predecessor. Breakfast seems to have vitalized everyone, to keep their eyes open and engines running. The interesting thing is, no one looks sad. Her mother and her aunt and Hyojung are no longer crying. They're smiling, making small talk, looking unaffected—whether or not it was to save face in the presence of guests, Jiho can't tell.
“So, what do you think of Korea so far?” Hyojung asks them, and Jiho realizes with a start that this is the first time that she's seen her cousin since she was eight. Seeing her in person is a lot different that seeing her through a fuzzy webcam, Skype quality distorting her face and her words. Hyojung is a lot prettier than Skype had given her credit for. She's three years older than Jiho but she looks younger than she is, with long hair that is more brown than black, and an ever present smile on her face that makes her cheeks puff up.
Mimi answers her. “Well, we haven't actually been anywhere or seen anything. We came from the airport really late last night,”
“In that case, I guess we’ll have to take you everywhere and show you everything!” Hyojung's smile is gummy and infectious. “You've never been to Yangyang, right? Where did you visit last time you came?”
“Just Seoul,” Mimi confirms. “Because of grandma and grandpa,”
“Hello!” Dylan interrupts, grinning at Hyojung eagerly. Jiho scoffs. It's probably the only Korean word he knows.
Hyojung laughs. “Hi, Dylan,” Jiho notices briefly that she pronounced “Dylan” the same way her mother does: like “dee-lahn.” “Did you eat a lot of food?”
“Yeah,” Dylan chirps from his seat halfway in Mimi’s lap. There's barely enough room in the backseat of this car for all four of them to squish in comfortably. Even now, Jiho’s hip bones are jutted out painfully with the car door. “It was delicious!”
“You don't even know what you ate, Dylan,” Jiho mutters, which makes Hyojung laugh again, clear and bright. Dylan turns on her immediately.
“Yes,” Dylan protests. “I know,”
“Then tell me. What did you eat?”
Dylan makes a show of trying to remember. “Rice,” he says simply. “And fish. And kimbap. And, uh, vegetables,” This he says in English.
“B-bejita-bol ?” Jiho asks in a forced Korean accent. “What is bejitabol?” This time, even Mimi laughs.
Dylan whines, hitting her on the shoulder. “I don't know!”
Jiho grins, enlightening him. “Yachae. It's yachae,”
“Oh!” Dylan facepalms himself. “I forgot!” He says this in English again.
Hyojung is giggling. “How good is your Korean, Dylan?”
Dylan lets out a pitiful, over exaggerated sigh. “Mom says it's not good. I can understand Korean, not speak Korean.”
“You want to say English?” Hyojung asks, surprisingly in English. Dylan beats her to asking the million dollar question, however.
“You speak English?”
“No,” Hyojung laughs. “I'm sorry,”
“It's okay, noona!” Dylan is undeterred. “I'll teach you!”
Hyojung leans over to pinch his cheek endearingly. “Thank you, Dylan,”
They arrive home soon after. Jiho feels in the mixed
“Do you guys want to go somewhere?” Hyojung asks the three of them. “I can take you to the beach, it's not a far walking distance from our house!”
“The beach? Sure,” Jiho shrugs.
“The beach? Yes!” Dylan exclaims.
Mimi smiles wearily. “I think I’ll take a little nap if that's okay, I’m pretty tired,”
“Mihyun,” their mother warns. “That's rude, we're on vacation. Go to the beach with your cousin,”
“No, gomo-nim, it's okay!” Hyojung says charmingly. “Mihyun should take a rest. We’ll have plenty of time to visit the beach later,”
Their mother hesitates before nodding resignedly. Mimi bounds up the stairs without a second thought. Their mother turns to Jiho and Dylan. “Okay, brush your teeth, change, then you can go out alone with Hyojung, alright?”
Hyojung beams at Jiho and Dylan. “Let’s go!”
Outside, it is bright, sunny, and far too hot.
Hyojung promised the beach was a only twenty minute walk away, but already Jiho feels like that is nineteen minutes too many. Her legs are liquefying, turning into slush inside the walls of her long skinny jeans. Sweat is beading from the edge of her scalp to the small of her back, covering her in a second skin of perspiration. She thought the weather was supposed to get cooler the closer you get to the beach. Apparently not here.
Jiho hikes up her jeans, wishing they would fall apart in the heat and somehow turn into a wearable pair of shorts.
“We have a lot of rounded off beaches around here, being on the coast, of course,” Hyojung is saying. “This beach is a little less popular, but it's the closest free one to us,”
“Free?” Jiho echoes. “You have to pay for some of your beaches?”
“The elite ones, yeah,”
“Wow,” Jiho says. “The only beaches you'd have to pay for in L.A. are the nude beaches,”
“Gross!” Dylan wails.
“Nude?” Hyojung asks.
“Like, those beaches where everyone is naked,” Jiho explains.
“Oh,” Hyojung wrinkles her nose. “Why would you pay to see other people naked?”
Jiho snorts.
It turns out that for the first fifteen minutes, they hadn’t been close to the beach. Because now that they are, Jiho can sense it even before Hyojung’s telling that they were almost there. There is a sudden breeze that washes over them, fresh and salty. It relieves Jiho immediately, cooling her, refreshing her, reminding her of sun soaked days and nighttime bonfires in the beach pit and splashing into the cold blue water.
They had been instructed by their parents not to step foot in the ocean, because they would be going out to a family member’s house later in the day. Jiho is a little disappointed, but she doesn’t mind. Anyway, it couldn’t hurt to step foot in the ocean, as long as no other body part got wet.
They reach the beach entrance. There is no boardwalk, just the sidewalk they had been walking on curbing a compact, mostly empty parking lot. The sand dunes are fenced off by ropes, but if Jiho stands on her toes, she can just see the edge of the grey sea.
Dylan runs off ahead of them to get onto the beach first, Jiho and Hyojung trailing behind. A wooden ramp-like walkway escorts them onto the sand. Jiho takes off her flip-flops and the granules submerge her toes. There’s something different about the sand on this beach. It’s not like the sand found on L.A. beaches, brown but soft, refined. It’s coarser, rocks and seashells studded in the sand like rhinestones. It reminds her of the sand from the beaches of Coney Island, from when she visited New York once long ago.
But, sand that grates at the soles of her feet aside, a beach is a beach, and Jiho relishes in the way that it sticks to her feet, makes it hard for her to walk straight.
“Why are there no people here?” Jiho asks Hyojung, who is rolling her capri pants to above her knees. Jiho figures she should do the same, except when she tries, her jeans are so tight that they make it above her ankles and no further. She groans in frustration.
“I told you,” Hyojung hums. “This is the less popular beach. It’s smaller, too. But at least it’s less crowded, right?”
There are only a handful of people on the beach along with them. She sees a few couples lying in the sand, an elderly man walking along the waves, a girl squatting right in front of the sea foam. And she can only spot two people in the sea total. Dylan has now reached an abandoned sandcastle, and is toying with it, shoving more sand up against its walls.
“But it’s so hot out, and the middle of the day,” Jiho says, confused. “Why wouldn’t more people be out here?”
Hyojung shrugs. “I’m not sure. But I’ll count it as a blessing.” She looks out at the sea. “I love the beach,”
“Yeah,” Jiho follows her gaze. The sky is bright and blue, not cloudy at all. The sun is a white disc reflecting upon the ocean. It sure is a sight. Her mom would want to take a million pictures, like she’d never seen the beach before. “Me too. Wanna go in the water?”
“Only feet, remember?”
“Sure,” Jiho waves her off dismissively. “I don’t actually wanna get my pants wet, anyway,”
Dylan ends up stealing Hyojung away from the sea, insisting she help with his disfigurement of someone else’s sandy masterpiece. Jiho can’t help but crack a smile when she sees them, though. It’s cute how quickly Dylan has latched onto Hyojung, becoming comfortable with her instantly. She leaves them be and dips her toes in.
The water is cold, but not freezing. A large wave comes for her straight away, so she has to back up and look around for a safer area to stand. No one is near her except the squatting girl, maybe a few feet away. From up close Jiho can see that she’s not even doing anything, just leaning on her haunches and staring into the ocean. It’s pretty weird. Jiho’s about to look away when she notices that the girl’s shoulders are shaking slightly, almost like she’s crying.
Jiho knows that she probably shouldn’t say anything or do anything, should leave the girl be, let her cry privately even though she chose to do so at a public beach. She knows she shouldn’t trust anyone who’s popping a squat, unbothered, in front of a dozen people. However, something compels her to walk slightly closer. The girl doesn’t even flinch. Jiho stops in her tracks, waits a few seconds, then tentatively asks, “Are you okay?”
No movement.
Jiho frowns. Is she ignoring her? “Are you okay?” she repeats, louder, and this time the girl whips around, eyes wide and frozen in shock.
Jiho’s eyes also widen, because oh . The girl hadn’t been crying at all. Her eyes aren’t red-rimmed, there are no tear streaks. In fact, she doesn’t even look sad. Just perplexed.
“Pardon?” the girl asks, in the softest voice Jiho has ever heard.
“Oh, no, sorry, I—I didn’t mean to, uh,” Jiho stammers, feeling awkward. “Sorry, it was a mistake.”
The girl blinks, confused.
“It’s just—I thought you were crying, but you’re not crying,” Jiho should shut up right now. “Um, never mind.”
The girl blinks again, before breaking into a small smile. “Oh. It’s okay,”
She goes back to staring at the ocean. There’s a silence, and Jiho figures she should leave and not try to continue any conversation but she wants to. So she speaks up, “What were you doing?”
The girl looks back around again. Jiho thinks she sees a flicker of annoyance across her features, but she can’t be sure. Hopefully not. “What?”
“What were you doing?”
“Oh. Just looking at the ocean,”
Jiho sits next to her. She might as well. She’s in too deep now. She has to finish what she started. “Sitting like that?”
The girl frowns, not like she’d been offended by what Jiho had said, but more like she hadn’t understood. She replies anyway. “Yeah,”
“I’ll try, too,” Jiho shifts her position to replicate the strange squatting position that the girl is in. It’s ridiculous. She feels ridiculous. She sit back normally and twists her legs. “That is not comfortable,”
A laugh escapes from the girl’s mouth. Jiho feels a little proud of herself. It’s nice knowing that she can charm strangers in both English and Korean. “I’m Jiho. What’s your name?”
The girl squints, before saying, “Jiho?” Jiho nods in affirmation. “Oh, I thought you were American because of your accent,”
“Oh,” Was the obnoxious American lilt to her words that glaringly obvious? “I am American,”
The girl nods in understanding. “Ah. Most Korean-Americans have American names though, so I thought…”
“No, I get it,” Jiho reassures. “My brother has an American name. But when I was born, my parents didn’t understand that Americans can only say American names,”
The girl laughs again, but a little belatedly this time, like she had to fully process Jiho’s words before responding to them. She is opening her mouth to say something when Dylan’s shrill voice interrupts them, telling, “Jiho! Come over here!”
Jiho looks back at Hyojung and Dylan, who are waving at her, and back to the girl, who is looking at them. “I have to go,” Jiho says, stating the obvious. “What’s your name?” She hopes the girl doesn’t go all “stranger-danger” over this all of a sudden.
She doesn’t. “Yoobin,” the girl responds.
Jiho nods, standing up and waving. “Bye, Yoobin,”
Yoobin smiles at her. “Bye, Jiho,”
Dylan wants her to help him and Hyojung act out some imaginary scene with the misshapen sandcastle as a backdrop and fistfuls of sand as props. Hyojung is intent on humoring him, and gets really into it. Dylan makes her his sidekick in every scenario. It’s kind of fun. Jiho vaguely feels like a third wheel.
When Jiho looks back at that spot in the wet sand, soused with sea foam, Yoobin had already left. Jiho feels like the sun, sinking closer to the horizon, is rising inside of her, from her stomach to her throat, settling in her cheeks as unadulterated joy.
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(Anonymous) 2017-08-14 05:45 pm (UTC)(link)hello! to my author! i love you!
it's soooo interesting to see people tackle your prompts in ways you'd never imagine. i didn't have anything specific in mind but like i feel like i would have thought of something completely different than traveling home from the us to korea... for a funeral... i really, really love it and how creative it is, and relatable too. i just went home this summer to indonesia from the us! but not for a funeral! but like, the attention you paid to cultural differences is really lovely. (four in the backseat ksldjfld)
it feels like i'm reading a movie script... or like i'm watching a movie you know. you have such a talent for description ;__; you make it all really interesting, like it sets up the mood and everything. because i don't think i've ever read a fic set like this it's like i have to read everything to understand what the environment is like.
FUNERAL?
FUNERAL?????????????/ ===> my real reaction. everything is just so unpredictable (i love it this fic is honestly so unique)
[edit:] in retrospect i realize that you mentioned the funeral at the beginning omg i apologize for my lack of comprehensive thinking i barely slept last night
hyojung is so lovely and a light in the dim atmosphere of the funeral... her personality is great ;___; i love her and dylan they're so cute. my mother
there are so many aspects of this fic that are great... the miho sisterly bond, i can feel how they rely on each other, and how hyojung is so welcoming to them despite it being ages since they've seen each other.
and oh i rly love the binho section. what an interesting first meeting jiho thought she was crying and she wasn't in the least. and binnie is truly an enigma i am so in love with it. (and i love binho e_____e) sincerely very glad you got to feature her at the end
i'm sorry this comment is a gigantic mess kjdsflkf... but anyway, thank you so much for writing this much for me!! i'm really excited that i got to read it on the deadline ;) 4.5k is already a lot and you spending so much time on it makes me feel bad haha and while i'm really excited to see where you take this, you aren't obligated to finish it soon or anything! i'm super grateful for what you've written <333333 much love
tonyang
[edit2:] ALL OF THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IS! THE BEST!!!!!!!
>>>It’s kind of fun. Jiho vaguely feels like a third wheel.
When Jiho looks back at that spot in the wet sand, soused with sea foam, Yoobin had already left. Jiho feels like the sun, sinking closer to the horizon, is rising inside of her, from her stomach to her throat, settling in her cheeks as unadulterated joy.
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(Anonymous) 2017-08-16 06:58 am (UTC)(link)the image of binnie crouching in the water, looking out into the ocean is also a striking image, almost miyazaki-esque in my mind.
i really hope you continue this fic because basedo n the decisions you already made i really would love to see where you take it
no subject