part two hundred and twenty one

[exomeme]

   

chiyu chiyu

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wc!au: [team chen] acbd

[(Anonymous)]

chen centric, general school au through the years. 1248 wc.

Re: wc!au: [team chen] acbd

[(Anonymous)]

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Re: wc!au: [team chen] acbd

[(Anonymous)]

[ daejeon, 2002 | fall ]

the sun is extra hot this morning when jongdae wakes up, and he hates it. but today he could care less -- it's the morning of his birthday and all he wants to do is make the best of having his birthday not on a school day, run downstairs, eat cake, and play with his new toys. but when he gets downstairs, teeth brushed and hair askew, still in his pjs, it's not presents that await him but crisp clothes and shiny shoes.

"you're becoming a man now, jongdae. you should go to work with me today," his father suggests, fixing his tie in the mirror. jongdae's only ten; who works at ten?

but you don't argue with a man who's hands are that large.

jongdae dresses begrudgingly that day, resenting every button and purposely scuffing his shoes throughout the day.

the stinging on his backside as he lays in bed that night almost isn't worth the bb gun he wanted.

[ daejeon, 2005 | spring ]

the semester starts the same as usual, but jongdae sits in the front of the class now, not in the back. his friends call his name but he ignores them.

"you're more than they are. you're going to run my company. i don't want you getting distracted," his father speaks sternly.

jongdae swallows his pride with every birthday party he isn't invited to that year.

[ daejeon, 2007 | winter ]

"we're switching schools this year. your academic growth is rather stunted here," his father speaks lazily from behind a newspaper.

jongdae glares into his western breakfast.

"this new school is so nice daejong," his mother coos, though her eyes never leave her magazine. "they have four tennis courts!"

jongdae doesn't care how many tennis courts they have. he stabs the yolk on his over easy egg hard enough that it splatters across the plate, but nobody notices.

[daejeon, 2008 | spring ]

his father says he's too rich to be seen with the poorer kids. but as his classmates show up in brand new audis, he suddenly feels holes in his pockets. too rich for the poor, too poor for the rich. jongdae's never felt more secluded. he loses himself in his books and his grades and climbs his way to the top. at least his grades are richer than yours.

[ daejeon, 2009 | winter ]

he isn't really sure what he's singing anymore, just a mash up of any lyric that hits his brain. with each belt, he can see his breath as he sweeps the floor of the classroom. it's a secret, nobody can know, and there's even a wobbly sashay of his hips as he slaughters the english words.

when he pauses to catch his breath, broom held at his side, there's an uproar of singular applause in the doorway. his broom clatters loudly to the floor and he's sure a bruise is going to form on his hip where it kissed the desk so fondly.

"i overheard you -- did i frighten you?! i'm sorry!" her lips are red and inviting like strawberries. jongdae can't take his eyes off them.

"no, i, uh, was just cleaning," he reassures her. her hair is sleek and a nice golden brown. he thinks it'd look best threaded between his fingers.

"you have a wonderful voice! what's your name again?" her eyes sparkle.

"kim jongdae..." he murmurs, voice lodged in his throat.

"jongdae ssi, i'm begging you, come try out for choir! we need a voice like yours!"

he'd agree to anything if it meant seeing those pretty lips form soft syllables.

[ daejeon, 2009 | winter ]

"never. choir's for girls."

jongdae doesn't attempt to argue with his father. it's a cause he's never found worthy.

he does his best to ignore the ache in his chest when he's forced to decline those pretty lips' offer.

she doesn't talk to him again.

[ daejeon, 2011 | summer ]

he glances up at the clock from behind thick shades, tapping his pencil against his jaw.

ten minutes.

he looks back down, stares blankly at the last four questions, and for a brief moment, he considers bombing the test. erase all his answers, turn in a blank scantron. be witty and make some obscure characters out of bubbles. draw a picture. answer "c" on everything.

but then the guilt sinks in, and his father's voice is daunting, and he fills in the last of the bubbles with five minutes to spare.

[ daejeon, 2011 | summer ]

his father's beaming and gloating and showing off the score to anyone who'll listen. his mother's on her third glass of sherry. jongdae's smile is bright and fake and stuck on his face.

fourth place is the worst place. not good enough to place, too high to be ignored. too rich for the poor, too poor for the rich.

the answer to those last four questions were A, C, B, D, and it's going to haunt him forever.

[ daejeon, 2011 | summer ]

he's turned them into an acronym, writing it on the side of all his packed boxes.

Always
Carry
Black
Dice

[ daejeon, 2012 | fall ]

riding in the car with his parents is always more of a pain than anything else. between his father's constantly stoic expression and his mother's inability to tear her eyes from her pda at any given moment, jongdae really had nothing to hold his attention beyond the passing scenery. there's boxes in the trunk and a duffle bag in his lap, but beyond that, the car is impeccable and spotless. it's sleek and expensive and worth more than his family can probably afford if anything were to happen to it. jongdae hates this car.

he sits in the leather seat that squeaks if he so much as moves an inch, heels together, shoulders back, hair slicked and tucked neatly in place. he's dressed in a button up tucked into pressed slacks, and shiny shoes. it isn't him, but it's what his father thinks is him and that might as well be him.

as the car pulls to a stop, jongdae takes a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. just a few more minutes, and he escapes their sights. he's just gotta make it through the goodbyes. climbing from the car, jongdae slings his duffle bag properly over his shoulders, shuts the door, and stands quietly by the trunk until it opens. as soon as that click resounds, he begins stacking the boxes (there's only four.) on the curb, his dad moving to help. there aren't much words passed between them, merely a stern reminder of why he's there, not to play around, a halfhearted hug from his mother, and they're gone.

jongdae breathes a sigh of relief. finally. he waits, to make sure the car is out of sight, before waving down his RA, who assigned a couple student council members to grab his boxes and take them to his room; he's given a key and a slip of paper with his room number on it, a folder with some information, and a pat on the back. jongdae flashes an award winning smile before running off to the bathroom, where he quickly unzips his duffle bag and switches out his clothing for a more comfortable pair of jeans, a thin sweater, and converse. pushing his glasses up his nose, he grabs his duffle and messes up his hair, tugging on a snapback, and shouldering his bag.

this was it. he shoves his hand into his pocket and rolls the small six sided die between his fingers until the corner's shoving into the side of his leg.