hwanlgc

[hwanlgc]

Hwanil wasn’t supposed to be out tonight.

Technically, he should’ve been back at the dorm, face first in a pile of unwashed laundry, headphones in, pretending he was asleep while overthinking tomorrow’s vocal evaluation. That was the safe choice, the responsible one. But safe always tasted bland to him. Predictable destinations made his skin itch.

So instead, he slipped out the back door with a hoodie over his head, his company badge stuffed deep in his pocket like a guilty secret. The city air was thick with neon and noise, and he followed the sound like it owed him something.

The club wasn’t anything special. Just a grimy little place wedged between a broken ATM and a fried chicken spot that smelled like heaven and regret. But it moved. It breathed. And Hwanil needed that.

Inside, the lights cut through the dark in flashes, catching on his choker and the chipped black polish on his nails. Nobody looked twice. Nobody cared if he hit his marks or if his jawline was debut ready. For once, he wasn’t a trainee. He wasn’t anyone.

He didn’t even dance like a performer. Not tonight. No angles, no mirrors, no pressure. Just a tangle of limbs, sweat, and bass. He let the music drown out the company’s rules, his mother’s daily texts, the ache in his knees, and the voice in his head asking if he was still good enough. He didn’t know how long he moved like that. He didn’t care.

[hwanlgc]

Clattering Cans.

The vending machine hums with corporate indifference, all flicker and fluorescence in the dead hours of night. It’s late enough that even the janitors have retreated to their corners. Hwanil stands barefoot on chilled tile, kangaroo pocket swallowing his hands, the cuffs of his stretched-out hoodie hovering above his head in a pose of dissbelief. His hair, slept-on and defiant, sticks up at odd angles, a fitting visual to the kind of night he’s having.

He squints through foggy plexiglass, zeroes in on the rows of canned soda lined and luminous under the harsh light. Easy enough, he thinks, a drop of caffeine and fizz to keep the insomnia company. four coins, the balance of his loose change, rattle into the slot. He selects the button, holds his breath.

Nothing. No click, no chunk, just a cold, digital blink.

A beat. Then another. Then irritation sets in. He stabs the buttons, cycles through every permutation-Diet, Grape, Lemon-like he’s trying to hack the system. Still nothing. The coins have vanished; the soda stays parked in its row, oblivious to his mounting desperation. Hwanil tilts the machine, gives it a measured whack, glances around as if caught mid-crime.

Of course.

He leans his forehead against the smooth plastic, exhaling a sigh so practiced it feels like second nature.

For a moment, he scans the lobby - empty couches, the echo of a vending machine’s low hum, the faint suggestion of movement in peripheral vision. Then he spots someone by the elevator, a figure, maybe a savior, unwittingly caught in the beam of fluorescent light.

He weighs his pride, but at nearly three in the morning, it’s not worth much. “Hey,” Hwanil calls, the word cracked from equal parts hope and embarrassment. “You got a dollar? Or, like, two? I think the machine’s decided it hates me.”

[hwanlgc]

"Claim to Fame"

The bar bathroom reeked of bleach and bad decisions. Hwanil's mouth was already on hers before the stall door fully clicked shut, her back hitting the sticky tiles as she gasped into the kiss. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, not pulling him closer, just bracing herself.

He pressed her harder against the wall, his hands sliding to her hips to keep her steady as his mouth moved with practiced hunger. Some girl with a daisy tattoo peeking above her low-cut top. He didn’t remember her name, just the way her breath had hitched when he’d mentioned Legacy Entertainment.

Her lip gloss tasted like bubblegum and ambition, her teeth catching his bottom lip just hard enough to sting. He knew that look. It was the same one he saw in the mirror every morning. The hunger.

"You’re taller in your photos," she murmured between kisses, her phone clenched in one hand like a weapon. He could already hear the caption forming in her head: Trainee boyfriends hit different.

The edge of her phone dug into his ribs as she angled for a shot, trying to be subtle. Hwanil shifted, blocking the camera’s view with his shoulder as he deepened the kiss, swallowing her surprised hum. When they finally broke apart, her pupils were blown wide with victory.

"I've liked your posts," she confessed, as if it were a secret. As if he hadn’t pegged her the moment she’d "accidentally" spilled her drink near him.

"Cool," he lied, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The smear of her lipstick looked like a wound. He nudged the stall door open with his foot, guiding her toward the sinks with a hand at the small of her back. It wasn't tender, just efficient.

Her camera glinted in the dim light as she lingered, thumb hovering over the screen. Waiting. Hoping.

In the smudged mirror behind her, Hwanil saw it. The practiced tilt of her wrist. The way her finger twitched near the shutter. Another clout chaser looking to monetize his face.

He cranked the sink on too hard, icy water splashing the front of his shirt.

"You should get back to your friends," he said, refusing to look at her or at the way her face twisted when she realized he wouldn’t give her the shot she wanted.

"Don't flatter yourself," she sneered, lip curling as she shoved her phone into her back pocket. "You're so not worth my time. Even your company knows you're forgettable. Asshole."

The door slammed behind her hard enough to make the mirror rattle.

Alone again, Hwanil stared at his reflection. His jaw was clenched just a little too tight. His fingers trembled as he wiped the last of her lipstick away.

[hwanlgc]

# Nam Hwanil ━━ a 25-year-old trainee signed Jan 2022. (penned by Yvette. she/her. 21+).

Concrete stairwells that echo with discarded rhymes, the permanent indentation of headphones in his hair, nicotine patches covering older scars, a burner phone with only his sister's number saved, demo tapes labeled with dates instead of titles, the particular way his left knee pops after hours of practice, stolen moments watching rookie groups debut on his cracked phone screen, half-empty prescription bottles of anxiety meds he won't admit to taking, half empty bottles of alcohol forgotten under his bed, themirror in his apartment covered with lyric post-its, the exact moment his smirk shifts from playful to dangerous.

plots are below the cut for your viewing pleasure.

✨ accidental enemy: male/female muse | bad blood | no one remembers why a look. a word. maybe a fight long forgotten. now it’s sharp stares in crowded rooms and insults that cut like switchblades. neither of you remembers the spark, just the fire. and no one’s brave enough to put it out. [∞]

✨ the lost ones: male/female muse (trainee) | restless souls | searching for purpose two ghosts wandering legacy’s endless halls. half-spoken dreams, cigarettes at night, promises no one believes. lost feels easier when someone’s lost beside you. neither of you knows what you’re chasing, but it’s better than stopping.[∞]

✨ denial games: male muse | confusion | unexpected feelings Hwanil’s never considered himself that way. he’s always been straight, right? but lately, something about the way his eyes linger on you, the way you speak to him, makes him question everything he thought he knew. it’s easy to tell himself it’s just a fluke, but then why does he find himself wondering if the feeling is mutual?[1]]

✨ scheme: male/female muse (afluent muses) | power plays | tangled intentions you have old money, hwanil has old habits — namely, chasing the glitter he can’t afford. he flatters, befriends, and slips into your orbit like it’s second nature. is it affection or ambition?[∞]

✨ boundaries: female muses | casual vibes | unexpected emotions ✨ easy started it. no strings, no promises. but feelings crawl through cracks like weeds in concrete. Hwanil swears he can keep it clean. feelings never listen. they haunt. they cling. and this time, one of you’s going under.[2]

✨ circle the drain: male/female muse | self-destruction | codependency ✨ skipped practices. blackout nights. too many bad habits shared between two people who should know better. the crash is coming. it always does. but falling feels better than being alone in the silence.

✨ late-night talks: male/female muse | raw honesty | vulnerable moments ✨ 3 a.m. truths feel different. dreams you don’t tell anyone. fears you pretend you don’t have. the night stretches long, and for a moment, it feels like maybe this is what home is. a quiet, broken kind of home.[∞]

✨ the childhood friend: male/female muse (debuted/seoul born) | loyalty | shifting tides ✨ inseparable once. scraped knees, secret hideouts. then you debuted, and the calls got fewer. worlds split. Hwanil feels it slipping — not with a bang, but with the silence between texts. and he doesn’t know how to hold on.[2]

✨ the toxic friendship: male/female muse | conflict | hard to let go ✨ too good at wrecking each other. too bad at leaving. fights, ghosting, late-night reconciliations over cheap drinks. it’s a pattern now. you know it, Hwanil knows it. neither of you wants to stop. maybe you can’t.[1]

✨ bad luck charm: male/female muse | curse energy | mutual chaos ✨ every time you’re with Hwanil, something goes sideways. missed buses, broken phones, a bar fight you didn’t start. it’s like the world conspires against you both. you should stay away. you never do.

[hwanlgc]

Seriously ? This one here, he's rarin' to FAIL.

[hwanlgc]

"Convenience Store Communion"

Hwanil's slippers slapped an uneven rhythm against the pavement- one neon pink, the other a grubby hospital blue, stolen from different dormmates on different bad mornings. The May air clung to his bare thighs like a judgmental aunt, just cold enough to make him regret the microscopic shorts he'd fished from the laundry pile. Not that he'd checked a mirror. Checking implied he gave a shit.

The convenience store doors wheezed open in recognition. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects. The night shift clerk - some exhausted kid folded into the posture of a question mark- didn't look up from his phone as Hwanil made his pilgrimage to the alcohol aisle. His knees popped as he crouched, fingers closing around the cheapest bottle with the highest alcohol content.

The glass was slick with condensation. Or maybe his palms were sweating. Same difference.

At the counter, he thunked the bottle down and jerked his chin toward the menthols behind the clerk. The kid moved slowly, pulling the cigarettes down with one hand while extending the other for ID. Hwanil's battered wallet surrendered his identification without protest.

The clerk's eyes flicked between the photo and the reality before him: hair matted from three unwashed days, hoodie sleeves crusted with what might have been ramen broth or tears. The hesitation lasted just long enough to curdle into shame.

"And a lighter," Hwanil added, too loud, as if volume could drown out the tremor in his voice.

On his way out, his fingers brushed the gum display. The motion was smooth, automatic, a peppermint pack disappearing into his pocket between one step and the next. The foil crinkled its accusation as he hit the pavement.

Hwanil walked home in a crooked shuffle, shoulders drawn in like he could make himself invisible. The bottle—contraband for one, comfort for another—was wedged under his shirt, cold enough to sting. Trouble would find him quick if he got stopped now. His phone buzzed with a message—Yerin, checking in: Did you eat? Without looking, he thumbed it silent. The liquor pressed hard against his ribs, sharper than hunger, daring him to admit what passed for dinner tonight wasn’t food at all. Try explaining that to your kid sister: dinner is swigged in secret and menthol flavored. That the only thing he would wake up to tomorrow would be a splitting headache and an emptier gut.

so instead he kept walking, footsteps swallowed by the city, already wondering how many more nights he could go on like this.

[hwanlgc]

# Nam Hwanil ━━ a 25-year-old trainee signed Jan 2022. (penned by Yvette. she/her. 21+).

Concrete stairwells that echo with discarded rhymes, the permanent indentation of headphones in his hair, nicotine patches covering older scars, a burner phone with only his sister's number saved, demo tapes labeled with dates instead of titles, the particular way his left knee pops after hours of practice, stolen moments watching rookie groups debut on his cracked phone screen, half-empty prescription bottles of anxiety meds he won't admit to taking, half empty bottles of alcohol forgotten under his bed, themirror in his apartment covered with lyric post-its, the exact moment his smirk shifts from playful to dangerous.

plots are below the cut for your viewing pleasure.

✨ accidental enemy: male/female muse | bad blood | no one remembers why a look. a word. maybe a fight long forgotten. now it’s sharp stares in crowded rooms and insults that cut like switchblades. neither of you remembers the spark, just the fire. and no one’s brave enough to put it out. [∞]

✨ the lost ones: male/female muse (trainee) | restless souls | searching for purpose two ghosts wandering legacy’s endless halls. half-spoken dreams, cigarettes at night, promises no one believes. lost feels easier when someone’s lost beside you. neither of you knows what you’re chasing, but it’s better than stopping.[∞]

✨ denial games: male muse | confusion | unexpected feelings Hwanil’s never considered himself that way. he’s always been straight, right? but lately, something about the way his eyes linger on you, the way you speak to him, makes him question everything he thought he knew. it’s easy to tell himself it’s just a fluke, but then why does he find himself wondering if the feeling is mutual?[1]]

✨ scheme: male/female muse (afluent muses) | power plays | tangled intentions you have old money, hwanil has old habits — namely, chasing the glitter he can’t afford. he flatters, befriends, and slips into your orbit like it’s second nature. is it affection or ambition?[∞]

✨ boundaries: female muses | casual vibes | unexpected emotions ✨ easy started it. no strings, no promises. but feelings crawl through cracks like weeds in concrete. Hwanil swears he can keep it clean. feelings never listen. they haunt. they cling. and this time, one of you’s going under.[2]

✨ circle the drain: male/female muse | self-destruction | codependency ✨ skipped practices. blackout nights. too many bad habits shared between two people who should know better. the crash is coming. it always does. but falling feels better than being alone in the silence.

✨ late-night talks: male/female muse | raw honesty | vulnerable moments ✨ 3 a.m. truths feel different. dreams you don’t tell anyone. fears you pretend you don’t have. the night stretches long, and for a moment, it feels like maybe this is what home is. a quiet, broken kind of home.[∞]

✨ the childhood friend: male/female muse (debuted/seoul born) | loyalty | shifting tides ✨ inseparable once. scraped knees, secret hideouts. then you debuted, and the calls got fewer. worlds split. Hwanil feels it slipping — not with a bang, but with the silence between texts. and he doesn’t know how to hold on.[2]

✨ the toxic friendship: male/female muse | conflict | hard to let go ✨ too good at wrecking each other. too bad at leaving. fights, ghosting, late-night reconciliations over cheap drinks. it’s a pattern now. you know it, Hwanil knows it. neither of you wants to stop. maybe you can’t.[1]

✨ bad luck charm: male/female muse | curse energy | mutual chaos ✨ every time you’re with Hwanil, something goes sideways. missed buses, broken phones, a bar fight you didn’t start. it’s like the world conspires against you both. you should stay away. you never do.

[hwanlgc]

HWIYOUNG ‘HBD’

[hwanlgc]

tenderness is in the hands ― Carolyn Forché, L’Avventura (1960), Ocean Vuong, The White Ribbon (2009), Hart Crane, Gelatin Silver, Love (2009), Ingeborg Bachmann, Les amants du Pont-Neuf (1991), Sylvia Plath, Psycho (1960), Rod McKuen (stills by @forhandsthatsuffer)