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[wiheomchangmin]

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[wiheomchangmin]

Activity on this blog is going to be transferred to another account.. My apologies for all the false starts and stops.

Link posted when finished.

[wiheomchangmin]

He likes to think that he has a refined palate. That his tastes are exemplary, honed well over the years as he's come to know how, exactly, to prepare each meal perfectly. He is discerning, able to pick out the most subtle flavors from any dish and put a name to the thing that made them.

So why, exactly, is he always so drawn to people like this? Maybe it's something to do with his career - his obsession with helping those that cannot help themselves. Or, perhaps, he's come to enjoy the taste of sarcasm and paranoia in doses a little worse than what could be considered healthy.

It could be either, really.

This would explain why he's so adamant about following this man. There's no reason for it and it just makes him look worse, but he figures that he'll manage to find a way out of it. He always does. Being a smooth talker has been the thing that's kept him out of sticky situations many a time.

He tails the man, quiet at first after being brushed aside so easily. He knows how strange he must seem - he understands people enough to know that something like this is what could be considered a dangerous situation. After all, Changmin could be a mugger or a rapist or perhaps even a killer. It's almost comical. But even so far from sober, the man looks as if he's not going to be having any of it. He will put up a fight. And the psychologist will at least commend him for it.

When they come to a stop almost a block away from the bar they happened to make each other's acquaintance, he makes sure to keep his distance. But the dejected posture of the other is enough to break him from his silence.

"I was just worried about you getting home," he confesses (untruthfully), "And it looks like I was right to be. Forget something? I don't think they open again until tomorrow afternoon." He has to suppress the desire to smile as his amusement rises. "I don't want to presume anything and I know that I don't appear to be the most trustworthy, but if it would be of any help, I do have a spare room that you could stay in for the night... if you can't get into your place, I mean."

| ᴀᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ;; ʟɪᴛʜɪғɪᴇᴅ |

[wiheomchangmin]

That's how it always goes. Insinuation is not evidence, rather fortunately. But he doesn't like being misunderstood, regardless. He should start choosing his words more carefully. Or perhaps the general populace should alter their perception of certain phrases to meet his own ideals. Whichever would be easier.

The woman in front of him regards him for a moment and he wants to cringe at the way she bends his card. But he is like stone, frozen in his polite smile. He's mastered this one better than the genuine one - he can be polite, but he can't fake happy. He nods.

"They're always negotiable if a patient can't afford therapy, but the standard rate is fifty-two thousand won per session," he says. He doesn't mind lowering it a little bit if he needs to. Once they start coming, they usually continue their sessions until they're convinced it doesn't work or they feel better (or he refers them), so he makes a pretty good living off of it - enough to pay for his apartment and all the luxuries within it, at the very least. He doesn't need to charge obscene amounts.

"And I work with all sorts of people - all sorts of illnesses, as well." He slips a hand into his pocket and relaxes, just a little. "Depression is probably the most common affliction these days, but I am trained to help with anxiety, post-traumatic stress, and several other disorders. The more severe it is, the harder it is to treat, but I am always willing to accept a challenge."

Ai stared down at the hand that was extended out towards herself. At first she thought that the other was asking for a handshake, but then she noticed the card in between his fingers. Reflex had her reaching out to take it, and curiosity had her looking over the information clearly and neatly printed on it. Her study of the paper was distracted when the man spoke, and she wondered for a second whether he was being sarcastic. 

"I didn’t think you were saying that, but now that you say you weren’t I kind of wonder if perhaps you were." Her lips twitch at the edges as she holds back a grin, quickly dropping her gaze back down to the card. It really was very nicely done with obvious thought put into the design. 

Her eyes moved back up to study the man while she fiddled with the card. “What are your prices then? Do you only meet with people who just need to vent or those with other problems?” That wasn’t worded very well, but the way she wanted to ask might make her sound like she was crazy. “What mental illnesses do you work with?” Slightly more specific and didn’t make her sound…too crazy. 

[wiheomchangmin]

ʜᴇ ɪs ᴀɴ ɪɴᴠᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ;

Like or inbox me for plotting (aka if you leave a note on this i'll probably check out your blog and inbox you, but if you're already raring to go, please feel free to drop by my ask first). Stipulations are that you must be able to see your muse and Changmin feasibly interacting, whether as a psychiatrist with a patient, or a secretive man with a friend. Or perhaps even an enemy. If you can't do that, it might be better to wait until one of us can imagine it one way or another.

[wiheomchangmin]

He extends a hand, as if offering it to a stranger to take. There's nothing welcoming about it, however, for at the end of the gesture, he produces a business card, sitting snugly between his first and middle fingers. He holds it up again, at little closer this time, as an offering. A sickly sweet smile follows shortly after as he waits for the other to take it.

"I'm not saying you seem like the type to need therapy - I'm just saying to keep an open mind about it. Everyone is under a lot of stress, these days, and I figure it's good to let it out, just talk about it."

The white card is adorned with crimson ink, spelling out Doctor Shim Changmin in a rather ornate script, followed by the address of his office, and the hours he's open in a more modest Helvetica. If you're going to have a card, you want to make it as simple as possible whilst still being memorable. That's the way he does most things, actually.

"I'm probably the most affordable psychiatrist in the city, as well. If you're going to pay to vent, unnecessary stresses like large fees are the last thing you need." He smiles again. "My schedule will flex to fit yours. Whenever you need to chat, I'll make time. All I ask is that you think about it."

[wiheomchangmin]

Dᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ Sʜɪᴍ Cʜᴀɴɢᴍɪɴ

No, not that kind of doctor.

A psychiatrist out of his practice in Yongsan, he is the shoulder for you to cry on. He is the rock that you will anchor yourself to when you are in a sea of confusion, the solution to your problems when there is none. He's not going to say that he'll fix you, only that he'll help you.

He can only repair broken souls, not replace them.

Just be careful, for he also has many jagged edges - even the best people keep secrets.

Would you like to make an appointment?

                         AU/OC | 18+ | Literate | Read | Reblog/MSG/Follow

[wiheomchangmin]

ʜᴇ ɪs ᴀɴ ɪɴᴠᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ;

Muse revamp. (Nearly) Clean slate. Of all the promises I've made thus far, this may be one of the few I'm likely to keep. Should be done by the weekend.

[wiheomchangmin]

Shim fucking perfect Changmin

[wiheomchangmin]

Enthralling.

The man's anger is particularly exciting, again peaking the interest of the psychiatrist at the bar. There's something about his spontaneous rage that has Changmin moving after him as soon as he gets up. The slide off his stool is easy, and the look the tender gives him is answered with a quick, polite smile.

He doesn't call out for the man to wait, doesn't make any attempt to try and stop him from leaving. Instead he just follows, trailing behind silently as the bar is left behind in favor of frigid night air. Their way is lit by neon signs and street lights, the kind that only line the streets in this part of town. Everyone is painted in different shades of pink and blue as he passes them, though eventually the number of people he sees trickles down to zero.

Quickly, it becomes just him and his prey on the sidewalk.

This is the perfect chance to jump him and take what he came here for. The drunk could put up a fight, sure, but Changmin is sober and despite his rather reserved appearance, he's fairly strong.

He has to be, doing what he does.

There's a moment where he's not certain what he wants to do. He could close the gap now and finish it, right here on the street. There's nobody around - nobody to witness him bashing the man in the back of the head with his fist. If it comes down to it, he's got a knife in his back pocket; he'll just stab the man if he becomes too much of a problem.

But he could also just trail the guy to his place of residence. He is definitely the type to live alone, and it would give the good doctor some comfort knowing that he wouldn't be seen if someone just happened to open their blinds.

The temptation is strong, however.

He decides to pick up the pace, just a little. He's sure that the other can't hear him yet, his footfalls are too light and at this distance, the sound won't travel far enough. As he closes in, however, he knows that the cement will betray him. So, surprise is something he'll have to forgo this time.

"You never corrected me," he starts, just loud enough to be heard from behind, "So I take it my suppositions were correct."

| ᴀᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ;; sᴜɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴssɪ |

There’s no reaction to the change in his tone — come to think of it, he’s hardly gotten a reaction this entire time. Perhaps it’s simply his doctor persona that he slips into when attempting to psychoanalyze anyone, even if it is in a rundown bar instead of a pristine office building, but Sungjoon gets the sense that it’s not. It’s who this man is — friendly and pleasant and clean. Never offensive. Voice unfailingly calm, every smile a mild one, and always accompanied by an air of serenity.

It’s not normal.

Reticence is normal. Sullenness, anger, amusement, denial — those are normal. The crease in a person’s brow when he doesn’t agree with you, the narrowing of his eyes when he doubts the truth of your words. As much as he hates that he’s easily read when in the presence of someone skilled at it, it’s a mark of humanity to be unable to hide the storm brewing under the surface.

This man is as still and placid as a frozen lake, only with none of the coldness. It’s unsettling.

After the momentary silence between them he speaks again and, well, Sungjoon can’t say he disagrees. He is grateful for it, he has to admit to himself, bringing a weary sort of smile to tug reluctantly at his lips.

If only the doctor had quit while he was ahead.

The assumption that he’s reliant on this particular poison — that it’s an addiction, something he can’t live without — has his fingers tightening around the glass. He’s barely listening now. It’s irrelevant how spot-on any further assessments may be, as he’s not sticking around to reap any benefit. He snatches up the tab that’s been discreetly placed on the bar near him and scans it; rummages through his wallet for some bills and throws them down on the counter.

"Keep the change." He’ll be back in a few days anyway. Not tomorrow night, that’s for damn sure.

Perhaps it’s an overreaction. Perhaps his anger is disproportionate to what occurred, but the situation had suddenly become so stifling he couldn’t bear sitting in there any longer, under the watchful, patronizing eye of a professional who has him all wrong.

The shock of cold air hitting his lungs helps to cool his ire. He begins to tread the familiar path home, unsure if it’s the cold or intoxication that’s more effective in leaving him thoroughly numbed.

There’s hardly anyone on this street, which isn’t so odd for a weeknight. It’s quite fortunate — because if that doctor tries to follow and engage him in conversation again, Sungjoon would rather as few witnesses as possible. He can’t be held responsible for what he might do.

[wiheomchangmin]

Don’t try to figure me out. It will only exhaust you.

(via kjyx)

[wiheomchangmin]

He's struck a chord.

Changmin can see it in the way the man's expression changes, the way he seems to become separate from himself. He's perhaps lost in a memory. He's witnessed it before, it's very familiar to him.

It's several moments before the man speaks again, though Changmin is willing to bet he doesn't realize it. The alcohol in his system and philosophical questions don't seem to mix quite right.

The words effect him about as much as water trickling down a car window. He's had plenty of experience with unwilling patients at this point. He's come to terms with the fact that not everyone wants to talk to him, paying or not.

But this isn't one of his consultations, isn't a session with a patient. He isn't doing this for the benefit of the man on the stool next to him, though he feels that perhaps he can give him a few moments of solace before he ends his life.

He's doing this for food. This man is his dinner and nothing more.

Still, there's something about him that draws the not-so-good doctor in. There's something in his past that he doesn't want to talk about - probably more than one something. He's covering it up with contention and it's almost sickeningly obvious.

"You don't hate it, exactly. It may taste like ass and probably burns on the way down but it helps you numb yourself, so you're a little grateful for it," he muses, "But at the same time you wish you weren't reliant on it."

He hums, gripping the bar and using it to swivel himself a little, give himself something to do while he works things out in his head.

"You must have friends in low places," he remarks, rather offhand, before getting back to business, "You're trying to forget quite a bit."

He keeps his statements general, unwilling to give any indication that he knows anything less than everything.

"Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong," he offers, smiling again. It's not smug, but rather friendly. He needs to get his target talking and distracted or plastered and unaware of his surroundings.

At the same time, he's rather interested to hear this fellow's story. He actually wants to know how he came to be at this bar, this very night, and why he is so unhappy. What are the skeletons in this man's closet? He doen't even know the stranger's name, but he wants to know his story.

Professional curiosity, he supposes. Can't be anything more than that.

| ᴀᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ;; sᴜɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴssɪ |

The answer isn’t quite what he’d expected, but the surprise isn’t great enough to earn anything more than a low hum in his throat, half-voiced. 'Course he'd get all technical. The limbic system — he racks his ethanol-soaked and rapidly deteriorating memory for the meaning behind those words and soon finds a vague association with emotions and the underlying motives behind one’s behavior. One of his least favorite areas to explore, nights like this. He isn’t given a chance to linger there long though, as the man speaks again after a momentary pause to collect his thoughts.

Theoretical principles are much easier to deal with than introspection, even when drunk. The death drive. That’s what he’d had in mind, the concept he’d first come across in his teens while bent over a faded volume in a Bibliothek. It’s something that’s always held a fascination for him, even before it started to manifest in his own life. There exists a colloquial association between this drive and the ancient Greek personification of death — Thanatos, the being responsible for delivering the only thing inevitable in life. Perhaps this inevitability is behind the cryptic appeal. Why everyone gawks at an accident. Why reckless handling of one’s own fragile existence offers the purest form of freedom he’s found.

It’s exhilarating, and it’s terrifying. It’s a paradox. It’s very hard to be a survivalist and a daredevil. Maybe he really is crazy after all. Help me, Doc — he barely refrains from snorting.

His amusement is short-lived. The thoughts the other man is voicing have the smile falling from his face, the glass altogether forgotten in his hand. Little things. He’s always considered his coming of age the beginning of the end for him. The moment he’d lost the support of a family around him and was all on his own — that was the moment which set him down this path. Or so he thought.

Little things. Learning to communicate with your sibling through a look, because neither of you wants to risk speaking. Packing up and moving six times before you’re even grown. Straight A’s because drowning yourself in information keeps everything else out. Little things.

Yourself or someone else. Or both. Well, he certainly bears the brunt of this dysfunction himself, evidenced by the substance he is rapidly ingesting to replace the one wearing off. A poor substitute, but a necessary one. Unfortunately for the stranger, Sungjoon isn’t quite drunk enough to answer that last question directly.

"You tell me, Doc. You’re the professional. Bet you get all kinds o’ uncooperative patients, don’tcha?" He throws back the rest of his drink, a tongue-in-cheek brand of belligerence taking over as he goes on. "I ain’t sayin’ shit. What can you tell about me? Can you tell that I hate this stuff but I drink it anyway?" He gestures with the empty glass, eyeing the man with guarded curiosity in his silence. "Not sure I wanna know, really. But the Devil and me are old friends… that’s all I’m gonna say."

[wiheomchangmin]

Everything about this session is forced.

Changmin doesn't like to go about his meetings like this. He likes it when his clients are willing because, while they may still be a bit reluctant at first, it's usually easier to crack them and get the information he needs to come to a conclusion about their mental status.

Soohyuk is anything but an open book. He seems to see this as a challenge, wondering if Changmin will be able to break him the way he does with everyone else. To be truthful, he's not sure he'll be able to. Not this session, at least. Maybe not even the next one. But perhaps, after the other man is more comfortable with him, he'll be able to get something substantial. If he's lucky, he'll get a scrap of thought that will accidentally slip out. One little detail is all he needs to start his work.

"You've told me your name," he says, twirling his pen between his first two fingers, "And your occupation. I know very little about you aside from those things."

He smiles a little at the man on his couch, a little rueful.

"Well, besides those things and the fact that you're very reluctant to tell me anything. I realize that you're a little apprehensive about psychiatry as a solution to whatever problems you are experiencing right now and I understand," he starts, "I know it can be hard to willingly divulge your secrets to a complete stranger."

He'd had to meet with a therapist regularly from middle school until his junior year of university - he knows that trusting someone like him is hard. But he's adamant in his pursuit to make everyone who enters his office as comfortable as possible with him. He wants to help.

"So, instead of jumping straight into whatever it is that made you come see me, why not start with the basics? Tell me about yourself. How old are you? Have any hobbies?"

He pauses to scribble on his notepad, testing the pen. The ink flows smoothly out and he's ready to go. He goes back to twirling it.

"If it'll make you feel more at ease, I can give you a little tidbit about myself for everything you tell me. A fact for a fact," he offers, waiting to gauge the man's reaction.

He doesn't normally offer things like this, really. He likes to keep his relationship with his patients something slightly distanced, strictly professional. He doesn't tell them things about his personal life, lest they decide to use anything against him. He's like that with a lot of people, really.

But there's an air about Soohyuk that leads Changmin to believe there's more to the good-looking book store owner than meets the eye. Something is off about him. Something odd lies beneath the surface, and Changmin wants to find out what, exactly, that thing is. He's intrigued, but perhaps he's being too overeager. This man could very well be entirely average, and he could be entirely misinterpreting everything. But he's usually right about this kind of thing - he knows people. It's his job.

He will figure out Lee Soohyuk. He just has to take it slow.

тнe Drυgѕ ;; [sᴏᴏxʜʏᴜᴋᴋ]

The sun is setting as Soohyuk locks up his shop after another uneventful day. He doesn’t know how long he can handle this humdrum life. The only thing that seems to spice it up at all is his usual late night activities. But those only cause damage to himself and he is pretty sure that it will be the death of him very soon. That or the fact that is seriously considering that forming a drug habit may be healthier than this.

Nothing interesting ever happens to him and anyone interesting he meets disappear after one or two conversations. Why does he even keep trying with this whole “Make friends and fit into society thing”. At this rate he is just going to go back to locking himself in his apartment and reading all day and night unless he is out for work it might be for the best.

A sigh escapes his lip while he proceeds to walk past his car, he wants time to think for awhile so he won’t be driving home. Its a pretty good neighborhood so its not like it will stolen anytime soon. He walks in the direction of the sun, not really sure exactly where he is going but it does not seem to phase him. The air around him grows colder as the sun continues to disappear over the horizon, causing him to tug his jacket tighter around him. Maybe tonight wasn’t such a good night to try and figure out what to do with his life he thinks to himself as he watches his breath fog out in front of him.

He is about to turn back around to his car, too frozen to clearly think and completely forgetting his plan, when he spots a small office building just ahead of him. It draws his attention because it doesn’t really seem to fit in where its at on the street. Every other building around it seems to be crumbling down and falling apart caused by nothing other than time itself. This place doesn’t seem new though but something about it just seems to scream at him to go in and see what is inside. 

He peers into the front window that has the name of the owner spelled out rather elegantly in black, red, and white across the surface. Dr. Shim Changmin. Psychiatrist. .This might be what he needs, someone to analyze his brain for him since obviously he can never do it himself. All he has to really do is leave out the murderer and flashback parts when he talks and this might work. At least this Changmin guy could at least set up a guideline for him on what to do.

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[wiheomchangmin]

You think anyone's naturally self-destructive?

Changmin pretends to consider. He doesn't actually have to, really. He'd decided on that one when he was fourteen, sitting in a darkened middle school science lab and cutting out the heart of a yellow-legged buttonquail, just for fun. He wasn't born to an abusive family or raised in a broken home - he just liked seeing how things looked on the inside. This curiosity applied to himself, as well, and there were times when he'd cut himself to see the blood or make himself vomit to observe what came out of his stomach. The intentions were purely scientific, but the actions were indeed rather... destructive.

To be fair, most of the destruction went outward instead of inward.

But after many classes and many sessions with many patients, his belief was reaffirmed numerous times.

"Yes, but I also believe that it's due to a malfunction somewhere in the limbic system of a person's brain."

He runs a finger around the lip of his glass and debates the next point mentally. Does he believe in God? Or any higher deity? Does he believe n the Devil? He's not sure. He believes in what he can see and touch, things that have been proven as fact, or what he knows to be fact, at the very least. To assume that there is some higher reason for anything is to put stock in something he's not entirely sure is fact or fiction.

If there is a God, the chances that he is benevolent are slim - he made Changmin grotesque for no apparent reason. There is a greater chance of the existence of a Devil.

"The death drive can be explained scientifically, and doesn't really need a higher power associated with it, in my opinion," he admits, "But, humoring the assumption that we are led to do destructive things by Thanatos, or the Devil, or whoever else, I'd say that "he" is indeed in everyone. But it doesn't take anything to awaken it. Nothing significant, at the very least - nothing like a divorce or a death."

He smiles a little, almost forgetting his reason for coming here during his argument.

"Little things, like pricks of self-doubt or subtle insults on someone's character... Things like that dig in to a person's subconscious, make them more susceptible to that urge to destroy. Eventually it can build up to one of three outcomes - destroying yourself or destroying someone else. Or both."

He leans back a little, gripping the side of the bar, stretching out his back. And then he takes the shot of alcohol in his glass and resumes his previous position. One shot won't hurt and he won't be taking any more.

"So, since you believe that it takes something to wake the Devil in a person, what was it that woke him for you?"

| ᴀᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ;; sᴜɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴssɪ |

Fed up with the stranger, he’s gone back to his drink, and so he doesn’t notice the way the man’s gaze lingers on him— forming an overall impression from those few seconds of brief analysis. He doesn’t notice much of anything, besides the way the bottom of his drink tastes watered-down from melted ice, and how the bartender’s already eyeing him in preparation for mixing another. Sungjoon simply gives him a nod and the glasses clink together as he takes down a new one to fill.

Distraction. Ah, so that’s what’s behind it. It’d almost be funny, if not for the fact that it’s a little pathetic. He almost feels like a sideshow, a curiosity, the stereotypical surly drunk to be gawked at and riddled out. As if there must be some reason he’s ended up here alone. As if that reason’s worth figuring out.

Some things are better left alone.

Clearly the stranger doesn’t agree. Armed with a glass that’s filled to the brim with the promise of kicking this buzz into overdrive, it’d be a great accomplishment to draw his attention from the task at hand. Strangely enough, this guy pulls it off.

A psychiatrist. That explains the curiosity— the draw someone like Sungjoon would possess to a person who deals in pathology on a daily basis. I know how to solve people’s problems, he states, not even in a boastful manner but a factual one, and Sungjoon doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or intimidated. To take him up on the offer or get the fuck out of there.

He still hasn’t made up his mind by the time the guy asks his next question. This time, he really does laugh. “You think anyone’s naturally self-destructive?” It’s a legitimate wonder; he’s not being sarcastic, not entirely. He ponders it while he drinks some more, draining the glass a little more than halfway.

He looks over at the man again— Doc, he starts to call him in his head, fanciful intoxication painting an image of him with glasses perched on his nose and scribbling notes in a clean office with the sun shining through window-shades— and poses a tangent of his own for discussion. “They made you guys study Freud, of course. Everything comes down to either sex or death, with that one.” He snorts, fingers playing with the edge of his glass absently. “Always found the second more interesting, though. Thanatos. Did they teach you that one? Now I don’t believe in God, but the Devil…” There’s a strange quirk of his lips as he goes on. “He’s in all of us, isn’t he?”

"But that’s the thing… I think it takes something to awaken it. No kid from a happy family with reasons to live that he can count on both hands is gonna start destroying himself, start listening to the Devil…" When silence falls, there is a look on his face that suggests he feels he’s said too much. He finishes the drink just so he doesn’t have to look at him anymore.

[wiheomchangmin]

Hell is no place, hell is me You are my slave, I’m the king

[wiheomchangmin]

[wiheomchangmin]

Changmin isn't at all put off by the man's rather snide response. To be honest, it is something he's anticipated. He's well-versed in dealing with sarcasm and off-put reactions. Drinkers tend to either be very angry or very sad, he's noticed. He's relatively thankful that he doesn't drink himself to that point, most of the time.

Idly, he swivels a little on his stool. He'd like to get a better look at the guy, a better idea of what he's dealing with. Always be prepared, he knows. If he knows can't take this guy, he won't bother attempting it. Work smart, not hard, and don't ever attract attention.

This man screams substance abuse at him, though he'll never be able to prove it without evidence. He just has the feeling that he's used to being in places like this, all too comfortable in the filth. He shares several characteristics with previous patients Changmin has had, but nothing solid. Just a look in his eyes, something in the way he sits.

"Always? No," he smiles, "But enough. It's not really about helping anyone, actually. I'm just looking for a distraction and I figure the unhappy drunkards are looking for one, as well. It's a lot easier to open up to a stranger when you're under the influence of behavior-altering substances."

He would laugh, or even just chuckle a little, but he gets the feeling that it wouldn't help his case right now.

"Neither, actually." His smile spreads into a grin and he taps the leg of the other man's stool with the toe of his shoe. "I'm a psychiatrist by trade. I know how to solve people's problems, most of the time for an outstanding fee."

He turns back so he can lean against the bar on his elbows, watching the barkeep for a moment or two.

"Here, it's free of charge."

He looks again at his target.

"I could ask you a similar question, really. Are you naturally self-destructive or is there a reason you're on your way to liver failure?"

| ᴀᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ;; sᴜɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴssɪ |

The night finds Sungjoon in a dive bar downtown, one of his typical haunts. He isn’t especially fond of the place— he doubts anyone is, it’s hard to be fond of something so dirty and disreputable— but it’s cheap, the drinks are strong, and no one ever bothers him with trite conversation like in some of the more popular joints. Especially on nights like this when the aura that hangs about him like a dark cloud seems to discourage any sort of association with him for fear that they’d be caught under it too.

He feels no need to examine the reasons for this mood that’s come over him, and that’s probably for the best. No good ever came of looking at such things too closely. One of the best methods of dealing with it that he’s found yet involves the glass in his hand, though it’s disappointingly drained and after one last sip he begins to mull over the idea of a refill. To order the same, or something different— whether he needs another at all isn’t even a question. The night has scarcely begun.

The barkeep knows the drill by now. The sound of Sungjoon’s empty glass being placed back down on the polished wood brings him drifting over, inquiring about his next order. He goes with a whiskey sour this time and the man mixes it quickly. The swiftness with which the drink is placed before him brings something almost resembling a smile to his lips for the first time all night— a good man, this one.

He’s remained entirely oblivious to the other patrons surrounding him thus far; the only relevant person in this place is the one keeping the liquid contentment flowing. It’s not exactly a welcome change when someone settles into the vacant seat beside him, but as he’s got no reason not to ignore him completely that is just what he does.

If only things could be so easy.

A look of annoyance flits across his features at the unwelcome assessment, and he takes his time sipping away at the full glass before he deigns to acknowledge the question. "You can sit wherever you want." It’s only then that he actually gives the man a good look— and immediately wonders why he’s even in this bar. He’s dressed too neatly, looks too decent to be anything but out-of-place amongst the miserable drunks and misfits packed into the joint.

"Do you always go around pointing it out when someone’s having a shit night?" He’s downed half the drink before he lets it rest against the bar again, the alcohol’s effects beginning to creep through his system and loosening his tongue even as it starts to numb the unpleasant feelings from earlier.

"What’s your deal, then? Savior complex? Or are you just a nice guy?" The last words are packed with a sneer— he’s already run out of patience for this man and he’s barely spoken.