ncjackson

[ncjackson]

ncjimin:

(…)

shit.

“oh. shit.” he stares, sheepish, totally accidentally peeing on the guy’s pant leg.

Well, what could he say? Old habits died hard.

The fragrant clove fizzled from the tip of the slim, alabaster stick that was wedged between his lips.

The repetitive cycle of clustering his opposing lifestyles in one, twenty-four hour day initially began as a perplexing balancing act that carried fine porcelain china upon brittle twigs. But without needing to prompt himself, he realized even his tone of voice managed to a change depending on what side he was standing on. Which was likely why his strolls back to Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency for debriefing always managed to include a smoke in between; the journey distant enough to accommodate and allow for his clothes to breath away the scent of nicotine and tobacco.

Not that he was trying to hide his vice, or anything.

It never seemed like it suited him though, with a smile carved on his lips the majority of his waking cycle and a throat full of clever and witty comments or retorts. But even he himself was a prisoner to the burden of pressure and stress.

Prior to his departure from The Clearview, he was informed that his previous engagement was a success and it had managed to funnel through the main departments. Offered to have a round of drinks, he politely declined with his signature chuckle – and honestly even if he wasn’t supposed to have a debriefing that night he would have gone home.

Jackson was so fucking exhausted.

A subconscious litterer, but not one to adjust that habit either, he clasped the filter of his cigarette between his thumb and index before flicking the fluttering embers out into the cloak of night where it dismantled somewhere along the asphalt. Rearing up to SMPA, he dug his hands down into his pockets to retrieve his ID as he caught sight of someone a –

Crazy fucking asshole undoing his pants in front of the building?!

With his brows knit tight together, he sprinted towards the figure with his voice at full volume, “Hey! Hey! What the fuck do you think –”

When Jackson was five years-old, one of the older neighborhood kids who he happened to be friendly with, adopted a ferret. It was his first time seeing such a nimble, narrow creature. The pink snout of the mammal wriggling and sifting when he would offer his hands forward. It felt a lot like some of his mother’s mink scarves, tickling beneath his chin as the critter would snake down his shirt, coiling into undulate shapes as he wrapped around his ankles. The most prominent memory he recalled was the time the ferret decided to urinate on his leg and all over his brand new Power Ranger light-up sneakers, forcing a puddle of warm repugnance to slop between his toes as he ran out of the neighbor's house and cried for his mother.

And somehow, here he was – at age 22 – being pissed on by yet another animal. Wanting to gape, he forced his mouth shut in fear the urine would splash onto his lips. Instead, he took a deep – sulfuric scented – breath before reaching over and clutching the collar of the shirt that belonged to the peeing perpetrator only to realize the familiar expression and features revealed that he belonged to the other side. Composing himself without a moment’s notice, he yanked the other man backwards and towards the path leading towards the alleyway.

“What kind of stunt were you trying to pull?”

And just like that, he heard his tone of voice change once more.

[ncjackson]

MEME: NIGHTCALL STARTER/ONESHOT SENTENCES—

“I’ll stop if you tell me what I wanna know.” “You’re in a good mood today.” “You said you’d die for me. Now prove it.” “Personally, I’m glad they’re dead.” “I don’t want your money. I just want your pain.” “Run on me again, and I’ll break the other one.” “That pill was stronger than I thought.” “Go on, then. Pull the trigger.” “No one’s coming for you.” “I’m calling the police.” “Time to move on.” “Admit it.” “Should I pray?” “Time never stands still.” “How long have you been listening?” “I don’t have anywhere else to go.” “Got anything to eat?” “No kids.” “I’ll take care of this—you can go back.” “Don’t pull any funny business with me.” “Shit happens.” “Pretending to be senile won’t help you here.” “I want to see you beg.”

[ncjackson]

8.

8: What’s one thing you regret doing to someone else?

Regrets were alabaster veils dyed sanguine of guilt and shame, flourishing amongst threads to deliver a spare thought of wonder. It offered solace, if the subject was unavailable or no longer applied. But it also offered dejection, when it existed in the mind

And he wants to be honest, to be transparent with his past.

But he can’t.

A million regrets flooded his tongue, filled his mouth with anguished apologies. The thoughts that wandered his brain kept him wired night after night, with no atonement for his crimes. Because he washed them away. It was as if nothing had existed before now, and Jackson was simply a being that was formed through dirt and dust. Though he knew that not to be true, he also found himself lost in the new character he had created for himself. And though he wished with honest intention to become the human with sentiment, sacred aspirations, and to be honest with who he was, he just hadn’t reached that yet.

And when would he?

Feigning a grin, he chuckled at the inquiry before offering a memory that kept his spirits just as childish as he longed for, “So in my neighborhood, there was real cute girl. I think she was a couple years older than me. I was six, by the way. And one day while she was walking home from school, a friend dared me to kiss her. So I ran up to her and did it.”

The laughter grows as he allows the cacophony to subside with his breath, “…I feel bad though, she cried all the way home.”

[ncjackson]

♔

They ain’t make me what I am, they just found me like this.

Keep reading

[ncjackson]

track’d

Tracking Page

With the restoration and cleaning of the directory, there have been adjustments which were necessary. Unfortunately, that would mean that alterations with threads, on my part.

All threads that I am currently engaged in should be listed. If alternations are needed, please let me know.

I am simply going to list the individuals I owe replies to and the ones that I am waiting on just to confirm; if you aren’t listed just shoot me a message.

I OWE REPLIES TO:

Jimin.

Dohee – Starter.

Joo – Starter.

I AM WAITING ON:

Seunghyun.

Minseo.

Zhaoqi.

Micha.

Jennie.

Bogum.

Jiae.

Taewook – Starter.

I AM PLOTTING WITH:

None.

I DROPPED:

Xiurong.

Minhyung.

Hoseok.

Jaejin.

Inmoon.

Jongin.

Seunghee.

Lisa.

Taekwoon.

Taehyung.

[ncjackson]

2, 3, 10

2: What turns you on?

And he laughs, at first.

This was actually quite baffling – which explained his reaction – matching the face to the inquiry. And quite honestly, he would have never guessed that curiosity would have caught this cat.

And that this curiosity would have existed at all.

"...As in what excites or arouses me?"

That was a rhetorical question.

With a gentle exhale, he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his pressed slacks while his thumb traced the metal band around his index. As he wrung the jewelry along the pad of his finger, he grew exasperated in the attempt to create his list. Compiled and organized, he began spitting the topics, "So I really dig Quentin Tarantino films. That needs no explanation, right? Silk ribbons wrapped around thin wrists, clove cigarettes are like dessert to me, youtiao, Hong Kong style donuts. Those are actual dessert to me. Uh, well-defined collarbones? The sound of a purring computer's vent fan in silence. Oh, and a nice ass."

3: What turns you off?

"A lot of things," with a dissatisfied expression, the frown tugging at the corners of his lips, he looked at the other with a sense of disgust.

Well, not a lot of things, but small things that seemed to stick out a lot.

With a careful exhale, he snaked his hand down into his pocket while fishing out the black box of menthol cigarettes, matches hanging off the clasp of the box. Watching as the other observed him, he shot him a glare, "I lost my lighter. Don't judge, you asshole."

Lighting the end, he set the filter into his mouth as he chewed on it, "Sticky substances that aren't quickly washed away are fucking awful. Fidgety people, disloyal company, girls who moan like I slaughtered a baby sheep, the smell of Versace's Bright Crystal, and badly accented Cantonese.

10: How’s the parental relationship?

Touchy subjects always seemed to settle the grout of typical conversation topics. Things like income and politics, health too, seemed to highlight the talks between individuals who were nosy or wanted to know more than what was offered. But the Chinese man knew better than to assume that from the other.

No harm, no foul.

But he certainly felt the overwhelming anxiety cripple at his knees as he forced a smile onto his lips at the mention of his family.

"Depends on who you ask."

[ncjackson]

ncbogum:

(…)

(/bites down on his lip, front teeth on full display) heh. you shouldn’t tempt me like that. (/but it’s just a left pinky; jackson could do without one anyway. he thinks about all the fingers he’s seen shot off—mostly courtesy of inmoon. probably keeps them on display somewhere in his home, the freak.) really, i’m serious. (/grave expression) why else would i mention it to you? (/leans over, rising from his seat, and gives jackson a few robust pats on comparably robust shoulders) they’re the only place i know that does cantonese food right. do yourself a favor and try out their roast goose over rice. outta this world. (/sends a wink over) as much as i love myself a giant plate of tangsooyook, i gotta say. most chinese restaurants here don’t cut it. ‘specially not after i actually visited. (/reminisces with a sigh, the faintest indication of resignation. it feels like a dream, sometimes—boy out of the country, boy in the city, boy abroad, boy crushing skulls and piercing hearts with cold-blooded diligence.) what part are you from again? (/can’t believe he’s been remiss to ask something so fundamental and he hides his shame behind a self-deprecating turn of the lips) (/jackson’s got all the goods memorized—seems to be a real brain churning behind that cheerful disposition and brawny build, and bogum makes a mental note of it. he’d make a wonderful decoy) marry poppins bag. (/pfft) i wish. if i could conjure up anything at a moment’s notice, i wouldn’t be talking to you right now. (/pauses. as long as he doesn’t forget the bag, he’s good. bogum’s main point of concern is the ricin-filled ballpoint pen—but he’s not about to give away the trick) nah. you’re good.

[/It takes every fiber and every atom in his body to swallow the flinch that wanted to creep up his back when Bogum said "you shouldn't tempt me like that" because he already knows that the phrase was not left as a joke. As he had half intended. Holding his grin, he tipped his head up and down in a casual manner as the words streamlined from his superior's mouth, not allowing him to dwell to long;] ...You are certainly right. [/Swallows hard at the mention of the appetizing entree;] Alright, you got me. [/Chortles and raises a brow curiously;] Oh yeah? What part did you surf around? [/It honestly feels strange, talking about his homeland. The place leaves him with a cocktail of emotions that were not meant for humans to harbor. At least not for this long;] Hong Kong. [/And he says these in both pronunciations jokingly before revealing a beaming grin, laced with the farce pride of the country;] Hey you know, Mary Poppins ain't magic without her bag. [/Snickering, he stuffing his pockets with the paper tender, he pressed his index and middle to his temple before saluting Bogum;] Excellent. See you in a minute. [/Walking down towards the hall, he paused before turning on his heel;] Don't seriously count that, I'm not...Fast. [/Shifting back around he ran the errands with precision and efficiency, reminding himself not to leave a single item out. Passive people were always the scariest; he knew himself to have a temper and lashing out brought demons he would never understand. Deciding on heading towards the headquarters first, he collects the paperwork and – after a bit of scavenging – the small bag. The contents look plain, so he was certainly curious why Bogum didn't instruct him to simply buy the items. But the older was eccentric, so he didn't mind it much. Stopping by the convince store, he found the bamboo toothpaste. With much curiosity he stole a wiff before snatching a toothbrush, face towel, and showercap with his purchase. Accounting for the items, he realized he left the take-out for last to deliver the food hot. Trotting around the addressed area, he found himself in the Korean home of Cantonese cuisine. Spices smell accurate and the decor matches that of what he knows so he orders as he was told, including a bit for himself because who doesn't love a free meal? And collects the left over change before heading back, finding his feet right at Bogum's temporary office with his voice chirping through the door;] Hey I don't have any hands for this, can you open up?

ghoul’s errand

[ncjackson]

nclisa:

(…)

but they’re close. close enough that lisa can just begin to make out the windows of her apartment off in the distance. she stops them just as they’re approaching the door, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her stolen jacket when she turns to look at him.

“now. what about you?”

The fervent shelter of skin acted as a catalyst for the embers that licked at the thin paper, smoking the tobacco as his lips pursed around the filter. Inhaling the menthol stream of toxins, the white ribbons filled his lungs before swirling out from his lips. The transparent veil cascaded down the porcelain face of the nameless angel that offered him the rippled effect of a smile that disappeared from his eyes as the smoke waded around them.

And he walked with heavy feet, as if his ankles are laced with cement.

Leisure sips from his cigarette seem to eat the ash without his acknowledgement, the fuzzy residue caught by the wind as the orange hue faded like the silvery bells that chimed along the navy blanket that embraced the sky.

The silence cinched even the whistles of the gusting air, having the young man count the murmuring of the crushed pebbles that crumbled beneath their feet and the languid purring of automobiles tracking along the pavement. But the waft of words tangles with the smoke leaving his mouth as he rose a brow, “Favorite what?”

And she sighs – exasperated, to say the least – but he continues to grin with the stick in his mouth as she weaves the syllables into the phrases she spoke through her lips.

Honestly he had never thought of the stuff, not since he left Hong Kong, at least. The rapture of feelings that had initiated the fond taste towards powders, needles, and tablets mirrored how he perceived the toxins now, falling down from a bad trip. But he savors the reminiscent reverie that she provokes from her inquiry alone.

”…Lucy in the sky with diamonds, huh?” And he chortles as he finds himself finishing off his cigarette, “Never saw you as the psychedelic kind, but I can fuck with that.”

And a moment passes as he snapped the filter of his wand into the dark abyss, tempted to light another as he professed, “…MDMA, pure. Like the brown stuff. I used to like tar, too. Generally anything shit colored seemed to be a good time.”

effervescent vs emphatic — { lisa & jackson

[ncjackson]

9, 13, 18 ~

9: Have any fetishes?

The act of obsession over obscurities, something that boiled down between strange and interesting. Mostly associated with sexual behavior that honestly lacked a presence in public when it came down to the young Chinese man.

So the inquiry comes as quite the shock, and his face contorts for only a moment before he practically heaves the laughter that lurches so quick up his throat he can barely hold the audacious sound in. And it spills from his lips in a mild hysteria.

Not to mention the fact that the girl before him is the messenger.

“…You sure a kid like you should be asking those types of questions?” A tooth grin reveals itself on his mouth as he folded his arms across his chest, head tipped sideways in a sort of act of defiance. And he knows she hates that term, “kid” but he can barely help it when she carries the softest face for someone who would blindly open their mouth for poison.

“I’ll give you a hint, it involves a mirror.”

13: What’s a guilty pleasure?

And quite honestly, he is embarrassed to reveal anything related to said subject.

“…This is sort of a subjective question, don’t you think?” Masking his discomfort, he chuckled a bit while using his index and middle fingers to form air quotes, “Guilty pleasure could mean anything.”

But he knows she looks dissatisfied, and her hits packed a punch.

“…I like to use the toilet completely naked, the song Style by, Taylor Swift literally makes my entire day, and I am a fatass for cheese and potato anything.”

18: What’s a grudge you’re holding?

“Mm…”

And it’s not that he is a saint, holding virtue amongst those around him with forgiving hands and loving nurture. Honestly, it’s not that he even forgets but he cannot find it within him to grip those to their actions.

Everyone was just a person, and if you did bad things sometimes – did that also make you a bad person?

Moral compasses didn’t work like that, they never worked like that.

“Well, my dad walked out on my mom and me when I was a kid. That sucked.”

[ncjackson]

What’s a grudge you’re holding?

18: What’s a grudge you’re holding?

More than the demons amongst him, he fought with the one that kindled within him.

"...A grudge?" Expelling a bout of laughter, he propped his elbow onto the table before he leaned his cheek onto his fist. Closing his eyes for a moment, he hummed to himself as if to evoke a memory that had the opportunity to fabricate before him.

Unfortunately, he lost the right to be angry, infuriated enough to hold together the boiling feelings of what could fester. The thoughts never left, but they certainly never lingered either.

Lazy, languid lips began pursing and forming in undulate sentences as he spoke blindly, "Can it be against you?"

A sarcastic grin sown itself onto his lips as he leaned back and chuckled before settling his hands into his lap, bridging his fingers, "...'Cause you know, I take quite the heavy offense towards each one of your rejections towards me spending the night."

[ncjackson]

The more I try to explain myself, the less I understand myself.

Eugène Ionesco, Fragments of a Journal (via wordsnquotes)

[ncjackson]

ncjennie:

(…)

“oy,” she pushes herself off the mirror, bare feet a soft pitter-patter against the slick wooden floor as she approaches his mat. a pause, then she squats down in a low crouch, long tresses cascading down her shoulder when she tilts her head, crooked grin to match.

“oy,” again, “class is over, babe. your crow pose got a bit better, but not by much. y'been practicing alone at home, wang?”

But you have to give it a try. We should take a class together some time. Perhaps we can do a standing straddle forward bend, together.

Cringe-worthy words filled with flirtation from a girl far too young to muse what her father – who doted upon her with gleaming eyes as polished as the silver bullets he shot – committed. And let’s be honest, the Chinese man had no idea what a standing straddle forward bend even entailed, nor did he really want to find out if a fourteen year-old was going to show him.

But clientele – and family, in this case – were the budding blossoms of what kept the slick, Mandarin spouting boy away from target practice.

…And though he would never admit it, he was a pure bred sucker for new adventures.

So he took the coupon for a free session of yoga from the client’s daughter and agreed to take the class and let her know what he thought of her ultimate passion.

But he was sort of regretting the decision.

Although he had once been quite flexible, due to weekends of conditioning for fencing, his body was much different now. It was so used to spontaneous combat, frigid morning runs, heavy alcohol binging, lazy Sundays on the couch, and loaded cheesy potatoes with extra bacon. It could not handle the bending and awkward contorting that yoga required. The athletic build he acquired? All a ruse.

Breathing frantically, he prayed he would not become a human pretzel; not the soft kind with the salt and all that. Spying forward, he watched as the female who seemed to be catching the positions like her body was made to be in them. In a sort of envy and blatant determination, he started forking over his paychecks in exchange for classes with the instructor who seemed to mold easily into convoluted knots that were created for the sake of pain and suffering.

And the divine, breathtaking view of her gluteus maximus never hurt.

The final pose – his absolute favorite – seemed to engulf his body against the tender mat, while his dehydrated muscles pulsed beneath his skin. Pulling his shoulders deep, and away from his ears, he continued to simmer in bliss before hearing an exclamation that he assumed was directed towards him. The collective noise of her approach interrupted the silence as his lashes raked up upon her arrival.

The grin on her full pout was infectious as he caught it on his own mouth, reaching up and twining his index towards the milk chocolate fibers that hung around and framed her face, “You sure you don’t wanna offer a private lesson to your most resilient student, darling?” The smile on his lips sunk deeper as her next sentence seemed to follow a sort of backhanded compliment, “Yeah, but you can definitely join me some evening if you’d like.”

And with the sleaziest chuckle, he dropped his hand and sat up before crouching towards the end of his mat. Rolling the thermoplastic elastomer in an even, organized manner, “Anyways, thanks for class. Namaste, as always.”

warrior

[ncjackson]

14, 18!

14: Uncommon opinion?

Indirectly, an uncommon opinion could hypothetically determine a strange bout of discussion. When there was consensus, there was exuberance.

Mostly hooligan exuberance.

"...An uncommon opinion?" A pinch appeared at the bridge of his nose as one corner of his mouth pulled up along his cheek to surfaced a washed out smile. Raising his shoulders, he dropped them in indifference.

Did he have an uncommon opinion?

"...So I like the taste of orange juice and mint together," and that was the honest, disgusting truth. Pausing, he began chuckling as he continued on, "Thin Mints, in particular, are good. But toothpaste is alright too, I guess."

18: What’s a grudge you’re holding?

Inhale, pause. Exhale. Repeat.

"...Weird, can't really recall anything," fingers carding through the fibers hanging from his head, he pursed his lips as his expression washed with thoughts of his past and anything his rigid fingers may have gripped on.

Ah.

"There was this..." trailing off, an embarrassed chuckle left his lips as the reminiscent thought began playing as images across his irises, "Fine female. And my acquaintance dug her."

Clearing his throat, his expression grew a bit more stern as he spoke again, "Seriously, dug her."

"Long story short – I slept with her, she got fired, I got expelled, and my house got egged every day for about a month," with the mirrored expression of chagrin, he slid his index beneath his nose, "Did I mention that she was a teacher? Yeah well. There's that too."

Washing his hands back and forth in front of him, as if clearing the thoughts that appeared before him and wanting to steer the conversation back onto the main tracks in which they were ensued, "It was a shitfest and you know moms. They don't wanna hear about their sons nailing their teachers and getting kicked out of school."

"...That was a pretty hellish year for me. School staff? Ain't shit. Small angry moms? Oh man, you don't even know the half of it."

[ncjackson]

profane hurricane — { micha & jackson

Association initiates the divine creation of patterns in which the human brain can process information as if batching petabytes of data, plugging one chord to an opposing outlet and provoking a result. These wired connections are interchangeable, with the ability to group multiple variables with an eclectic variety of categories. The analytics – results corrected down to the decimal – are morphed into a pristine graphic that amounts to bullshit and pure fuckery which is also known as memories.

It was rare for humans – no, not just humans, but rather any being – not to have strange memories of their past. It was like a collective album of blurry photographs, left as a reminder to the life form that they were imperfect flaws pieced together to hold their skin, bones, and flesh. It was a residual amount that allowed the particular species to learn from experience pre se. It was an indication that suggested you certainly did not want to repeat the same course of action that would lead to impending doom. 

But the silver lining was that memories were altered every time you thought about them. What you had for breakfast? The mental image slightly different than the actual; perhaps your toast was actually placed forty-five degrees in correspondence to your plate. The girl you swore you fell in love with in the first grade? Maybe she looks prettier now than she did before, hair askew with her skirt always accidentally tucked into her underwear. But right now, all you remember is that one time when she shared her lunch with you. Memories were a warped adjustment of diluted, refraction that created a glossier version of reality that could be projected from one individual to another. 

And that was precisely why the flaw of repetition recurred without shame or fear.

Why, with all the unforgotten feelings of kindled enlightenment, arousal, and exuberance that left Jiaer with Pandora’s metal box clutched in his hand as he wandered home during the final hour of the moon’s departure behind the horizon, why did he want her so badly?

And those feelings never left.

Which was perhaps how the conjecture of the sonic, visual onslaught before him consumed every filament that comprised of the young man. Once a boy that drew together marble between his dreaming fingers, creating the being he had encountered for no longer than a breath; he could at least encounter her once more, in the silence trapped behind his skull, deep in the slumber that shrouded him.

And yet, there she was.

An eerie whisper that coddled his skin, luring him just as she had the first time around. But she was captured in a glass, unchanged by time with the same elegance that glimmered behind the irises of a once fifteen year-old boy. This was unlike himself. However, it was no different than the night she had kissed a cigarette into his lips, and cursed him with a vice that would trigger him to wonder whether his mouth was around a wand or perhaps the longing to see her once more. And one could assume that it was because the fragile paper was the only string left that he twined down weft and warp to keep the figment of his imagination intact.

Invitations were not to be rejected when it came to the men with onyx, abysmal eyes that had tainted their smoky breaths with every drop of blood that had curdled between their swift fingers and vulgar mouths. Domesticated with the fortunate lips of a liar and the hands of an artisan, he too found himself at home with the mischief-makers that hedged each plaster plane.

And he swore he must have been inebriated when he finally sees her.

The streams of sanguine accelerated as their velocity dug into every nerve that warped around his being, the dam of bones were left as shards, acuminating his muscles as the crimson flood rose to his ankles – as if he dove in, with the intention to drown. Fluid rushing, charging through his nostrils and clogging his throat with every word of affection he had recited to himself when he was in slumber, when he was wired – the daze of iridescent oil spilling behind the lashes of his pair of irises dilated like the icy discs that embraced the planets that floated above him.

And when he finally realized he had stopped breathing – that his lungs had failed him – she was washed away as instantaneously as their first encounter.

It never occurred to him that she was comprised of flesh, blood, and bone. Teeth grit against the blessing she sinned between his lips, he offers Pandora’s a box a gaze – thumb brushing along the metallic crown as he brought the ember up towards the end of his cigarette to light.

Keep going, she had said.

And as if commanded, he never stopped.

[ncjackson]

[ncjackson]

zhaoqinc:

(…)

the rest of the messages in the groupchat were of a similar notion, and zhaoqi shows the screen to who she knows now as jiaer. “they say hi.”

Wealth and fortune represented the linear, orderly brush strokes that shaped the character of the inherited title that carried his representation and identity, Wang. A name fit for a king, not troublemaking, anxiety inducing scum.

But nevertheless, it was attached to him.

Perhaps it was a reminder that redemption was required to repent the mortal misdeeds of his doing. Or that he was the kin of his foulmouthed patriarch. For all he knew, it could have been an ironic objective meant to curse him.

However, he would never doubt his fortunes.

With no family willing to embrace him for the stray he was, the blessing of a family friend that his mother retained through years of travel, distant communication, and utmost love and respect invited the young mischief-maker into her home. At the cost of abandoning his home.

But he was in no place to refuse the hospitality that was offered up to him.

Second chances were far and few, and he knew better than to subject himself to impending failure. And so there he was, attempting to reclaim the respect that his mother – who raised him with blind eyes, a kind heart, and warm hands – deserved. But most of all, the respect he himself, deserved.

And he wish he could have done this without the existence of his mother’s close friend.

I know you.

It only furthered the residue of shame that crossed his adolescent face as he attempted to brush the statement off with a chuckle, nodding his head before cursing himself as the formal words left his mouth, “Yes ma’am. Amount, name, and contact.”

Peering at the garment she offered over, he took it in his hands and parted the lapels of the fabric before settling the shoulder pads onto a thin iron hanger. Giving it one last inspection, he reached for a clipboard that registered the supply of jobs that were to be cycled in that day.

Seven? Well he could squeeze it in.

”What time did you need it by…?” The words trail away from his lips as his eyes caught a glimpse of the messages that crossed the incandescent screen before him. Hissing at the glossy image, he finally peered up to meet the gaze of his aunt.

With a sheepish and bitter grin, he attempted a half-hearted expression of shock, ”…Ayi! It’s so – nice to see you. How are you?” The clumsy Korean shatters from his mouth like a fragile vase knocked off its pedestal, muddled in the water of Mandarin that weaves between the words.

dry cleaners / flashback