#a reminder of his selfishness. his inability to follow through on promises. of his powerlessness. his uselessness.

[happyk44]

percy needs to be haunted by bianca's ghost more

[sarkastically]

Fight, or Flight, or Freeze

(Runaways Christmas fic. This is, again, a mishmash of TV and comic canon. This is not in the same AU as the ongoing series. This is just, basically, a one-shot drabble that got out of hand. Warning for mentions of child abuse and self-esteem issues.)

Another thing about him that surprises people: Chase Stein doesn’t really like holidays. Growing up they were always haphazard, dangerous times of the year. Whereas on a normal weekday, he could count on his father being busy with work, holidays offered an insecurity, a doubt. Where would his father be? What mood would he be in? What would he break, the dishes or something inside Chase, physical or emotional? The best ones, by far, were always the ones when Victor had to travel for something, somewhere--Chase stopped asking when he was seven because it didn’t matter where he was so much as it mattered that he was out of the house--and it was just him and his mom, using whatever holiday it might be to actually celebrate his father's absence. 

Holidays, Christmas in particular, were always loaded, fraught with traps. Victor liked to buy him things he knew Chase didn’t want or like. Victor would buy him things he wanted him to be interested in and then wait for the inevitable way that Chase’s face would fall, always too expressive, never fully controlled by him, to berate him, to lash out and call him selfish, ungrateful, spoiled. A waste of space. A waste of time. A waste of the precious Stein genes. And Chase would hang his head (so that his face would not give him away even more) and clench his hands into fists on his knees and say nothing while his mother pointedly walked out of the room to check on what was cooking or powder her nose or be anywhere other than there, protecting him.

Holidays were a battleground in the Stein house. Chase still wears the wounds, thinks he can hear the canons go off when he starts awake on Christmas morning, heart pounding, covered in a cold sweat. He can hear the music through the walls, high, bright, festive, all silent nights and decked halls. It’s louder than the rush of blood in his ears as he fights to slow his breathing down, runs a hand through his hair, wild from tossing and turning. Chase has never dreamed of sugar plums only black eyes and a voice that gets so loud it drowns out the rest of the world. 

When the others mentioned putting together Christmas, Chase had just shrugged, hands in pockets, voicing neither assent nor dissent. Gert had, as politely as possible, reminded them that she was Jewish but followed it up with the fact that it didn’t matter to her what they did, not really, which was probably because of the way that Molly had perked up at the mention of Christmas. So it happened. He let it happen. All around him. A tree, lights, tinsel, stockings, and wrapped packages that started showing up from nowhere. They don’t really have money to buy presents so he’s not sure what’s happening unless people are just wrapping up random crap they’re finding in the rooms of their sunken dwelling, which is possible. Alex manages to hack their way into enough cash for food and clothing, but there’s not the budget for gifts. 

Chase doesn’t want anything anyway, wouldn’t be able to keep the trepidation off his face when tearing into the wrapping paper, wouldn’t want to hurt the feelings of anyone brave enough to give him something. It wouldn’t be their fault, and it wouldn’t be his, but the reaction, he thinks, would be enough to drive a wedge, to raise questions he doesn’t want to answer. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about what to get the others because he has, long and hard, on nights when he cannot sleep, which are plentiful, but it’s not in his power to do so, and he has seen, firsthand, how a moment of joy at giving can turn into a nightmare of consequence. It’s hard to live with. It’s hard to face again. Even though he knows none of them would react the way his father would, it’s hard. It’s not something he can just leave behind like his house and all his things. It’s burned into his skin and his mind and his soul, a brand as unforgiving as his last name, as his DNA. 

An afternoon spent at the mall when he was seven, still young enough to believe in the idea of Santa, still young enough for hope and wishes. His mother holding his hand, drifting through the crowds of people, so many of them stopping his mother to tell her what a darling little boy she had, and his mother smiling tightly, tightly, making sure he kept his jacket on because there were bruises down his arms from his father grabbing him. The Santa booth in the middle of the mall, and Chase begging to ask, willing to stand in the line for as long as it took.

“What do you want for Christmas, little boy?”

And the desire to say, “Not to be a Stein” held back in favor of asking for a basketball because what if. What if Santa was in league with his parents? What if Santa told on him? And worse, what if he asked and Santa couldn’t help?

Chase pushes out of the door and into the hallway, bleary, feeling disoriented and wrong, almost runs right into Gert who is aimlessly oddly right there, bright as ever with her fading purple hair and dark roots, big glasses not doing anything to hide her wide eyes, wearing a Hannukah sweater that is slightly too big such that it hangs over her hands, reaches almost to her knees, which are bare as though she is wearing the sweater as a dress. Like this, she looks safe, and Chase remembers a holiday spent with the Yorkes when his parents were both on a work trip. There were candles. There was singing. No one cried. No one screamed. He slept through the night.

Gert looks at him and her expression is open and worried, gentle, but he cannot stop the way he flinches when she reaches out to him. She sees it and stops, hand in midair for a moment before she lowers it back to her side. “Chase, are you okay? You look.” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. 

He can imagine what he looks like, flushed, sweating, caught in a perpetual war between fight, flight, and freeze. The latter used to win the most. He hated it. Still hates it, that feeling of powerlessness, that inability to act. He promises himself, not for the first time, that he will not freeze when the others need him, though he cannot say the same for himself, alone.

“Just a bad dream,” he says because she’s still standing there, looking at him, assessing him the way she does everyone, studying him. Chase is sure that she is cataloging flaws, wishes he knew a way to distract her because he would rather not be an insect on a pin, squirming, for Gert to see. Once you lose so much face, it’s impossible to get it back, and he. He would like for Gert to think he is something more than nothing.

“I don’t like Christmas,” he says, unbidden, unprompted. It just falls out of his mouth, flat. 

“I remember,” Gert’s voice is gentle, the voice he has heard her use to comfort Molly, and she pushes her glasses up, twists her hands together, fidgets with her sweater, all those tiny little motions that are Gert’s tells when she is anxious.

Any other time, Chase would let them go, but he is already so off-center, so frayed, that he cannot take the motion, and he reaches to catch them. Gert’s hands are surprisingly soft for someone who seems to be attempting to tear down society on her own. Once he has them, she does not struggle, does not try to take them back, lets him hold them. 

He doesn’t remember telling Gert that he doesn’t like Christmas but also cannot find the voice to ask her for details, just looks at her hands in his. They are small, but he knows how strong they are because this is Gert. 

“Do you remember that year you stayed with us during Hannukah?” 

Chase nods.

“You told me then. That you didn’t like Christmas.”

He doesn’t remember that part of it but then sometimes Chase’s memory is full of blank spots that he doesn’t attempt to uncover because he’s afraid of what might be lurking underneath.

“You didn’t say anything when the others suggested it. I thought maybe you had changed your mind. If I’d thought it would bother you, I would have suggested we skip it.”

“No, it’s. It’s fine. That would have been unnecessary.” And too much. Too much trouble to go to for his comfort. No sense making the rest of them suffer just to put him at ease. They’ve been through so much this year, they deserve something. They deserve Christmas even if it does make his blood run cold.

Gert sighs like he has asked her to move the moon, but he doesn’t ask why she’s perturbed. Chase has learned over the years that those kinds of questions will be answered at length, and he doesn’t really have the wherewithal to listen to it properly right now. 

“If I remember correctly,” she takes a step towards him, careful, and she has not taken her hands back from where they remain in his, where he is running his own fingers down the lengths of hers because it is soothing, “you liked the singing.”

Chase blinks at her, confused, and he can only imagine how dumb he probably looks in this moment, how unlike anything she’d like. 

“When you were at our house during Hannukah. You liked the singing.”

“I liked you singing.” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it, this bold, brash truth. Fight, or flight, or freeze. This is none of those. This is Chase undone by truth and honesty and the softness that is Gert when she allows herself to stop fighting the world.

She blushes, and he smiles, just a little because it makes her glow. “Thanks,” she says, though it is hesitant, and he wonders if part of her thinks he is joking.

He understands why she would think that, but he is never joking when he compliments her even when he does it poorly.

“Anyway, I could, um, teach you a song. If you wanted.”

“I don’t sing very well.” He does, in fact, sing extremely poorly, which Gert already knows.

“That’s okay.” Said with enough sincerity that he believes it. “I just thought you might like it.”

What he likes is the feel of her close, the warmth of her hands in his, the way her eyes are concerned. What is likes is her. There. With him. What do you want for Christmas, Chase? he asks himself, and the answer is clear, the answer is obvious. He wants someone who cares about him. He wants someone who gives a shit. 

He wants her.

What he wants is, again, something out of his league, something that cannot be bought or wrapped or exchanged. Something that cannot be wished into being like asking for his father to be nicer or better or kind. What he wants is something he doesn’t understand how to get, something he probably doesn’t deserve. Fight, or flight, or freeze. Chase Stein is so often frozen right down to the core of himself that he sometimes wonders whether anything is there to offer except ice.

If he was anything other than a coward, maybe he would say at least one of these things to her, but he is a coward so he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Okay. Teach me a song.”

Gert sings, Chase attempts to. Somewhere during it all, they end up sitting on the floor of the hallway, across from each other, and he is still holding her hands. Half the time, he just listens to her, watches her, and Gert pretends not to notice, but he notices it every time her voice shakes or her cheeks get warm or her hands twitch a little in his, anxious, which makes him hold them tighter, shift closer to her. They are knee to knee, but he keeps leaning forward, closer, as though he can disappear into the song, into the way her voice lilts up, the loveliness of it. He has missed this, her voice like this instead of biting, tossing quips. He loves those, too, but this is something else, so much brighter, the softer side of the girl he has known forever. 

“Maybe next year, we can celebrate Hannukah instead,” he says when she stops singing, and he has given up the pretense of trying to. He doesn’t even question why he assumes there will be a next year. He needs there to be a next year. He needs this family. Even if they aren’t in this slowly sinking mansion in the ground, he needs them all, especially Gert soft and steel at the same time, singing as easily as she mocks.

“That might be a hard sell. But,” she twines her fingers through his, not for the first time, hopefully not for the last, “we could do both.”

Chase thinks about giving up Christmas, about giving up all the other holidays that are like millstones around his neck, hairshirts on his back. He wonders about replacing them with other things, if it would even make a difference. “I don’t like Christmas,” he says, the words small, his voice small, the way he feels, small, and young and waiting for something terrible. Most children waited for Santa, presents, reindeer. Chase waited for yelling, breaking, pain, disappointment.

“I know.” When she lets go of his hand and reaches out to touch his cheek, he does not flinch away. He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until she brushes the tears away. “They’ve ruined a lot of things. It’s okay.”

Chase wonders what their parents have ruined for Gert, how he can set it right because he wants to. “Thanks. For this.” His voice sounds wet and tight, it reminds him of his mother’s fake smiles and her pretense that they were happy, all of it exhausting.

Her hand on his face has not moved; it is warm. Chase thinks it might be warm enough to soak through to those cold, frozen parts of him that will not move anymore. “No big deal,” she says casually as though she has given him a dollar instead of sitting in the hall with him, singing to him, holding his hands, calming him down little by little so that he feels more like himself now, less like a shaking child. If it weren’t for the way her voice hitches a little at the end, he would almost believe her. But her eyes on his face are searching as he draws closer, and her gaze lingers on his lips more than once before skating back up to meet his own. 

Maybe it is just her way of memorizing and taking in everything. Maybe it is something else. He wants it to be something else. “No, Gert, it’s.” He swallows. “It’s more than you think it is. It means a lot. It means.” He doesn’t know how to broach the subject more fully, isn’t sure about spilling all the years of secrets, pulling out the scars and receipts to show her. Gert is strong, yes, but is she strong enough for this? He doesn’t know. 

“People get sad around the holidays. It’s a statistical fact. There have been multiple studies done on the subject.”

She’s not done talking, he can tell by the way she tilts her head that she is about to launch into a diatribe complete with sources, and it’s rude to cut her off, but she’s beautiful and he kisses her. There’s a moment when she freezes and he thinks this is it, the universe will end. Gert will hate him, and he will become ice and shatter and blow away. Then she kisses him back, and everything inside of him melts in the face of the wave of heat.

This is another thing about him that surprises people, that surprises even himself when it blooms out in full force at the touch of her lips: Chase Stein is in love with Gert Yorkes.

[level3bird]

the synapse gang

I backed my car into one of my spousal unit’s bicycles this morning in the garage. The bike fared very well with no noticeable damage; the car, unfortunately, got a small dent and a 4” scratch on the rear hatch door. I am not pleased. Our car is only a little over a year old and has less than 7900kms (4900 miles) on it. We’ve kept it new as and now I’m aggravated.

Ugh. Do over please.

I also woke up craving carbs.

This is only day 2 of the new HFLC eating plan that we’re due to be on indefinitely. After being diagnosed with liver disease and told that I must do something drastic if I want to reverse it (while I still can), it was suggested by my lovely doctor that I go low carb. A medical suggestion that struck fear into this little processed-foods loving soul. I’m the girl with the “I never met a carbohydrate I didn’t like” fridge magnet. So, seriously?

Nevertheless, because I don’t want to die early and sick like my mother did and I don’t want to be diabetic and I’d like to have more energy and less inflammation in all my joints, here I am measuring macros and avoiding carbs like they are cocaine.

Actually, I think avoiding carbs is harder than avoiding cocaine. At least, for me, sugar and carbs have proven to be stronger adversaries than all the pearly powder I lived to ingest. I mean, I am an emotional/comfort/boredom eater and I have consumed sugar and flour and processed white foods like it was my job. And I’ve got to eat, right?

I know there is also a psychological component that is most likely much more powerful than the physical component. Although, I can attest to a physical component as well. I’m sure some of you can relate to the low sugar vapours that you get when you haven’t had your crystalline fix. As such, I’m sure that the carb flu is on its way and from a physical perspective, I’ll have to hunker down to not spontaneously combust over this sugar detox business.

As for the psychological part of it, Jesus take the wheel! I’m reciting the Serenity Prayer on the regular and hoping that I’ll find a Sponsor who’ll be able to put up with my flavour of crazy. It’s complicated.

Last week, as part of the “Observation” phase of the Real Meal Revolution, the HFLC program I’m due to be on for at least a year, I tracked all that I ate and was surprised/not surprised to learn that I was eating about 10-15x the amount of carbohydrates a day that I should be. My macros basically came out to “all carbs, all the time.” I am a fiend for white powders, go figure.

I’ve known that I’ve had disordered eating for quite some time, but haven’t wanted to really look at the causes or the consequences of it. It has been easy to be in denial about it. I’m 5’11” and a corn-fed country girl and I’ve always carried the excess weight relatively well. And despite having been told by a prisoner when I worked as a guard at TDCJ that I looked like I could wrestle bears, I really haven’t had an issue with my size. Yes, I’m not thrilled I’m a size 22 (be happy to be a size 14/16 though), but I’ve always thought that fluffy was sexy and my beloved hasn’t ever complained about the curves.

So, it wasn’t really my Rubenesque size that threw the switch. It was science, first, and getting honest with myself, second. The results from the medical tests were confronting, the achy joints were bothersome and the getting out of breath easily was concerning, but it was the inability to stop turning to food for comfort that really got my attention. It was the constant ‘how do I avoid any feelings, for fuck’s sake I need an Aero Mint Chocolate bar or I might die’ moments that left me with no doubt that I’m as addicted to carbohydrates/sugar/super processed foods as much so, if not more, than I was addicted to cocaine and benzos.

Everything revolves around changing the way I’m feeling or avoiding having feelings. I couldn’t be more textbook if I tried. The shit gets real and I want to shove a lot of shitty food right in my pie-hole to numb me. Of course, I’ve ignored the obvious for a long time because I had the fallback position that at least I wasn’t hoovering up the Bolivian Marching Powder anymore or spending three/four days a week sat at a pill mill waiting for the beautiful trifecta.

This HFLC business is going to be a challenge, but I think, I hope, that I am up for it. And where I am lacking, I will throw myself into the program of Narcotics Anonymous to help me help myself. I know that addiction, a soul sickness that I have/had, is the problem and the rest is commentary on the problem. No different than the spending or the need for this tablet or that tablet or a few tablets to get me to sleep at night. It is all much of a muchness for someone like me.

The dots connect easily enough when you have no coping skills to fall back on or when you’re able to rank your various traumas on a scale of ‘that’s shit’ to ‘scorched earth’. Not an excuse, only an observation.

I woke about 4am this morning from a nightmare. It was one of those theme dreams that I periodically have - me and my father in some huge argument over something, raised voices, mean words, violence on the horizon. In this dream, I was in public, out on some type of outdoor plaza and there were lots of folks around and my father was reading me the riot act. In the dream, he was shouting so loud and saying the cruellest things, as he usually did in real life. I was being kicked out of my house or berated for being a shit parent or something like that. There are always variations on this dream, but they all follow the same general plot and I wake up stressed off my tits in a panic, feeling like I need to run, to get away.

I’ve had enough of them over the years that, fortunately, when they happen now, I wake up, have a look around, reach out and touch my husband and ground myself. I repeat a little mantra in my head that my beloved started back when the PTSD and nightmares were a holy terror – I say my address to myself. Tim used to calm me down when I was having the panic or the tears or just slipping away into dissociation by asking me where I was right at that moment. His point, I suppose, was to bring me back out of wherever it was that I’d disappeared to and to make me feel secure in the present moment where there wasn’t a threat or a traumatic memory. It still helps. I was able to get up and get some water and go back to sleep with little fanfare.

The thing is, it is all connected.  The nightmare, the carb cravings, the overwhelming feelings of loserdom that washed over me when I dinged the car. The little librarian in charge of the card catalogue of my mind is so adept at running through the file drawers in nano-seconds to be able to flag every incident where I’ve felt powerless, worthless, like an idiot or a failure. She can flag all the memories of fear and of violence, of need and desperation. And it is as if there is an invisible string connecting these associated memories and they are tied to the simplest of daily events and when something happens, like me bumping the car into the bike in the garage, the string is suddenly pulled tight and up goes every memory, strung across my mind like an evil version of Tibetan prayer flags.

I’ve always thought of it like my synapses were ganging up on me. Which is a logical observation. Unfortunately, when it happens, the dreaded ‘feelings’ occur and those are what I wish to avoid at all cost. I’m having to learn all over again how to sit with them and let them pass. It is not my strong suit.

Those unwanted feelings and their causative memories are the rallying cry to activate my addictions. And I think they are why I need a program for living, which for me, needs to be the 12-steps.

Working a program gives me a view as to how I get overwhelmed and how things devolve into chaos. It can give me the good sense to realise that my best intentions and well-laid plans don’t really and haven’t really worked for me. The steps show me that I need to be able to let go of the death grip I’ve always had on trying to control the uncontrollable – those things I cannot change. Working the steps and going to meetings keep me level and sane. I hear other people share their experiences and I see myself in them and I feel less alone. I listen to the way other people have dealt with the situations that vex me and that gives me an opportunity to try things another way. Going to Narcotics Anonymous helps me to get and stay honest with myself, gives me the tools I need to clear away the flotsam and jetsam so that I can see myself and my actions with clarity. Because, without that, I can’t make things better. I see my part in it all and the way I contribute to the festering of old wounds instead of the repair and healing of them.

And, if nothing else, it gives me hope that there is hope for me yet. It plants a flag in front of me that bears promises:

We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness.

We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.

We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace.

No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others.

That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear.

We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows.

Self-seeking will slip away.

Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change.

Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us.

We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us.

We will suddenly realize that [our Higher Power] is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

The program assures me, put in the work, and your life can be good, it can be (as they say) happy, joyous and free. 

And I need to be reminded of that, especially when the Synapse Gang gets on my tail.

[idolizerp]

LOADING INFORMATION ON IMPERIAL’S MAIN RAP, LEAD VOCAL SON JIYONG...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: N/A CURRENT AGE: 26 DEBUT AGE:  21 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 19 COMPANY: 99 Ent. ETC: this member is known for their work with lyrics and production.

IDOL IMAGE

he’s an eccentric paradigm.

jiyong is full of a youthful gleam, charming and saccharine but also wickedly sinful. it’s a dichotomy between two opposing characteristics that somehow suits his boyish image. the way hard-hitting raps spill from his mouth to the timings of his cheesy winks that arouse excitement from the crowd. 99 entertainment composes him in a way that’s unforgettable. they want him to shine enough to burn the mirage of his beaming, playful grins, and his half-lidded sultry stares into the minds of those who take a glance at imperial. just enough to keep them hooked onto the taste, yet never completely fulfilled by the portion; their affair with the rapper further evolving into a heated addiction. his image is one of a tease, someone who stands out in a way that brings the audience crawling back for more.

loud laughter and charming habits are part of this persona that helps him appeal to younger fans who see their high school crush in his mannerisms, but also the older adults reminiscing their passing youth. with his aggression stifled to appear as power instead; his obsessive drive conducted into the disposition of passion, he’s just a reckless romantic making love through the design of various lyrics and slanted stares. jiyong can just as easily be the mischievously, enticing performer as he can the boy-next-door. the pattern of inky designs sprawled on his skin serving as a suitable accessory to his bright smiles; something a little bolder to counteract all the sweetness. he could make anything seem okay.

people tend to gravitate towards him, feeling as though they know him. he gives away just enough information to build those gentle connections and just enough distance that his conversations follow the likeness of a person who is wholesome and genuine. jiyong is a quick-witted, enigmatic performer who never runs out of things to say.

he is a desire, previewing the rare hints of thrill with the flash of a pearly smile, curved like a cocky promise, bright with the hues of a faux cheekiness. he’s got an approachable expression, one that is attentive, full of comfort, yet he’s also dressed as a risk — a temptation to indulge. like a sigh, a soft ache. jiyong induces sensations of anticipation and yearning that never see their end. it’s like falling in love, or falling in sin — none can tell. all that remains is a blur of cascading moments; glimmering in hues of an effervescent youth, and devilishly frisky smirks. they only see the side leaning beyond the curtain, one that dares them to inquire further with the promise to be cherished.

IDOL HISTORY

1.0

trust is raw and vulnerable. their father displays it bluntly, unveiling the directions and avenues it unwinds into, displaying the safety and ease of restraining yourself from its reaches. he basks in an asylum of silence; physically near, yet thoughts and emotions cast off into the distance. he employs this method of convenience in raising his children — a laid-back stance — hardly present. after all, life is about selfishness; taking what your greed desires, and both boys flourish under that insistent mantra.

they find their father in intervals; bits of hope and passion stitched together, smoking a cigarette in the suffocating space of his recording studio. it’s an obsessive hobby, like his work. his business hasn’t been profitable for years, yet he remains bound to it like religion, bringing his children into its worship.

it’s where the essence of jiyong is forged; a fixation with words contrived. his formative years are forged by scarce memories of smoke and a heavy, exhausted voice guiding the inherited trait to the forefront of his personality. a focus is spent on poetry, on lyrics, and on the weight of certain words: how to say more than enough with much too little. two children grow up attuned to the sense of music in its complex existence and lonely absence. it’s something they experience often, but never well enough.  

2.0

it’s in his last weeks of high school that 99 entertainment greets him from the blue. initially, it’s a scouting call, yet his prisoning hobby finds a home in the career of a songwriter first. his youth is malformed, direction disjointed, but they fix that. they guide the rush of words that litter his pages and plague his mind. they turn shrapnel of ideas and mold them into solid concepts. jiyong slowly discovers his footing as a proper songwriter and a home for his musical ambitions. though it can hardly be called that. at that point, it’s an evolving obsession — a habit too hard to quit. there’s beauty in the arrangement of words, but what he writes still holds a bitter edge.

they don’t feel like him, and it’s been hard to tell that for a while, but it’s the kind of style 99 appreciates — the blatant honesty and insensitivity of his perspective. for a year, he’s left alone doing just that, yet what 99 wants and what jiyong needs are two different things, and they persuade him into the field they’d originally wanted him as. he joins a line-up of competitive, experiences trainees, thirsting for the chance he’d formerly denied.

it’s not that he’s unprepared — though he is, it’s that there’s obvious, lacking regard for the profession when he begins again, and the resentment that stems proves itself too difficult to ignore. he feels it creeping along his spine, digging inwards, sitting in his lungs; an inherent phantom swallowing the air he attempts to breathe. he isn’t accustomed to the company of scrutiny or the stares of spectators picking him apart for the skills in which he lacks.

prior to this, what he was was good enough for 99, but now he is the unworthy contender, unfairly picked while the rest were vetted through auditions and a long history of harsh evaluations. a combination of anger and anxiety follow him in every step. as his muscles are molded into the rhythm of dance, as the dissonance of his voice is battered into a pleasing style. yet jiyong continues in the endless pursuit. he’s never known how to quit.

2.1

the survival show is a slap in the face. jiyong’s doubtful in knowing if he desires this, but then again, he doesn’t digest passion like others; only dismissing his ambivalence as a hindrance attempting to undermine his resolve. by the time the results are announced, he’s an exhausted carcass; a shell cleaned hollow for public expectations and demands to fill. it’s part of the transition. investing bits and pieces of originality, sacrificing time and habits, all for the hope of a greater return and a rewarding reception.

he trains as the final installment to a boy-group; the unanticipated intruder; a thief that robbed others of their chance. in the archaic judgment of a man, he’d be one becoming; boy made machination. he may not be of others to possess and command, but he is also not his own and that fact begins to gnaw on him. the lack of control, the weight of unity and collective burden of individual mistakes — all wear him down faster than the criticisms.

jisoo reminds him it only gets better, but there’s a mass that is dragged by idols — a lie of perfection to be repeatedly told for the sake of consistency. it’s a skin-deep mirage to disguise the flaws that come with his character. like the fact that he’s riding on the back of a boy-group success to attain a solo career. even under the pretty make-up and the charming smiles, jiyong’s presence in the industry is littered with shifting fault lines.

2.2

when his brother passes late into the following year, the worst is brought forth in jiyong. self-destruction becomes his clingiest companion, and while he’s been its prized subject for years, it grows tenfold until he’s a vacant vessel with only misery as cargo. he tortures himself with the details of the death, forging guilt where there should exist none. it’s no surprise that among his other habits, he falls into rhythm with melancholia as well.

jiyong barely knew him. he spoke too much, yet his words never crossed the distance between them. he wasn’t as good with them as their father. he was more like their mother — saying too much in attempts to compensate the trembling discordance in the air. filling it with more insecurity than draining it of the crippling tension hanging in the walls of their paper home.

a tether he holds to the industry snaps and jiyong finds himself directionless. the feeling of powerlessness draws the reigns tighter around his neck, and his inability haunts him. still, he insists on carrying his burdens alone, confined to the walls of work as he tears into melodies, adding more to his schedule. as time passes and the routine of their dazzling life dulls into a mundane chore, he relies on this drive to keep him awake throughout their idol reign.

it’s tyrannical how he works, sights always settled on something more; greedy and obsessive, his tragic flaws fuelling his future successes. his personality is distorted between what is and isn’t authentic, and the dilemma of the blurring dichotomy boils under the surface of his gleaming smile. he ignores it. maybe he’s never known who he is, maybe it’s a knowledge he lost with his brother or something he’s yet to discover. but, upholding his charming facade is what’s currently convenient, so he folds into it and continues, bound to it like religion.

[happyk44]

#she doesn't even have to do it herself #he is just trapped in the horror of watching someone die and never recovering from the guilt that follows #like i thin we should talk more about how she was the first permanent death of the series and the first death he really witnessed #i think he should be more deranged by it tbh #painfully devoted to nico's health and happiness in a way that skips the border of unhealthy and jumps straight into fucked up

#even better if bianca doesn't care. and nico has moved on. so the only person who is stuck in this void of misery about it is percy #and he can't emerge. no matter what he does no matter the time that passes she is always there in the back of his mind #a reminder of the first time he failed to protect someone else. #a reminder of his selfishness. his inability to follow through on promises. of his powerlessness. his uselessness.

#in tbotl he finds out that nico doesn't care about him or his soul. he doesn't want percy dead. and percy is weirdly gutted by this #he needs nico to hate him and it freaks him out that nico doesn't. he's clearly upset but percy isn't centered in it the way you'd think. #nico has his own mission and percy is barely a side note in it and he's so bothered by that. it drives him up the wall #how selfish is it to be upset with someone for not hating you because you got their sister killed? #he hates himself so much. he wants to die so bad. but he can't. he has to keep going. for nico. for bianca. he doesn't have a choice

i love when i go insane in the tags. like yes bro speak more about percy's declining mental health and self-loathing

percy needs to be haunted by bianca's ghost more