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mint-thread-blog · 7 years ago

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dusk. 「第一章」

o1. Pairings: I.M x Jooheon

o2. Genre: Short story, thriller, mystery, alternate universe

o3. Trigger warnings: Explicit sexual content, gore, self-harm

o4. Synopsis: Set in Tokyo, Japan. Inspired by Shuichi Yoshida's Parade. You, a dispassionate twenty-someting-year-old from America, and a demi-soloist for a prestigious ballet company move into a shared apartment with four guys. There's Wonho, a haughty, sensitive pâtissier, who's lost his muse, I.M, a makeup artist, who hates his job, Jooheon, a bartender, who is knee-deep in the prostitution business, and Hyungwon, a freelance model, who suffers from insomnia. All are fighting uphill battles in their own lives. However, when a corpse surfaces and strange suicides occur at an abandoned building nearby, the five are forced to dig deeper. By the time they figure out who they're dealing with, it may be too late to back out.

o5. Chapter title: 3:38 am

o6. Word count: 1,055

o7. Song: “Danger (Japanese ver.)” - BTS

You wake at 3:38 am with a headache. Or rather, a nauseating headache that made you feel as though someone had grabbed you by the ankles and smashed your skull against a car's windshield repeatedly.

Pulling the cotton quilt over your head, you attempt to drift into a dreamless sleep. Except, as you're lingering on the cusp between consciousness and unconsciousness, your roommate, Hyungwon begins his nightly mutterings interspersed with soulless laughter.

Groaning, you shuffle out of the room into the deserted kitchen.

During the day, Hyungwon is quiet, mysterious, with an air of sophistication one would expect a successful freelance model to have. But come nighttime, his sleeping habits make him seem like an entirely different person.

There's not a night, ever since you arrived when he isn't sleep-talking. Sometimes, dead-exhausted from practice, you sleep deeply enough to block out the ruckus. Other times, Hyungwon's screeching of random phrases frighten away any possibility of sleep.

Sifting through the fridge, you pull a face at a Tupperware container with some rice topped with what appeared to be a rotten raw egg. Who the hell forgot his meal and left it in there, unlabeled?

You're searching for the pitcher of lemonade you'd made during your day off last week when you happen upon expired, canned apple juice. It's a wonder that the pâtissier among you hasn't lost his patience over the monstrosities left in there.

Giving up, you pop open a can of Kirin beer from the six-pack Jooheon brought home on Tuesday. Sitting on a raised metal stool next to the kitchen counter, you fall into a little daze.

For the past three weeks, you've holed up with four oddballs in a cramped flat conveniently located in the middle of Shinjuku. Besides Hyungwon, there's Jooheon, the bartender, who resembles a gangster, I.M, the makeup artist, and Wonho, arguably the most normal of us all, and the no-nonsense pâtissier.

Initially, like any ordinary person, you were averse to living with random strangers in an apartment - especially with random males, who could be psychopathic rapists in disguise. Moreover, what would your friends and co-workers think? Residing with four males is just asking for an erotic harem to happen.

Not to mention, this flat-sharing arrangement business that Wonho's in charge of is, strictly speaking, illegal too.

However, with limited funds, you could only afford some narrow flat on the outskirts of Tokyo, which would mean a four-hour commute every day.

Not that you regretted moving in so hastily though. Everyone's pretty welcoming, except for Wonho. You have no idea what's rammed up his ass that's making him so damned irritable and rude towards you.

Admittedly, Wonho's appearance falls in your ideal type category. Like most young men in Tokyo, he's got dyed dark brown hair, a chiseled jaw, and a physique that even Hyungwon would be jealous of.

You only love Wonho's face though. Despite being the youngest, he lectures all tenants about their flaws around the clock.

Just last week, you were reprimanded for your "American habit" of "blasting distasteful music." Yeah, well, what 20-year-old listens to classical music if he's not a music major in university? The answer is none, except Wonho.

Thirteen-and-a-half hours and three cans of Heineken later, you arrived at Narita on March 28th. You were 22-years-and-five-months-old, and utterly disinterested in the life ahead of you.

Sure, you'd landed your position as demi-soloist at an established ballet company in Tokyo that regularly performed at the prestigious New National Theatre in Shinjuku ward. Aside from the little popularity you received, though, there was nothing to be thrilled over.

Then again, you could only blame yourself for your dilemma. For the past seven years, you drifted through the School of American Ballet as a "technically flawless, but artistically inexpressive" dancer, who didn't know why she was dancing anymore.

When you're seven, all you dream about is flouncing onstage, pink tutu decorating your hips, with radiant spotlights focused on you from overhead. Then, when you're 20-years-old, the old reality of having to pay bills, fund your own education while repaying ancient student loans, filters in.

Your parents suggested a change of environment. Hence, you moved to the bustling city, where your grandparents were from, that Tokyo is.

Two hours more, and you were standing, dumbfounded, map in hand, underarms drenched in sweat, craving sweets of any kind, in the middle of the late spring streets of Shinjuku. Having asked for directions in broken, awkwardly-phrased Japanese from fifteen pedestrians, you wound up at some bakery.

Peering into the interior, you saw giddy high school girls in uniforms, pudgy housewives, and businesswomen tiptoeing on their designer high heels, crowded on every square inch of the bakery's marble floor.

As if on cue, your stomach rumbled, causing a young couple strolling nearby to cast revolted glances at you. Shrugging, you joined the line outside the automated glass doors that snaked around the corner of the street.

To make the most of your waiting time, you leaned casually against your luggage, Kindle in hand. You're barely down the first page when you feel curious gazes on you from all directions.

You're not surprised. When you're young, and you've got dyed, platinum blonde hair, you're assumed to be some delinquent.

Two businesswomen walk by, carrying adorable boxes, undoubtedly from the bakery. The packaging's rather lavish, even for a bakery in Japan - the box's edges have a golden lace motif, and the top of the box is tied off with a silky gold ribbon.

Eventually entering the air-conditioned paradise, you jostled your way to the front to get a clear view of the pastries, encased preciously in a grand glass display like Sleeping Beauty in her secure coffin.

Your gaze lands on the pastries, and you're speechless. The opulent decorations of the bakery must've served as some distraction from the hideous pastries.

You, sure as hell, didn't line up under the sweltering sun for over half-an-hour just to see such atrocities.

You're fixated on a mini cake labeled "Ambrosia." Contrary to its majestic name, it's a cheap-looking, cylindrical, layered sponge cake topped with white mousse.

This wasn't a version of "The Tongue-Cut Sparrow" where the plainer cake tastes heavenly, while the gaudily decorated ones taste disgusting, right?

"Is something the matter, miss?" A fluid baritone voice greets you.

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