rkminjun-blog

[rkminjun-blog]

(` he's in the middle of a yawn when the reply comes; his hand prances around the surrounding area until fingers wrap around the slim phone, tugging it up and above him to read. immediately he smiles for no other reason than the sender's name before the actual message turns it into a grin. ) yah, hyung. (` his words are mutters, whispers, still carrying a tinge of intimacy only present in secrets. slender fingers tap around his screen, typing up a final message to send. )

(` msg > joonhyung ) partial prizes may be available for certain recipients. come find out!

(` with a certain indolence, he tucks away his phone inside his backpack before he twists it around, pats it down, and fits his head on top of it. the blanket he's packed lends him comfort while his arms cross over his chest; as much as he wants to go home and sleep he remains there, body stretched out neatly. joonyoung was worth it, he always was. there's a certain patience he reserves for the man, not purely out of admiration but of empathy. his hyung wasn't normal, never would be, and even as wise and old as he was, traces of childhood were still tightly sewn to him. minjun's patience, to him, was the difference between a large fight and a joke. it protects him from the frustration joonyoung would surely inspire in him. a quiet hum punctuates his thoughts, dispersing them into unintelligible words floating in his mind. he breathes in the nigh air that carries the scent of the river in its grasp. he breathes in the nostalgia, the peace, the quiet rumble of impending adventure before his body drifts into a precariously light sleep. )

elephant.

( . . . )

(’ —playful, joking; joonyoung was soon stretching his body up from the slumber that clutched as his senses and tugged up his belongings from the places by his feet. his backpack with the change of clothes and his guitar, both wrapped in black fabric as he absorbed the weight of them upon his back. a chuckle rolled from his lips before he headed out the front doors, phone returned to his hip pocket as he directed himself for the spot that he knew. minjun had been one of the few people joonyoung had met during the mga’s. something about the younger was like seeing himself when he was a boy. joonyoung couldn’t help but find sentiment in the other; more so when he said he was a fan.)

[rkminjun-blog]

"Well, because--" he begins before Dae ever pushes him, although attacks is what he sees it as. It further helps him feel like the victim, because after all he wasn't being aggressive. He clings onto this thought for strength and defense against the older's artillery of words, and for the first couple times it works, they deflect off him without ever having scrubbed away the idea of him being innocent. But it's Daehyun's last words that rob him of his breath and calm, leaving him with stuttered words lingering in his throat and a deep guilt pushing his brows together. "Well, uh, you see.."

Minjun takes a step back to steady himself and to construct a space of safety between him and his obviously unstable elder. He tosses a look upwards, a silent prayer to the heavens, before he glances back down at the guilt he must face. The boy decides to untangle the easier matter of business first; his tongue still feels clumsy but he manages to find a steady stream of words that help explain himself in what he hopes is a clear manner. "I didn't congratulate you because you didn't talk to me--at all! You hadn't seen me in so long, you're the older one! You're supposed to be in charge of that. I missed you and you didn't even acknowledge me. I don't know about you, but that doesn't earn someone birthday wishes." He punctuates his words with a nod, firm, solid like the point he just made. Rudeness would only be repaid with more, even if that didn't quite fit in the belief system he was trying to adopt. Another quiet apology to Jesus is flung upwards before he continues, this time with the weight of timidity on his shoulders. His hands meet in front of him, fingers immediately attaching to build a restless knot of slim digits and nerves. "About your lips, well..." A pause ensues, reason dominates his lips and shuts them tightly. Telling someone you'd seen their doppelganger in porn wasn't something he could admit--not out in the open anyways. Brown eyes travel to the ground, Dae's shoes, until they make the tiresome trek up to the older's eyes. He manages to fabricate a lie, or at least pad the hefty confession with the disguise of a compliment. "They're really nice. Cool. You're cool, I mean, yeah. I won't devour them, not like eat them literally anyways."

"oh daddy!" ( + daehyun. )

[rkminjun-blog]

(` once his hand meets her thigh and her whole position shifts closer to him, minjun begins to feel tame. his fingers barely have time to settle down, explore their new home, before her lips meet his and he's gone--not literally, but lost in the new sensation, drowning in a volatile mixture of hormones, attraction, fears, and the sweet taste of soojung. at first he lies still, his lips but a prop to the monologue of her lips; his hands remain in the same position, almost stuck in time, while his mind rushes, thoughts bump into one another in a clumsy mess that leaves him paralyzed. this is it, they try to tell him, the defining moment of his incoming adulthood--this would be the cornerstone of his sexuality. at this, his limbs awaken, a pulse appears. it takes control of him, bringing his free hand to her hip--something porn had taught him--where he lets his fingers envelop the delicate curve in a grip of subdued strength. the fingers on his thigh travel up, down, around, at a slow pace, as if he had to conquer each sliver of skin with the warmth of his digits before he could move to the next pallid territory. it's as an afterthought that his head animates, triggered by her touches. she manages to take hold of him, reel him out of whatever catatonic state she'd put him in while threading her lips with his, carving her name into him until it's all he can see. soojung plagues his mind with such ease--all thoughts of her collect at his spine, building up until they're spread out, through his veins, bones, muscles. it seizes control and guides his hand up her thigh with the bait of less exposed skin, a treat. his fingers tread under the light fabric of her wardrobe, tips teasing over her skin. his lips try to push back, share control of kiss, but he falls under her command and instead its his slim hands, a sloppy mess of palms and fingers, that express any sense of control. they depart on a voyage to explore the sturdy bone of her hip, the curve of her back, the warmth of her core that has his own body inching upwards, if possible, closer to his mentor. ) 

the scientific method.

{ ` she wants to laugh at him, really. but that wouldn’t make her such a good friend, and he lost her at the first sentence, anyway; she’s been staring ever since. soojung swats his wrist away, spares him a roll of the eyes; wordlessly, swings her legs over his lap, directs his hand to her thigh as if a silent permission. the air shifts and changes to her will, and soojung is closer now, so much closer, so much more warm, so much more open. minjun really is very attractive—she makes it clear that she thinks so with the way her eyes rove over his features, the way she touches his skin, feather-light fingertips  tracing invisible lines across defined jawlines and gliding down warm necks and resting on shoulders—the first step to anything is flattery, after all. she looks at him, lets him look at her; sighs quietly; as if a parting smile she smiles—then things fall away naturally; she rests an elbow on the couch beside his head, and kisses him when he rests back, one hand cupping the side of his face, the other carding through his hair; not careful, but slow, and gentle, initially, effort—practiced into subtlety—exerted into fitting their lips together, and angling her head so she can kiss him better; easy; letting time fall away into the exchange of hot breaths and muted smiles between them, into the quickening of heart beats and the warming of skin against skin against skin, as if selling to him the attractive idea of forever, aiming to show him how much fun kissing can be; with no haste: sucking on his bottom lip, eyelids fluttering close; she likes this (and she hopes he does, too)—soojung is a lot of things, after all; and, a good kisser is one of them }

[rkminjun-blog]

yeah, we make out when you're gone and have bracelets with each others' name on it. i actually got joohyuk tattooed on my thigh--i'd show you but it'd be scandalous to undress while in traffic. (` his voice fades, its seriousness dull against her light laugh. sarcasm was rampant but he holds on to the act for a few more seconds until the weight of the impending smile is enough to break the monotonous mask that holds his features in place. the corners of his lips point up and he turns to look out the window. ) you better tie him down he's, like, the community boyfriend. everyone wants that asshole. (` he shakes his head, leans back, and does as he's told: patience soothes him, although the sentiment is synthetic, only created to quiet his existence enough toavoid annoying stella. ) we should do a menage a trois. you, him, and me. we could get our own reality tv show. it'd be cute.

blink ( remix )

( ` she’s far too focused on her driving to catch the first of his words, hazel eyes staying fixed on the road while troubling thoughts cloud her mind. a faint sigh escapes her lips, index finger lightly tapping on the steering before her arms move to make a turn. it’s when the car is stopped by a red light does she finally hear any of his ramblings, head turning slightly with an amused grin tugging on the edges of her lips. ) what is it with you and joohyuk? ( ` eyebrows raise slightly in question. ) are you two dating behind my back? —don’t you dare seduce my future husband to be. ( ` she jokes with a light laugh, foot pressing down on the pedal with the light changing and she continues on to their destination. ) and chill out for 5 minutes, we’ll be there soon. just be patient.

[rkminjun-blog]

elephant.

(` he fits the box of cigarettes between his knees while his lanky fingers fish out his phone and open, almost frantically--as if the composition would dissipate, the camera. with care, a precise tap, two retakes, and a disorderly dance of digits, minjun manages to construct the most appealing message. of course it's marketed to one person, joonyoung, but the pride swells up and travels through him just the same. it's this small detail that makes him smile: being able to know what his idol liked and disliked--it made him feel a tad closer to him. as if they transcended the normal restraints of labels and stomped through, like children, carelessly through different roles, relationships, disregarding whatever life had told them to be. tonight, he decides to be a solace--a break from the novel workload joonyoung must be carrying on his shoulders. for a second, as his fingers send the message, he feels a twinge of shyness pinch his heart just like the first time he'd met him backstage at the mgas, but it quickly fades and gives way to a serene familiarity. )

(` msg > joonhyung ) [ IMG attached ] yours free for a limited time! for details, please see minjun at the little spot next to the river. you know which

[rkminjun-blog]

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[rkminjun-blog]

indoors.

The droning patter of the rain calls out to him, its simple melody distracting him from his initial path from the restaurant to the coffee shop--or how he saw it: from eternal boredom to enjoyable company, Jonghyun's. Yet even after trickling all his efforts into a clean, direct path, he can't help the weight that tugs his limbs down, anchors him to a spot in the rain just to hear the calm and soothing song for a couple of seconds. His eyes shut, a raindrop falls on his lip, his cheek, one skitters past his chin, a couple kiss his hands; the rest slide off the the thin raincoat he'd made a coworker lend him with the promise of coffee in return. He stays this way, stranded in the daft dance of rain for what seems like hours, although his watch tells him it's been minutes. A dull hum wades from his mouth, swallowed by the sound of the rain, as he finally walks towards the door with quicker steps as if Jonghyun was waiting for him, as if he knew he was going. But that was a detail he always wields--surprise, the unpredictable chance of him dropping in, of him being gone, or of him walking in half drenched from rain he could've surely avoided.

"It looks dead in here," he calls the moment he enters the door hoping his words aren't too soaked with the rain from outside to the point of sinking before ever reaching their recipient. Minjun's eyes flicker around, taking in the scene of emptiness before he begins to walk again. Each step is punctuated with a cringe as he can hear a squeak, subdued but present all the same. It brings him shame in faded waves until his lips purse with an innocent shyness, one he tries to break with another line. "Your audience is here--what've you got for me? Coffee and what?" A smile runs through his lips, his elbows slide onto the counter, his face fits in his hands and he stares expectantly at the young man in front of him. "Bored without me?"

[rkminjun-blog]

blink ( remix )

why do we have such big foreheads? who decided it's okay? (` his fingers run over the softened waves of his bangs, eyes distorted as they try to catch glimpses of it. a sigh rumbles from his lungs to his lips where, with an inherent grace, the part his lips and disperse. it's then when he looks over to his left at stella who, as usual, was too busy driving to hear much of his curt rant. exaggeration washes over his features, wiping away the indifference for another sentiment--somewhere between annoyed and understanding. he tries to contain it to just the purse in his lips, the furrow in his brow, the impatience in his eyes, but just like any other thought it comes reeling in, too quick to be stopped. ) how much longer until we get there? is joohyuk going to meet us there? 

[rkminjun-blog]

[rkminjun-blog]

body language v.1

you're so thin--and tall. you're like the stickbug on 'bug's life'. how do you even survive? (` he throws a chip in joohyuk's direction, putting care that it fell neatly in the crevice of his neck--accuracy was his goal, and once again he achieves it. he scoots closer once his hands wield a polaroid camera. he points it, aims, squints his eyes, fits his vision neatly into the miniature viewfinder before he presses the button once satisfied. he puts the device down and holds the blank, undeveloped picture. ) do you even eat? (` it's only a minute after no response that he inspects closer, sees joohyuk's eyes closed, sees the way his chest maintains a level of unrest, thinning and swelling like an ocean. he admires only for a second, enough to feel guilt as he nudges him awake. ) you're gonna miss your flight. or your bus. or whatever else you're using to get home. does stella drive you? where is stella? why didn't she come? (` he shakes his head and lies back on the couch, a little embarrassed at speaking to an unconscious person. ) just wake up, dude. 

[rkminjun-blog]

Pu$$y | Iggy Azalea

[rkminjun-blog]

( sms - pretty boy ) so how do you think you did? do you think we're gonna be the next bonnie and clyde or am i gonna have to go on without my clyde ㅋㅋ

(` msg > lilium ) you're going to have to win it for the both of us!! i don't think i did so hot

(` msg > lilium ) at least i looked good, right?

[rkminjun-blog]

                             MGA ROUND 3 : CONTESTANT #2038 KIM MINJUN            DANCING TO SAM SMITH'S LAY ME DOWN

Minjun parts his fingers and lets the petals escape from the grasp of his hands. They fall at his feet where they would lay forgotten until a kind soul would stroll by, wonder what happen, and sweep up the miniature mess a foolish boy had left behind. He had no use for them, of course, the deed of crowning a makeshift goddess along with the improvised offering of strawberries had been done, the ritual was over, and now what remained was to redeem his prize--good luck and a pass to the next round. Even his underwear, tucked away in his pants, was the color of red, a vibrant hue of hope that would surely attract positive vibes simply from the obnoxious shade of it--almost pink. He peeks through the back of the stage at the crowd, mesmerized at the immensity of their presence. He could feel, it seemed, even their tiniest of whispers in his heart while their voices invaded his veins, their smiles filled his lungs with excitement. This was stardom.

He remains in a sate of rush, not out of indifference but out of technique. These people weren't here to see his handsome looks, or know his name, or even glance at a faceless body with a practiced physique. These people were hungry to see the births and deaths of stars. Lips part and a breath inundates his lungs, filling them with the pressure that envelops the room. All those eyes, all those hopes, all those judgments, how did people survive on stage? Although his smile threatens to wither away into something more catastrophic, it remains sturdy, solid. He wouldn't let his fortitude slip for a simple fear, even if it had the slight of hand. No, he'd show them what a star really looked like.

Of course that thought brings with it problems. Perhaps he should've been dancing to a more exciting song, perhaps he should've been singing. But midst all the perhaps, maybes, and regrets, the music begins and Minjun has no other way to go than forward.

It's not long before he's situated under the warmth of the spotlight. He delves in it, the little tingles of heat that run through his body in such a soothing wave that he fears a premature fatigue, but instead he drowns in attention. Their eyes, he can feel them on him. It's an odd feeling, that of awareness, but he ignores it as the first notes of the song begin to play and his body moves along with it in movements that seem inherent, so fitted to his body that it seems as natural as the rise and fall of a newborn's chest. Like every time, he gets lost somewhere between the calm of the sand and the calamity of an ocean, where his thoughts collide in such dynamic waves that he himself embodies it. His limbs, arms, legs, before awkward now express themselves with a maturity beyond his own. They're architecture, neatly planned by nature, and yet with each dance move he bends it, destroys it, denies the gift of perfect structure. Time after time, he rids himself of organic lines, of man made restrictions; he dies, is reborn, breaks, is put together again. The piano notes narrate his story, of his defiance to a more complex existence.

With his body he shows the simplicity of human will; he crumbles to the floor bur rises up with ferocity. He pushes one way only to be pulled to the other. It's such an intimate dance that he almost feels naked the way his body bends, the way he shows pain through physical memories that surface and tug his limbs in different ways, that weigh him down only to pick him up. He's exposing himself in the most public, private way possible. Hiding in plain sight, his fears take form only to help him along the dance; the music in the back turns into decor for him, he's the main focus of the show, he's the conductor, the puppet master. A hand lifts, glides down his body until he too is moving in that direction, knees bent, he chases that certain something. The whole dance is about chasing, never finding, it's the journey that's important--no the lost love, the lost opportunity. The only thing that matters is how he's traveling. Feet move him across the floor, the spotlight follows him, and before long his hands hold him up from the floor and his eyes open. He was done, for now; dancing was a never ending venture. He straightens with care, afraid he's as fragile as the dance made him to be. His limbs return to their normal posture that seems stiff until a languid calm trickles down into it.

After a thank you, a blown kiss, and a slow walk off the stage, the impact of it all hits him. It captures him i a corner and places him there for what seem like hours as he smiles, laughs, sheds a tear, unable to put in words what he felt. Was it happiness? Was it excitement? He wouldn't know, he'd never know much about it. It lay among the mysteries of the world, yet he'd never try to decode it. To him, it only meant something: he never wanted to stop feeling it.

[rkminjun-blog]

[ outgoing → baby brother ] omg junnie i saw the results! congratulations baby bro <3

(` msg > the sister ) how do we live together but we're like strangers

(` msg > the sister ) thank you

(` msg > the sister ) i'm gonna make you so proud

[rkminjun-blog]

                        MGA ROUND 2 : CONTESTANT #2038 KIM MINJUN       SKILL : DANCING — YONCE : CHOREOGRAPHY ( 0:15 ~ 1:10 )

"Aw—fuck, I’m late."

"Well, fuck me," he mutters as his limbs, quick and nimble for the fatigue they carried, push him out of his friend’s home and onto the sleek white moped he’d drive with blind faith. He drives off, slower than in reality than in his mind, towards the audition that promised that life changing contract, fame, and many other trinkets that he felt he deserved. Of course he deserved even more than that, with his good deeds and looks, but for now he’d be satisfied with getting into a company—any company at this point. Desperation lived in his mind, and he didn’t mind the extra push.

Minjun arrives, gets off, and stumbles into the waiting room with the fluidity of practice; being late wasn’t a one time occurrence, it was a lifestyle, but it’s as he moves to sit on a chair and wait that he checks the clock on the wall. He was early, half an hour it seemed. A groan makes it to his lips but he cages it in—he didn’t want to seem ungrateful for anything. At least, he thins as his arms cross and his eyes thin, it gives him time for a quick nap…

"Number 2038?!"

His eyes creak open, slowly, carefully before they widen in fear. His number—his chance! “Oh, shi—I’m here. Here, here, Kim Minjun.” The stutters and mumbles go from English to the more appropriate Korean in an awkward transformation that leaves the woman he faces with a disapproving look. With his full cheeks he tries to smile at her unwavering mask, but once it proves permanent he simply pulls his hat further down past his face. “Sorry,” is the last piece of himself that he gives her before he struts, or rather ambles, in to the center of the stage before the judges. It’s only then, as his name, age, and dream slip off his lips that he realizes he forgot something very important, crucial to his cause really: his music. He’d practiced the dance at the studio for weeks, it only seemed appropriate to brandish himself with his hot moves to the club classic “yeah” by Usher, but here he was, empty handed and stranded. Regret clutches his heart and wraps around his throat to hold back all the fuck’s he wants to mutter out. His lips remain parted as he stares at the judges, and they stare back with merciless, cold eyes—or at least that’s what his nerves paint them to be. A certain cruelty trickles into their features as his mind tries to save himself, from embarrassment, from those monsters taking form of humans.

"Can you just play the song again," he hears himself say, because really, he has no other option than to freestyle to whatever the last person had danced to. He looks scared, hidden under the cap on his head; he becomes a child again, with a whimper in his throat and a quivering lip—except children can be scared. He was young, careless, he had to have no fears. There’s a smile that manages to dig out from all the negativity; it scratches through the doubts to flood his mind and body with a reminder: this was dancing, nothing more, nothing less. It was his passion, what he did more than talking, what he loved more than words. Minjun’s neck straightens, although a lack composure continues to grip his limbs into one of casual confidence. He looks at the judges only to find himself smiling, one somewhere between shy and cocky, when he hears the familiar words, "Let me hear you say hey Ms. Carter."

A light laughter threatens to push up past his stomach and wrench his body into a paralyzing fit, although to the outside he only seemed to be enjoying it. This song, out of all the songs that could’ve played, brings him hope that perhaps luck was on his side—that the universe was set on giving him what he’d hoped for. Yonce, the song he’d become obsessed with, was only one of the many he’d memorized a choreography to. And then, as “Gimme some!” resounds through the room, his body lowers in one of the more risque dances he’d allowed himself to learn.

The next moves come easy with a practiced cadence. They’re memories resurfacing, a reminiscing told through the body and not words. He becomes a puppet, the music tugs at his limbs, pulling him this way, twisting his back that way. And Minjun, a slave to the song, couldn’t enjoy it more. There’s control and precision in the way he moves and he knows it, realizes it with intensity, that it only comes from the music. His head empties, notes, lyrics, and dance moves inundate mercilessly and he allows them to command his body for a minute.

Ease is clear in this routine and it’s only that way from the many practices he’d spent trying to memorize it to the core, the basics of it, before he added his own flair—a sultry confidence and nearly arrogant flourish. This was his domain and a contained languidness in his movements was how he showed it.

Feet shuffle and move him around; arms expand, contract, spread, twist, all in organized movements. Stylistic changes paint his choreography with color, although a clear technicality ties each move to the next, a symphony of the body. It isn’t, though, until he’s on the floor, leg kicked and retracted, that he realizes he’s smiling, whispering lyrics, and having a good time. The effects of the song, he thinks. The familiarity grants him grace and he captures it to enhance his movements.

Choreographed moves continue, always embedded with his own changes, a different hand placement there, a slower curve here. The only scene that remains constant is the smirk he wears that exudes a knowing that comes from the past to tint the future with mystery, yet he remains in the infinite present with the confidence it spills. It’s so familiar, in fact, that it allows him to think. His body moves on its own at this point, the memorized movements live in his body rather than his mind—it was the product of learning and he delves in its comfort. His smile grows as his breaths, quiet and monotonous, carry a hidden singing of the lyrics.Just tell me how it’s looking babe, they call as he grins—who would’ve thought he’d ever be shaking his (nice) bottom to a row of judges? He turns around and recognizes that it’s probably over, the allotted time he has, and the confidence returns. Even through the shadows the hat he wears throws on his features, his joy is clear.

He walks forward in careful, solid but tender movements. “Baby just take aim.” His whispers are almost audible as he points to the center, a plump woman his victim. A cold demeanor clouds over a usually warm face, and he clings to that hope. The last movements fade off in a tight wave, diminishing to him pointing to fingers upwards, to each side of him, dipping his body one last time before he returns to a standing position. As the last movements wither away, he remains standing there with a grin plastered on his lips. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he tells them excitedly, although their features remain unchanged. He bows forward, a deep one that carries a lingering grace from his dance, before he walks out of the room, more confidence than last time. The smile remains for the rest of the day, it’s something that not even failure can take away from him. It embeds on his lips and never lets go.

It’s a smile of unadulterated adrenaline, joy, a promise for the future, and everything in between. But the most important was, it was his, independently his. “I’m growing up,” he mumbles as he walks out of the building a new man, “Movin’ on up.” 

[rkminjun-blog]

       MINJUNE8 HAS UPLOADED A VIDEO : "TASTY SPECTRUM COVER" 

"Why again?"

"Because I'm filming it this time. I want to be YouTube famous."

The camera gives a few precarious checks before it reveals a face, round and boyish. Minjun stares into the lens, waves his fingers in front of it to test it; it'd been a good purchase. Pleased with the way it captures his movements, he shoots it a smile, a wink, a wave of his finger, before his legs take him to the far end of the room where he situates himself next to a taller male. "For Tasty," he mumbles, although the camera can't pick it up. Louder, he calls, "Okay Jae--you can start it now."

Off screen a thin finger presses down for the music to infiltrate the artificial silence. As the notes begin, filling up the room mercilessly, Minjun's expression grows lighter--as if the song itself made him more feather-like, unrestrained by the weight of reality. This feeling of weightlessness follows through the video as his body begins to move. The image is almost daft, such rounded, organic limbs moving in such coordinated movements, as if chaos could be contained, controlled, or captured. Each time one of his arms or legs glides through the air, pressure seems to wither away--both physical and mental. As the song travels along and his body turns and twists to it, he can feel his mind purging itself. It carves through the cacophony of everyday life to rest in a chrysalis, a rare one that shines with a rare, peaceful quiet. One whose joy is in silence and the details rather than exuberant laughter, obnoxious smiles. It's simply a reverie that manifests itself onto him, onto the world around him.

Tasty's Spectrum comes to a close and his body retains the precision until the last second. Choreography, after all, dominates his memory. It rids his body of excess movements, at least in this case where mimicry was his goal. The camera, forgotten in front, suddenly hooks his attention again, reeling his thoughts towards it. It envelops him in a shyness as his body rests in a sloppy stance, his breath shaking his whole body in rhythmic movements. The video ends without a conclusion, the product of sloppy and impatient editing. The first video of many was over.

[rkminjun-blog]

well, i mean. i've never really done anything with either--like, explicitly. [` he confesses in between two nervous breaths, one quiet and one deeper. nerves start to pressure him and prick at the back of his neck. they continue to scissor down his back and towards his extremities until a sense of urgency, impatience, trickles into his fingers. they trace his jean pocket and his eyes drop to follow their path. it's his own inexperience that radiates from his bones, tinting his skin with a rosy embarrassment. his voice lowers in volume as he leans a bit forward, closer to her--the valuable mediator between him and his wonders. ] have you? [` and that's when he looks at her with a film of awareness over his eyes. she's pretty; he'd always known that. but it's the rest of her that draws his attention. do you really like men more than women? maybe i should explore. the oversimplification rings through his head, bouncing off the sides and ricocheting until it's nothing more than a hazy buzz that blinds him of common courtesy. it fades off seconds later, not because he wills it, rather something else drags his attention. it's the feeling of fabric on his fingers, of his hand cupping over something. he squints, wonders, and realizes where he's put his hand a little too late. ] soojung--i, uh-- [` and it's in his loss of words that he gets lost; his eyes look up at her, the apology having melted into something else entirely. she's a woman, he thinks, maybe this attraction means something. ] help me.

the scientific method.

( . . . )

do you really like being with men more than women? { ` tilts her head to one side, just a touch dubious, assuming he has been with guys and he has been with girls and that his decision and comparison have concrete basis; because, in her mind, preference can only come from experience }