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20smthngrp-blog · 7 years ago

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( ONG SEONGWOO, 22 )

Name: Ong Seongwoo Date of Birth: 1995/02/08 Occupation: College student

SPARKNOTES:

ong seongwoo’s life start off pretty normal: born to a former-idol-turned-actor and a housewife, he lived a pretty standard rich-kid life. that was until his bastard sister came to live with him.

though seongwoo was pretty much welcoming. he always wanted a sister, someone to play with at that stupidly big house, and as closed and shut off that chaeyeon used to be, she was just fine at the job.

from a very early age his parents shoved him into variety show programs and dramas. so for many years of seongwoo’s childhood he was a child actor and variety star. though, that endeavor wasn’t successful at all.

most critics about seongwoo weren’t positive - they were always about how he had no charisma, how he was too quiet, how he was stiff in his acting. how he only got the roles and the spots he got because of his father’s influence. which wasn’t a lie.

he stopped acting and doing dramas at the age of 13, after he was diagnosed with panic disorder and anxiety. his mother stood his ground and his father accepted seongwoo’s very early retirement from the entertainment industry.

there were two things that kept seongwoo afloat during this period, though: his sister, chaeyeon. and his true passion, football.

while acting was never his cup of tea and rather something he did for the sake of his parents, football was the one thing he was truly good act and shined on his own accord. when he stopped acting and was able to live the life of a normal teenager seongwoo dedicated himself even more to the football club activities, going as far as joining the football club once he was accepted into college too.

needless to say that if things were on seongwoo way he would’ve tried being a professional player. needless to say also that you can’t always get what you want.

now he majors in civil and environmental engineering. it’s an okay course that he does okay in but there’s always that lingering feeling that he could be doing something else if he wasn’t so much of a coward.

moved in with chaeyeon in the last year because he was tired of his mother’s nagging, is trying to be a more independent and responsible young adult and leave his parents’ wings for a bit.

FREEFORM:

i. it’s raining all over seoul when he’s born. a thunderstorm, raging on and on, but for now they’re scared he’ll even make it, all eyes on him and on his mother, prayers going around the room. but he makes it, and so does his mother. they’re fighters, after all, born to live, born to shine. seongwoo doesn’t cry when he leaves his mother’s womb, eyes wide open, looking around as if inspecting the place, as if being born is just another of his duties. his father will tell him one day that when a baby is born not crying is because their spirit is happy to come to the world, because they have a special purpose to fulfill. seongwoo used to like that idea, he liked feeling special. now he thinks it’s utter crap. ii. he is lying on the ground, one arm lying on his side, the other hand grabbing a wooden sword tight against his chest. there’s laughter and then applauses, and quickly seongwoo is on his feet, eyeing the crowd with a huge smile. he smiles, proud and happy, finding his family easily. they are in the front row after all, just as usual, mom, dad and his little sister on his mother’s lap. his family is not that old tired cliché of the broken rich family - the sad little rich boy, always alone, always waiting for his parents to come. no. his father always makes a place in his busy schedule for him, his mother is always there for all his little school plays, every single event. he comes down the stage still wearing his prince costume, hugging his mother tightly.

“you were born to be a star,” his father says and seongwoo smiles, believes it. iii. “you’re doing well.”

“i’m not.”

“you are,” he looks up to his older sister who gives him one of those smiles that just make everything seem to be all right for a while. he looks away, back to her room. for a second there he wonders how much longer she’ll still stay here. then he decides it’s not worth thinking about it.

“but look,” he says as he almost shoves the phone on her face. he knows she won’t like it. she always tells him to not read the negative comments about his tv appearances but seongwoo honestly can’t help it. he thinks the person has to be a complete damn saint to not give in to the temptation of looking up comments of people talking about them, even if the comments are horrible. “they’re all shitting on me.”

chaeyeon frowns. “don’t look at this.”

“but look-”

“you’re doing great. they’re just being shitheads hating on a kid who’s giving his all,” she holds his face, looks right in his eyes. “now go to your room. and don’t read those! ever again.”

seongwoo rolls his eyes, walks away, but he feels a little bit lighter than before. iv. “ong seongwoo. that’s your cue.”

he looks to the director and then back to the actress in front of him. he knows his lines, he knows that he knows them. he rehearsed over and over like some idiot for days and weeks. he is prepared, he knows it. but yet he feels his hands shaking, his mind going blank. he looks up to the light and then back to the scene. he opens his mouth and nothing comes out. he coughs.

“sweetie, are you okay?” the actress asks and seongwoo wants to run. they’re mocking him, and he knows it. they’re making fun of him. he can hear them. they’re laughing, talking about how bad his acting is, how horrible he is at this. he takes a step back, feels like he’s choking. he can’t breathe.

he throws up right on the beautiful actress’ shoes. v. “it’s a panic disorder,” the doctor says like it’s nothing. he names it and suddenly seongwoo feels himself relaxing just a little bit. something with a name is much easier to fight than the complete unknown. his mother also seems to relax but his father still has his hands into fists right on top of his knees. they leave the office, buy the medication prescribed and go home.

“i don’t think this industry is good for him,” he hears his mother say in the elevator. his father tells her they’ll talk properly at home. once they’re inside seongwoo goes to his sister’s room, lies on her bed while she studies.

“do you think i’m crazy?” he asks and she throws a pillow at him. seongwoo smiles.

vi.

living life as a normal boy is better than seongwoo had expected. there were no comments about him anymore. and now he could focus on things that actually mattered for him, things that he was actually good at. things like football.

there’s very few things that seongwoo likes better than the feeling when he’s on the field, running, hearing the crowd cheer for him. there’s very few things that seongwoo likes better than that feeling he has every time they win, the hugs and laughs once they’re back in the locker room, that feeling that only being part of a team brings. seongwoo loves playing more than he loves anything else, loves being a part of it, making them win, being useful.

and it’s good, in a way. to look at his uniform shirt and see his name written on it and for once not be ashamed. but proud. he’s found pride again.

vii.

“mother,” he says one day and she looks at him with attention. “i want to play football for a living.”

she smiles kindly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“that won’t do, dear,” it’s all she says, and he knows what she means. he knows it very well.

viii.

when the college letter arrives seongwoo doesn’t know what to feel. his mother is thrilled, all smiles and kisses. his father is already talking about how proud he is, about how, sure, he thought he’d be an actor but if not an actor an engineer would do. his sister stares at him from afar, a gentle hand caressing his shoulder when they’re left alone, his parents out talking the dreams they are dreaming for him. once again.

“civil engineering?” she says, tilts her head. “is that really what you want?”

seongwoo only smiles, messes with her hair. she sighs, hugs him.

ix.

he pretends not to notice it at first.

he pretends that if his eyes are drawn to him so much it must be because he plays well. that if he watches him, follows him it’s because of his talent. he pretends that if he yearns to be by his side it’s because they’re good friends. that if seongwoo laughs differently when he’s with him, that if seongwoo feels different it’s all because they get along so well. friends. two boys being friends. that’s all there’s to it. that’s all.

but when they’re alone seongwoo feels it so strongly it’s impossible to pretend. they’re sitting side by side, two boys a little too close to comfort after football practice, sharing that sort of silence that feels like home. he looks to his side as watches as the sun bathes his face and his heart leaps, twists and turns and seongwoo knows. he knows.

he closes his eyes. this was not how he thought his first love would be.

seongwoo always says he hates cowards. he likes to act brave, kind. he likes being the center of attention. he likes when the younger ones on the team look up for him, when the older ones tell him he’s reliable. he enjoys having the image of a good person. a kid person.

so when he sees what is happening, he wants to fight back. when seongwoo sees them laughing at him, mocking him he wants to say something. he wants to go to his side and hold his hand and tell them all to fuck off. but he’s paralyzed. he’s scared, something completely fucked up and broken inside of him won’t let him move.

because what if they start mocking him too? what if people start hating him again? what if he becomes the butt of a joke once again? what if they stop pointing fingers at him and point their fingers at seongwoo instead?

once again, seongwoo closes his eyes, takes a step back. says nothing when he’s asked. what a sad thing, he thinks. he’s so like his father.

xi. he likes him, he thinks, and it feels heavy. he approaches him but once he sees his back all alone, leaving the field he pauses. stops. aches. then. seongwoo walks away, runs. he runs and runs and runs.

xii.

he goes to live with his sister. he tells his mother it’s because he wants to be closer to her and also because he wants to try living the life in itaewon, but truth be told he just wants to be away from his mother’s nagging as soon as possible. and it’s time, really. 22 is more than time. he’s okay now. better. he can take the subway by himself without getting too scared. he can walk in open spaces.

and chaeyeon, she understands. she always understands.

things will be fine, he’s sure. tells himself until he believes it. fake it until you make it, as his father always said.

#20s: accepted

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20smthngrp-blog · 7 years ago

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( KWON TAEHEE, 22 )

Name: Kwon Taehee Date of Birth: 1996/01/07 Occupation: Student, part-time restaurant delivery driver

SPARKNOTES:

Born in an impoverished neighborhood in Jungnang-gu. Parents struggled everyday to make ends meet; got to the point where she and her older brother are left at an orphanage, as they could not provide for them.

Adoptive parents turn out to be a nice middle aged couple; Taehee likes them just fine, though it’s more out of the relief they hadn’t separated her from Taewook than it is out of genuine affection.

It’s not too long before Taewook decides to leave home for greener pastures, armed with the ambitions of making it big elsewhere—anywhere—but here.

They lose contact quickly, with barely a call from his end for a good 7-8 years—their first encounter only occurring when he ends up in the hospital during her last year of high school.

It’s not exactly passion that pushes her towards some trajectory of becoming a dentist, actually far from it. But on second thought: the situational opposite seems much, much worse in comparison. So that’s that.

The friends she keeps close are few, romantic endeavors even fewer. By the end of her third year in university, many of the connections she maintains are purely out of obligation.

She quickly learns that the keeping sanity comes at the price of some conveniently-timed breakdown. The seeming inevitability of the event nearly does her in.

But it doesn’t. Shouldn’t that be enough? (It should be.)

Bounces back just in time for her senior year, only to settle down to a familiar pattern of hermit-like tendencies.

Has more or less convinced herself that everything is under control—sort of.

FREEFORM:

2003.

Over the expanse of the dining table, the disparities are noticeable: a set of softer eyes across their aging dark: faces framed too angular, habits too grounded, mechanical for there to be any biological overlap; they’re nice all right, nice in the almost timid, near cautious way that adoptive parents are, but more importantly, they’re passive enough to be still considered strangers—children solely in name, charity cases in nature.

To say it’s suffocating is an understatement. Somehow this sits with her brother just fine.

Tahee can only wish she could say the same.

2007.

They’d been like this for as long as she can remember: Taewook, forever pushing and pushing and pushing as his younger sister serves as his only form of restraint. By principle, the opposite ends of the same balancing act.

It shouldn’t be surprising to see that he was already gone, making his his way across the half the globe to start anew, sprinting ahead to reach new heights.

And yet a part of her hopes he’ll turn around, come hurrying back to take her with. But for the next seven years, Taewook only ever keeps running and running and running. He doesn’t look back.

2011.

Adolescence sets itself on a predictable course: solid, blunt and definitive; all planned direction over cognitive aimlessness. She’s a kind of obvious that’s missed completely despite being right under one’s nose; the joke passed around in her defense is that Kwon Taehee is simply “misunderstood.“

Misunderstood. Alright. Ironic maybe, but fair all the same.

Spring comes slowly but surely. The image of her older brother slowly folds itself in. The most she can conjure up of him is just the straight of his back, and nothing else.

Strangely, this no longer bothers her.

2015.

She senses it before she can even enter the room.

Her right hand hovers over the knob, hesitant. The tip of her tongue poking the inside of her left cheek, uncertain. The last of his things sit in the cardboard box beside his feet, everything else having been moved in the day before. She’s already familiarized herself with the new living space, from its nooks down to its crannies, but something feels off. There’s unease that holes itself into the pit of her stomach, swallowing up any chances of feeling comfortable.

“Oppa?”

There’s been stories. She’s heard most of them, if not all. The long nights. The meltdowns. The morning teetering dangerously close to the roof’s edge. It had warranted apathy at first, a moment’s worth of polite interest. It’s the least she can do, when the patient is none other than a deadbeat, estranged older brother. Blood is thicker than water, after all.

But as soon as she hears the click, the lone creak of the door being slowly pulled open, it looms over her—all phantom memory, white shadow. The weather is still warm and wet, a full ripe summer, yet she feels herself go numb to the bone.

“Are you there?”

2016.

For once, the dorm is quiet. She stares at the frost-laden window, cracked open despite the winter chill. From here, Taehee spots the street, all streetlamp-glow, melting soft over the mud-trekked snow. There’s muffled laughter heard outside her door. It’s been five months. Only a little more before Christmas.

All of this should feel like home by now.

(It doesn’t.)

(If not here, then where?)

She closes her eyes.

2017.

It’s two in the morning and the view of the city is a welcome comfort, all electric hum and frequencies reverberated through the clear glass, but even the most blinding of lights can’t hide the aftermath of the past hour. The bloodshot eyes. The disheveled hair. The smashed bottle left in splinters by her feet.

She’d always held onto the belief that trouble always had the habit of finding him. That is, until now, when it’s been staring her right in the eye. She opens her mouth, then clamps it shut. Open. Close. Open. Close. For a full minute she studies the movements of her reflection. Her lack of words. Her silence. On the wall adjacent to the window, the phone hangs by the wire, coil pulled taut down, ignored.

Truth is, she wouldn’t know where to begin, had she called anyone.

It’s two in the morning in a hotel room and she’s breaking herself down to build herself back up.

She doesn’t know if it’s working.

#20s: accepted #where_is_my_mind.mp3

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20smthngrp-blog · 7 years ago

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Who are some examples of models/idols/stars that have expressed they don’t want to be rped?

it’s basically just anyone who has shown discomfort with the idea of being impersonated or roleplayed, for instance baek sumin has asked to not be impersonated/rped or christian yu who has said he’s alright with roleplaying but has issues with being impersonated. basically we’re just trying to prevent people from being uncomfortable but the overall list itself isn’t very large

#faq: 20s #i hope that makes sense #Anonymous

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20smthngrp-blog · 7 years ago

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Until January 31st 11:59 pm EST

Byun Baekhyun — EXO Kim Mingyu — Seventeen Ong Seongwoo — Wanna One Yoon Jeonghan — Seventeen

Opened

Kang Kyungwon, Yuha — Pristin

Pending

Lee Sunbin — Actress as Kwon Taehee ( received )

#kpop rp #krp ad #krp #kpop roleplay #20s: incoming

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20smthngrp-blog · 7 years ago

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The following have 48 hours to be active or contact the main if they wish to remain in the directory. Please note that photo, audio, and inspo posts do not count as activity. However for this instance we will allow memes to count as activity.

@20sjaehyun @hanbyul20s @sungnam20s @20sbokyung @20sjihan @chae20s @20staeoh

The following face claims have now been opened:

Jung Hoseok, J-hope — BTS

#20s: activity

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20smthngrp-blog · 7 years ago

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( KANG DANIEL, 22 )

Name: Kang Daniel Date of Birth: 1995/02/19 Occupation: Part-timer at a convenience store, a Mexican restaurant, and a construction site

SPARKNOTES:

family of four: father, mother, older brother, daniel. he is born and raised in busan, the son of a well-known pastor, and despite some turbulence, has a very cohesive and warm childhood. he’s a normal kid: a little chubby, really energetic, and he loves soccer. his mother isn’t his mother because he’s born out of an affair but! that’s! okay!

his father cheats on his mother multiple times but they try, again and again, to fix their relationship. for the most part, they succeed, and daniel’s father closes down his church when daniel is fourteen. he and his brother are sent to seoul to stay with their maternal grandparents while his parents work out their issues for good. during this time, communication is limited.

daniel adjusts to seoul well. his brother, not as much. he gets involved in a lot of petty crimes, fights, etcetera – things daniel’s acutely aware of but it’s something they don’t talk about. not in detail.

when he’s eighteen, his brother is arrested on the same day that daniel gets his acceptance to university.

his first year of university is filled with a lot of facades. he’s working hard to make it seem like his life is put together and that he isn’t horribly, terribly alone. daniel finds a ton of solace in the football/soccer club at uni, meets a ton of great people, and accidentally falls in love with one of them!

breaks his knee really terribly toward the end of his first year after getting his heart broken. there’s suspected foul play from a senior that graduates from the university that year, but no one talks about it.

he spends the rest of his time in university keeping to himself. only talks to a few friends, devotes his time and energy to studying and his part-time jobs.

at the start of the second semester of his final year of university, daniel drops out.

he moves out of his grandparents’ apartment in noksapyeong earlier than he’d told them he would be moving out – and moves into his own place (+roommate) closer to itaewon.

now he’s trying to figure out what the hell he wants to do with his life while working more part-time jobs and trying to cope with the very heavy weight of the world and his existence.

FREEFORM:

A LIST OF THINGS CARRIED IN KANG DANIEL’S POCKETS (*METAPHORICAL, PROVERBIAL, LITERAL, REAL-FUCKIN’-DEAL, THE WORKS)

(22)

an outdated flip phone with five contacts saved (mom, dad, hyung, the guard—the nice one—at his brother’s old reformatory, and a number he should probably have deleted by now);

a family registry (a weird thing to carry around) just in case the police don’t believe him because they never god damn do (it got better, and he supposes that’s always the case with repeat offenders) and it’s hilarious, but honestly, he doesn’t need to hold it close anymore—it’s out of habit, out of fear, maybe, that the past is fickle and will repeat itself when he least wants it to;

a beat-up brown leather wallet with two credit cards, two manwons, his student id, a polaroid photo from his nineteenth birthday, and too many receipts from the gs 25 down the street (2 bottles of chamiseul soju (₩3000), one pack of dried squid (₩3500), 2 cup ramen (₩2200));

one pocket knife (“he’s twelve. on what planet is a pocket knife a good idea for a twelve-year-old?” his mom’s always been prone to over-worrying and it never changes over time. “twelve is a perfectly decent age to have a knife on you,” his dad says with a shrug. daniel laughs—too loudly—and laughs and laughs until his mom’s glare breaks and she starts laughing too and his dad’s indifference cracks and he snorts once);

a fresh box of cigarettes, marlboro red, because dad never smokes the cheap korean shit and “don’t smoke menthol. menthol’s what your uncle smokes, and i hate your uncle.” it’s an inside joke, maybe. a secret kept from mom between dad and son, and maybe that means more to daniel than he wants to admit.

BUSAN, SOUTH KOREA – HUMBLE BEGINNINGS

he knows his origin story from a young age.

this is what the press, the congregation, the stiff-smiled people in their apartment building know: kang daniel was born to an aging man of god (dad, enter stage right) and a woman with an unblemished heart (mom, enter stage left). he’s a miracle child, a prodigal son, the only lingering hope for a family that is plagued with brokenness and incompletion. a lucky boy, a boy filled with good fortune and prosperity. a boy named after bravery, faithfulness, steadfast loyalty. daniel, they all say with a smile. we love daniel.

this is the truth: aging man of god (dad, enter stage right) has an affair with a woman daniel has never seen, will never seen, and quite frankly, doesn’t feel the need to see. the woman gives birth to him. he’s too young to care and they never bring it up in the house—maybe because it’d be a terrible thing to breathe life into something that could tear apart the foundation of the family, of his father’s congregation apart. woman with an unblemished heart (mom, enter stage left) forgives aging man of god and accepts the child as her own.

(one of the most poignant memories daniel remembers from youth is this: his mother on her knees at the altar praying to forget.)

they tell him the truth from a young age because the kang family is one of honesty and transparency and while his dad’s always been traditional, stiff, too proud to admit his mistakes, his mom is the opposite, too open for her own good. so she tells him, and she holds him when he cries and throws a fit and begins packing his suitcase prematurely because he’s going to look for his real mom. she is patient, kind, and understanding all the same when he comes back from a 2-minute trek to the end of the street with tears still streaming down his cheeks and umma umma umma on the tip of his tongue.

“you are my son,” she says, and she says it with authority, with finality, with something that has daniel reeling. this is the woman behind the man the busan tribunal calls “A MAN OF HONOR, HONESTY, AND HEART – POWER PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH’S REVEREND KANG.”

“you are my son, and no one, nothing, not even the forces of nature, is going to change that.”

“okay,” he says, and he’s small, sniffling, and wiping away stray tears. “okay,” he says, and he’s curled up against his mother’s arm, too young to make sense of what abandonment is supposed to feel like, especially when all he feels is acceptance here, now.

“okay,” and she smiles, strokes his hair with a practiced hand. “everything’s okay.”

U-DONG, HAEUNDAE-GU, BUSAN – HOME

(8)

“you got into a fight at school?” his mother’s frowning. she looks disappointed, and he can tell she’s trying not to let it bleed into her expression but it shows, and even if it didn’t, he’d know. “why did you get into a fight with this boy?”

he kicks at the ground beneath their dining room table, expression remarkably blank because he thinks if he lets anything out, he might start crying on the spot and umma’s son isn’t a crybaby.

“he pushed me first,” he says in a mumble. “he pushed me first and he called me names. so i pushed him back. but then he hit me. so i hit him back.”

“that isn’t an excuse. daniel, you are a good boy and there’s no reason you’d hit someone just because and i know that. but there is very rarely a good enough reason to excuse hitting a friend. when i ask you why, i want you to tell me why—and if there isn’t a good, logical why coming out of your mouth, then that’s when you know you were in the wrong and you owe your friend and his parents an apology.”

it’s a lot to take in at first. reasons, excuses, logic. he can’t soak it all in but he nods his head anyway, because he is umma’s son and he’s decided he isn’t an idiot.

later, his brother will hold him by the shoulders, crouching down until they’re eye-to-eye and daniel can’t fidget to avoid his gaze. hyung is only four years older but he acts like an adult already—and maybe it’s his right as a son that’s watched his father fall to depravity time and time again and said nothing, out of respect, out of kindness, out of generosity. they’re brothers, children together, but daniel looks to him as though he is something more (a beacon, maybe; a torch-lit beacon that, dangerously, never quite goes out)

“when you’re sad,” his brother says, “when you’re angry, when you’re bored, when you’re frustrated—everything you’re feeling, the complicated knot of things right, right here—”

he points to daniel’s chest.

“don’t keep it to yourself. don’t throw it at umma, or appa, or the boys and girls in your class that don’t understand you,” he says. “i’m here. everything you don’t want to keep in your heart, give to me. that’s what family is for.”

(10)

hyung, daniel never thinks to ask, as he hides behind the kitchen entryway, watching his brother comfort their mother as she weeps out the shards of a too-broken heart. but what will you do with it?

YEONJI-DONG, BUSANJIN-GU, BUSAN, SOUTH KOREA

(13)

his father apologizes to the congregation for leading them from a place of explicit sin. it’s two days after he’s been caught in another affair and their family—dad, mom, hyung, daniel—stand in a line at the steps of the altar with their heads bowed.

“thank you,” his father says, “and i am deeply sorry.”

A LIST OF THINGS STUFFED INTO KANG DANIEL’S SUITCASE (*METAPHORICAL, PROVERBIAL, LITERAL, REAL-FUCKIN’-DEAL, THE WORKS)

(14)

clothes. a shit ton of clothes. a shit ton of clothes, all rolled up and compact because mom’s an obsessive, talented packer and she devotes all of her energy into that to avoid crying about the fact that he’s being sent to his grandparents (“they’re my parents,” she says, and she doesn’t sound too happy about it);

two pairs of shoes, because dad says there are a lot of places to walk to in seoul, like there aren’t enough in busan. he says it like seoul’s this bright new place where daniel’s finally going to realize that the world is unfathomably big and that the little things that have torn him, his brother, their family, apart, are minuscule and insignificant and honestly, daniel wants to believe it too;

a beat-up soccer ball he’s been meaning to replace (self-explanatory);

a pair of used soccer cleats, courtesy of the only kids he could ever call friends (“we’re not rich like you and we weren’t sure if you wanted to take a couple bottles of soju with you or anything so we figured this was good enough.” “you can’t even drink soda without tearing up. don’t act like you’ve ever tasted alcohol.” “shut up.”);

approximately ten packs of grape hi-chews (killed on the ktx ride to seoul) and a bag of custard manjoo (shared with his brother, under a guise of begrudging acquiescence).

YONGSAN-DONG, YONGSAN-GU, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA – HOME(?)

(14)

“are you angry?” his brother asks him when they’re sprawled out on the floor of their new bedroom in their new home. “angry at appa? umma? me?”

daniel squirms beneath the blankets. “why would i be angry?” he wriggles until his brother lets him inch closer. “are you mad, hyung-ah?”

(he only remembers falling asleep then, and maybe it’s stubborn naiveté that leads him to believe that the too-soft, barely-whispered, “yeah” was just a figment of his imagination.)

(15)

distance between seoul and busan: three-hundred and twenty-five kilometers.

distance between his grandparents’ apartment in noksapyeong and daniel’s english language cram school in mokdong: nine point nine kilometers.

distance between daniel and his brother: zero, three-hundred and twenty-five, more.

(15)

he focuses on schoolwork, on soccer, on making new friends. tries to steep himself in the opportunity to have a new life—tries to be grateful for it.

his brother comes home at one in the morning with bruises on his face and a cut in his lip while daniel’s sitting in the kitchen eating a pot of ramen after getting home from cram school.

“hyung,” daniel starts to say.

“don’t worry,” his brother replies with a too-heavy smile. “it’s nothing.”

(16)

he stumbles to the police station at two in the morning, a too-big jacket thrown over his pajamas.

“hyung,” daniel starts to say.

“don’t worry,” his brother replies with a too-frail smile. “it’s nothing.”

(17)

“don’t worry,” his brother says, unfailingly, with a wavering smile. “it’s nothing.”

(17)

there’s a copy of his family registry printed and folded into eighths, wedged between his student i.d. and a coupon card for his favorite tteokbokki shop. at one, two, three in the morning, he stumbles down to a police station and pulls it out before the officers can ask, what is your relation to this criminal?

(18)

he focuses on schoolwork, on soccer, on making new friends. steeps in the opportunity to have a new life—he’s grateful for it.

he starts the day with ease, with a heart that is light and buoyant. each hour is kind to him and daniel thinks, strangely enough, that he really is lucky. that all of the church people back in busan that always whispered about how he was the good son, the bright son, the lucky son were right.

daniel is eighteen and caught in a perpetual state of mending.

he’s eighteen and bursting at the seams when blue-and-red fill his periphery and he only watches as his brother is jostled into the back of a police car.

“hyung?” he calls out.

“don’t worry,” his brother says, and the smile on his face is surer than any that daniel’s seen in the past four years alone. “it’s nothing.”

SINCHON-DONG, SEODAEMUN-GU, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

(19)

“daniel, you know, you got a pretty sweet life.”

they’re spread out on the rooftop. it’s not made for students, not made for people period to be walking around on, let alone lying down on, but when there’s a will there’s a way. empty cans of chilsung cider are scattered around them, intermixed with unopened bags of snacks, and too many cigarette butts (not his).

he thumbs through a self-help book, something titled HOW TO GET THROUGH TO YOUR REBELLIOUS TEEN, complete with the picture of the author, crest-white smile and cliché thumbs up. their eyes are staring into daniel’s soul, just the way he likes it.

“yeah,” he says, without much thought, and he doesn’t tack on an addendum.

he does have a pretty sweet life. he’s got a loving family—sure, some of them aren’t really present in his life anymore (and it’s strange how little he contacts his parents these days but maybe it’s because they’ve run out of ways to avoid talking about the real things, the important things, the heartbreaking things, and maybe that’s for the better)—and a good head on his shoulders. there’s nothing worth contempt in his life. he’s fucking crazy about his family, about his friends, about soccer, about classes, about everything.

“i do,” he concludes.

STEP THREE: TRY TO SEE WHERE YOUR REBELLIOUS TEEN IS COMING FROM BEFORE YOU FORCE A CHANCE. IS YOUR TEEN STRUGGLING AT SCHOOL? ARE YOU “MOM”ING THEM TOO MUCH? THEIR SILENCE MAY BE COMING FROM A PLACE OF GUILT, SHAME, OR CONFUSION…

“ah,” daniel sighs, reaching for a bag of shrimp crackers as he dog-ears the book. “this one’s a bust too.”

“you’re always reading,” his friend comments idly, jolting upright to reach across the floor for another can of soda. “you’re either studying or you’re reading. they’re like, always self-help books too. you need a therapist or something?”

“haha, maybe.” he closes the book and shifts, slipping it beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. “just trying to be a better person.”

HWASEONG CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION

(19)

“hyung,” daniel says with the biggest grin he can muster up. his brother looks smaller these days, and the prison attire he’s outfitted in swallows him whole. “you know that class i told you about last time i was here? the one where the professor reads from the textbook?”

they talk for a short while. daniel does the talking and his brother listens carefully, sincerely, like every word that’s being uttered is something precious—something that might have been lost.

his cheeks hurt from forcing a smile for too long but he maintains it. makes it wider. “don’t feel bad, hyung,” he continues. “don’t feel bad about anything because i’m happy. things are good.”

(19)

hyung, daniel doesn’t say, i’m sorry for giving you my hurt.

SINCHON-DONG, SEODAEMUN-GU, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

(19)

he knows there are rumors.

it takes rumors—growing rumors, little buds on the grapevine growing, blossoming, twisting into something more, something bigger, something sharper. it takes rumors, big rumors, for daniel to even lift his head, to feel that little bubble of warmth he’s been housing at his solar plexus swell into full-blown epiphany.

there are rumors.

kang daniel likes someone.

and it takes rumors.

kang daniel likes someone.

it takes rumors for him to realize that they’re nothing more than the truth.

kang daniel likes a boy.

(20)

the sickening crack of his bones haunts him for a couple of days, weeks, months, to the point that the wide open field makes him uneasy, makes him want to vomit because when he thinks of the field, he thinks of umma and appa who are living separate lives away from him, away from what should be their family. he thinks of a brother wearing prison garb that doesn’t speak to him anymore, maybe out of guilt, shame, confusion. he thinks of teammates he thought were his greatest friends. he thinks of his protests drowned out and – the soccer field is terrifying.

he doesn’t belong on it.

HWASEONG CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION

(20)

“don’t feel bad, hyung,” he says with a laugh, too-big for his own ribcage. “it was just an accident,” he says, and maybe he’s trying to convince himself, too. “we were scrimmaging. someone pushed me too hard. it was bad luck.”

his brother doesn’t say anything, only looks at his hands.

“i’ll be okay,” daniel promises—and who he’s promising, he isn’t sure anymore. “i’m okay.”

YONGSAN-DONG, YONGSAN-GU, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA – HOME

(21)

they’re sitting at the dinner table: daniel, his grandparents, umma, appa. there’s a television show playing in the background, plates of food positioned in a circle in front of them.

any stranger looking in on them would think nothing of the sight. a regular family having a regular dinner together.

daniel fidgets.

any stranger looking in on them would pass by without a second thought. a normal family spending normal time together.

“how’s school been?” his father asks, setting his chopsticks down. “your grades are good. you’re enjoying your major?”

“yeah,” he says without missing a beat. throws on a smile for good measure. “it’s fun. school is fun. i’ve made some friends.”

“you quit soccer?”

daniel laughs. he swallows down the bite of food he’d been mulling over, muffles a grimace when it slips down his throat like a lead weight. “it’s not the same,” he explains. “it’s not for me anymore.”

they don’t talk about hyung or the crookedly-healed bone in daniel’s knee. they don’t talk about how this home isn’t home. they don’t talk about how tomorrow, distance will be wedged between them and they’ll be nothing more than names on a family registry once more.

“what is for you then?” his father murmurs, softly.

the question sits on daniel’s shoulders too heavily and he slumps.

“something,” he replies slowly, enunciating each syllable with care. “something i haven’t found.”

ITAEWON-DONG, YONGSAN-GU, SOUTH KOREA

(22)

“hey hyung,” daniel starts with a smile that digs into his skin like something honed something sharpened too often over time. he leans forward and covers his eyes with his hands, wonders if his voice is cracking as much as he feels like it is as he says, biting back a stubborn wave of tears, “i dropped out of school.”

his brother looks at him from his side—and this is the first time in years that he’s seen hyung wearing normal clothes.

for a second, daniel thinks it might be silence again. he wouldn’t be surprised. it’s been days, weeks, months, years of silence, and he’s grown used to it, forced himself to find solace, find stability, find comfort in it.

“it’s okay,” his brother says, however, voice soft, softer still as seconds tick by in suspended silence. “it’s okay,” he says again, louder now. “you’ll be okay.”

they’re sitting on the ledge of the rooftop of a run-down building they’ve, managed to sneak into with bottles of chamiseul soju and packs of dried squid. the night air is brisk and daniel’s caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry.

“it’s okay,” he echoes, laughter splitting from his chest in peals. he reaches out and wraps his fingers around the moon. “everything will be okay.”

he’s twenty-two years old and caught in a slow state of mending but it’s the first time in years that the knot at his chest has given way to something he might be optimistic enough to call a future.

A LIST OF THINGS STUFFED INTO KANG DANIEL’S SUITCASE (*METAPHORICAL, PROVERBIAL, LITERAL, REAL-FUCKIN’-DEAL, THE WORKS)

(22)

clothes. a meager amount of clothes, all crumpled up and tossed haphazardly into a dingy old suitcase that’s falling apart at the seams. he’s in a rush to get out because any second now, grandma and grandpa will wake up and he’s trying to be covert about this—not fumble through an explanation that’ll, like his expiring suitcase, fall apart at the seams because he sucks (seriously) at lying;

two pairs of shoes, both shoes he bought with his own money and of his own volition because superstition is imposing and he doesn’t want to wear shoes that his mother, father, brother, grandparents gave him just to walk out on their lives like the old proverb-or-whatever says (it’s too cliché);

a beat-up soccer ball from year one of university that he hurls into the dumpster on the way to the bus stop only to fetch it out again because nostalgia’s a bitch and he’ll never move on;

two empty bottles of chamiseul soju once shared with a friend;

one pack of grape hi-chews (salvaged, at first, and then devoured within the first ten minutes of the bus ride) and a bag of custard manjoo (eaten alone);

a handful of air from the rooftop of a shitty run-down building in itaewon.

#20s: accepted #tw: homophobia #tw: bullying #tw: physical abuse #tw: mentions of infidelity

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20smthngrp-blog · 7 years ago

Photo

( LEE DAEJUNG, 23 )

Name: Lee Daejung Date of Birth: 1995/01/20 Occupation: Student, part-time waiter and drummer

SPARKNOTES:

2018 — “Congratulations, dude. Sick set!” 2016 — Saves up enough to take music composition courses at Chugye. Does what he’s finally best at. 2015 — A lifeline is thrown to him under the name of Seoul. He moves and has never regretted anything less. 2014 — …Daejung does not die. 2012 — He turns to a bunch of boys with a reputation to match his. (Otherwise known as: a bad crowd.) They’re relentless and harsh and everything that makes Daejung feels like he’s invincible. 2009 — School is hard, head always down because people talk. He hides out in the music room during lunch breaks, and drowns out his frustrations with deafening rhythms. 2004 — Mayor Lee Kinam and Monster Lee Kinam are two very different people, Daejung realises. One wears the smile of the saint, and the other is just merely his father. 1999 — Daejung draws a house with only him crouched inside in angry red crayon scrawls at school. His father gets called to the office. At home, his drawing is ripped apart. 1997 — “I’m not fucking keeping him, you can’t just ruin my life like that, asshole.” 1995 — “Congratulations, Ms Park. It’s a boy!”

FREEFORM:

tw child abuse, suicide attempt, underage drinking

Package deal #1: Prison Gwacheon, and the same people.

It’s inevitable, really. Both are bound to come hand in hand, because living (in general) in a ghost town ensures you have a constant routine. Same old, same old. It becomes tiring more often than not.

Daejung hates it.

It means that there are more familiar faces that scrutinise him across the street and eyes that are trained at the back of his head at school but no one that ever tells him “Hey, Daejung, wait up!” Instead, he watches his feet and keeps his head down because this is not a life that anyone is meant to live.

Gossip travels fast, and it travels even faster here. It’s only natural in a place so small and so full of the faces that haunt you each day who like to poke their noses into things that are none of their fucking business.

Living in a ghost town means that you become a ghost yourself.

(Since when?)

Being tucked right at the edge of Seoul makes it worse. It’s more of a punishment than anything.

But then again, his whole life feels like a punishment.

(Re:

JOKE: Daejung’s entire goddamn life

PUNCHLINE: Lee Daejung himself.)

He’s this close to freedom, this close to heading out to a big city where no one knows him and he can just be Lee Daejung who loves art and music and spicy kimchi stew.

Not the Lee Daejung who tries to make himself as small as possible in hopes that no one will see.

If it were a bigger issue somewhere, someplace other than here, it would look something like this:

[PANN] Mayor’s Illegitimate Son?!

Instead, it looks like this:

Bruises on his face and a father with iron hands and a pounding in his head that sounds a lot like you useless good-for-nothing.

There are scratches that are drawn across the length of his arms and welts in his palm—

THWACK!

—from holding on so tight to his flesh while biting back on tears. This shouldn'tbeshouldn'tbeshouldn'tbe.

Crybaby!

And at the end of the day how he’s sobbing and scratching at his sides—trying to claw himself out of his own skin because he’d rather be anything, anywhere but here.

(It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic.)

“How badly do you want to die?”

Pause, gulp.

“Fuck, dude.”

And he laughs.

(Regrets it when he winces because of a fresh bruise, but it’s standard procedure by now.)

“So badly.” Daejung throws his bottle back till it’s empty and the alcohol sloshes to the back of his throat and burns. It doesn’t quite feel like death, not much, but it’s a temporary relief and he’ll take what he can get.

It’s not like he’s living for much, anyway.

There’s a quirk of an eyebrow and a cigarette being stubbed out. They’re by no means sober, and far from making rational decisions. But then again, there it is:

“Do it, then.”

Well.

“Maybe I will.”

He doesn’t know where that comes from. Maybe it’s from the former sounding like some kind of unspoken challenge that rubs him the wrong way (which is sick, he supposes—death’s no gamble), but it’s just strange hearing it being put so simply.

Suddenly it’s quiet for a moment, neither of them knowing how to erase the heaviness that fills up the space between them in the matter of seconds. He doesn’t know how the atmosphere’s shifted so quickly, but it’s no longer a joke.

It’s no longer a joke when he sounds so serious, like a promise—

And so Daejung scrabbles for something, even almost bursts out laughing again, but.

But,

Why the hell not?

And so he says exactly this.

“Why the hell not?“

Fourteen nights later, he finds himself back there, this time alone.

Stupid combination #1: A roof, twenty packs of beer, and Daejung.

Sounds like a death wish, but that’s exactly what he’s here for, anyway.

Is this what it means to be fearless?

Daejung wishes it was. He wishes he was fearless.

(Maybe this is the end to all his cowardice—a final fuck you and his only act of bravery. Maybe.)

Gwacheon’s pretty at night, he thinks, legs dangling off the edge. It’s safe from the rumors and the unforgiving hands and everything he’s afraid of. Unlike when it sees the day, where it’s ugly and there’s absolutely no way out.

The lights blur before his eyes way before he realises, though. And suddenly he’s crying and crying and he can’t stop. He wants nothing more than out, and it’s scary to think that he finally has the power to actually…

(Is there salvation at the end?

Is there salvation at all…?)

His body is numb, maybe from the alcohol, maybe (probably) from his tears (and how sick he is of this). His aching fingers curl around the metal railing, and yet amidst all his glory of how he finally realises what it means to feel happy, a last thought occurs to him:

This is a pretty awful way of dying.

Pathetic end for a pathetic boy, he supposes.

This is how Lee Daejung dies. A roof, shitty convenience store beer, and all the sadness and injustice of the world he carries within himself.

(Relief, finally.)

Sike!

Lee Daejung’s life is officially, a complete fucking joke.

This is definitely not what he expected death to look like. Death definitely wasn’t for him to go from one liminal state and end up in another equally horrible one—

“Do you know how shameful this is for us? Why do you always only think about yourself, you son of a bitch!”

He sees it coming, this time, and grabs at his wrist before it comes in contact with his face.

And for once, all Daejung feels is fucking fire.

“Shut the fuck up. Do you know what it’s been like, this whole time? Do you fucking know? Why can’t you even let me die in peace? All I wanted to do was just fucking die!”

His breathing is ragged, shallow now, and his eyes sting with tears. But he laughs, and laughs, and it’s hollow and harsh and all things awful, but he can’t stop.

And, yeah, whoever even remotely thinks that salvation exists is a goddamn fool.

“I fucking hate you!” Daejung shoves back, hard, stabs a finger at his chest with all the suppressed anger and hysteria finally bubbling out. He’s tired. He’s so so tired and he wishes he weren’t here and just why can’t he ever just fucking get his way, not even once?

Please—

“I hate you. I hate you so much and I hope you take my place in hell,” he spits.

I hope you know I’m never coming back.

(What he anticipates never comes. Heck, he doesn’t even know why he bothers waiting for a response, but when it does:

“Good riddance, then.”

He’ll never get the last laugh, will he?)

Seoul is everything he’s expected and nothing in one, and Lee Daejung of Gwacheon turns into Lee Daejung of Seoul.

This Daejung finally gets to fulfil something he wants, throws himself into it wholeheartedly and never glances back once.

New Daejung sounds a lot like:

“Hi, my name’s Daejung, and I’ll be your waiter for today. What would you like?”

Yeah, he’s not really feeling it.

Slowly.

He’s no overnight billionaire and he’s certainly not happy (for now), so it’s failed in some expectations, but, well. At least he’s out.

Daejung’s no hopeless dreamer, anyway. He’s given up on that a long time ago.

If anything, this is really a total fucking upgrade.

Fast forward, and.

Finally he’s…

Free.

#tw: child abuse #tw: underaged drinking #tw: suicide attempt

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20smthngrp-blog · 7 years ago

Photo

( SONG BYUNGJOON, 26 )

Name: Song Byungjoon Date of Birth: 1991/07/02 Occupation: Librarian

SPARKNOTES:

From Daejeon, where his mother was a librarian and father a groudskeeper. Not necessarily planned, but very much a welcomed addition to their new family

Grew up on folklore and fairy tales, often accompanying his mother to work or waiting to take her home from there with his father. Quickly became a favorite of the local patrons and elder school kids alike. Spoiled with attention.

Received a baby sister in his fifth year and promptly fell neatly into the big brother role.

He always worked hard despite the idyllic daydreams he entertained and scored well throughout school. Byungjoon often volunteered to demonstrate things for the class and help others study.

During a meeting of his middle school study group, he met a striking young lady and promptly fell head over heels in love.

The pair studied abroad in the U.S. and lived in seeming bliss throughout college years, eventually becoming engaged. The young man always missed his family and planned to return home after school, however.

After graduation, Byungjoon went back to get his military service out of the way so that they could start their future together without interruption.

After completing his service, however, the dreamer found a letter waiting at his parents house. Inside was an apology and devastating news of the dissolution of his happy ever after.

Seeking a fresh start and some distance from the past, Byungjoon moved into a share house in Seoul while working as a part-time page at a library in the nearby area where his skills in English proved useful.

After being hired on as a full-time librarian, he began renting an apartment in the Itaewon neighborhood, to be closer to work. It was the first time he’d ever lived on his own.

FREEFORM:

Page 4

Tentative fingertips grazed the edge of pages, before they slammed against the dry surface with exuberance. Sing-song nonsense vowels slipping from between chapped lips crooned a soft ode to the colorful images of tigers and princesses in his favorite book. Though the small boy was just barely grasping at the meaning behind symbols, he could recount the tales perfectly to any passing ear with half a mind to listen.

Wiggling deeper into the oversized chair, scraped knees pushed a plastic wrapped spine upwards. Wide eyes studied each nuance of print as only the whisper of steps on carpet and sighs of chairs as bodies settled in them surrounded him. It was a quiet place. A happy place.

Page 6

“It smells like salty fried chicken,” he exclaimed with a defiant wrinkle of his nose. Did he smell like that when he was born too? Everyone had warned him babies stank, but that wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

“Joonie!” Though she chided him, a few chuckles escaped as his father merely gave a bemused shake of his head. “She does not.” Gently the layers of blankets parted, and a tiny wrinkled fist escaped to seemingly shake at him in fury with a muted wail. “See, you shouldn’t speak about young ladies in such a way.” The tot nodded solemnly, not having realized that babies could be sisters and ladies as well.

He would have to remember that from then on.

Page 9

A firm hand patted riotous raven locks as their owner smiled up at a ring of admiring adults. “You’re so bright Joonie.” Though the youngster couldn’t deny enjoying the positive attention, he did wish they were admiring him for something a little cooler than reading a challenging book. When was he going to slay his first dragon? Where were all the adventures of the story books? And, most importantly, when would he grow up?

“Just enjoy being a kid for a while. Soon enough you’ll be studying from dawn to dusk and then working.” Now, the boy wasn’t too keen on doing either of those things, but he was certain there was some kind of Adult Conspiracy in place to keep him from seeking out his true destiny as a hero and those were their chosen excuses to keep him down.

Page 14

Brows furrowed, the teenager clasped onto his pencil like a life preserver in the never-ending sea of math formulas and theory.

“Geez, don’t have an aneurysm. It’s just the Pythagorean Theorem.” Gaze shot up to the owner of the mocking voice, brows arched nearly to his hairline. The stranger slid into a chair at their table in the library, smirk drawn across a beautiful round face. She wasn’t a member of their usual study group. At least not that he remembered.

“Here,” she continued leaning over to scribble a little note in his workbook. “This makes it a lot easier to remember.” The bookworm felt an odd thundering in his chest, throat constricted though he’d felt just fine a moment before.

“Thanks,” he managed to murmur as a beleaguered brain tried to catch up to what his body had already figured out.

Page 18

> I’m going to university in the U.S. > My aunt lives there and it’ll be good experience

Laying in his thin bed, Byungjoon felt his stomach hit the floor. He knew one or two guys at school with the same plans, but hadn’t really considered it for himself. Struggling to sit upright, despite the complete lack of sleep he’d had for nearly a week and the fact that it was already well past two in the morning, the student kept re-reading the texts over and over again.

Quickly he tried to calculate just how far away that would be and came up with too damn far. Way too damn far.

Page 21

An outburst of the world’s sweetest giggles rang through the dimly lit campus coffee shop. “What? Hey, what’s so funny?” Only a shaking finger pointed in the general direction of his face as she slumped over in the chair. “Oh, that’s real nice. I know I’m not gorgeous, but you date me anyway, so it must not be that bad.”

Still bouncing with barely contained mirth, the math major swiped a dollop of whipped cream from the tip of his nose. Rubbing it on a napkin, she teased, “Well, I’m just a sucker for charity cases. What can I say?”

Byungjoon could only beam at her across the table. He’d waited so long when he was younger to have his fairy tale, and nothing could convince him that exact moment wasn’t it. Suddenly and with every last ounce of sincerity a light-hearted personality could muster, he stated, “Marry me.”

She didn’t seem to hear him as the hilarity wound down. At last a mischievous scoff resounded in honey-tinged throat. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m serious. Will you marry me?” Calloused hands bearing paper cuts and ink-stains reached across the Formica to cradle a smaller set. Captivating eyes widened at him, their owner knocked momentarily speechless for quite possibly the first time in her life.

“What!?”

Page 25

Not even warm hugs and his mother’s famous kimbap had managed to heal the ache in an otherwise perfectly healthy chest. Ever since he’d been released from military service, the lost young man had been struggling with where to go from there. Home was good and he’d missed his family, but sticking around Daejeon felt stifling after where he’d been. Pesky memories lingered in places he’d thought he’d forgotten.

Moving to Seoul was huge. But not nearly as massive a deal or as hard as it had been to go to the U.S. As the recently employed Joonie had discovered, when a person had their dreams and everything they’d thought they wanted taken away they could do pretty much anything. His anything happened to be a sharehouse and a library in the bigger city.

After he’d finished re-shelving and rearranging for the day, he’d come back to the little room and crack open some of the books from work. As the words conjured pictures of ferocious beasts and mischievous spirits, the lanky man would snuggle deep into his favorite chair and lose himself to imagination.

#20s: accepted

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