⭒ greenhouse.

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 jeonghan doesn't know how long it takes wonwoo to leave. he isn't counting the seconds, the minutes—he doesn't think he want to. it takes him an awfully long time before he opens his eyes, and when he does, it's when he feels wonwoo's warmth disappear from around him. when he does open his eyes, wonwoo is no longer standing in front of him. he's alone, and it's once again at his own making, isn't it?

he lets out a shaky chuckle, still trying to stop his tears from completely falling. he raises a hand to cover his mouth, hunching over as he takes several deep breaths. he wants to cry so, so badly—he wants to let all of these out so he doesn't have to carry them back with him when he finally arrives at the league house, which he so coincidentally shares with both wonwoo /and/ minghao. a part of him wants to laugh then, at the joke that this life still seems to enjoy throwing at him.

would it hurt for him to take a breather at least once?

his body is still reeling from where he last felt wonwoo, the feeling of wonwoo's lips against his own lingering still, and if he closes his eyes once again, if he focuses hard enough, then he thinks he can still feel wonwoo as if he's right there, kissing him the way wonwoo used to, holding him the way wonwoo used to. his body trembles from the tears that so badly want to fall, but none of these tears does.

instead, he forces himself to wear that facade once more—the prince that the public loves, the prince that has been perfect and will continue being perfect. the facade that has felt like second skin by the time he's twelve and standing in front of the people with the most perfect, /perfect/ smile on his lips. the facade that has very few people have seen through, polished throughout the years. it should be easy to pretend then... right?

@✶ › jeonghan。 it's unfair, he thinks. so wickedly, awfully, utterly, painfully un-ing-fair that his heart still stutters in his chest when jeonghan pulls away, and his breaths are heavy, pupils blown as the memories come rushing back at full force—the mornings they'd spent kissing just like this, back when they'd been less fearful of the future that undoubtedly laid before them. it's so unfair that jeonghan can kiss him like this and expect him to go like wonwoo's heart still isn't trapped in between his lips, in between the digits he can still paint from his shockingly clear memory. how wonwoo would love to look at him again, to hold him, to kiss him, to press close and whisper sweet nothings in his ear like he always had—but he can't, can he? because things are just unfair that way.

so when jeonghan tells him to /go,/ in that soft voice that's clearly struggling to stay stable, to fight back tears—wonwoo can't be blamed for the way he hesitates, for the way he thinks about trying again, for the way he thinks about fixing everything and running back into jeonghan's arms only to be discarded the minute he thinks their relationship is an inconvenience again. it's almost embarrassing how long he takes to snap out of it, to pull himself out of the giddiness that kissing jeonghan had always seemed to bring.

so he turns away, and it seems that he was wrong—no, it doesn't feel better to be the one to walk away. if anything, it feels worse. part of him oh so badly wants to stay, but he knows that if he does, then he'll never leave. it'll be an endless cycle of pining after a prince that will never choose him in the end. so he leaves, hands in his pockets, fingers twitching.

maybe he needs another cigarette—somewhere quieter, where he won't be found.

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 it's still everything that jeonghan remembers and /more/. there's the type of longing that he isn't familiar with, accompanied with less of a melancholic heartache, but more like a promise of a heartbreak. this is the last time, and he must learn how to let wonwoo go. he must learn how not to long for wonwoo anymore, how not to ask him to stay when all he knows is that it'll only bring back the memories that he's certain wonwoo has locked away by now. and jeonghan wouldn't blame him, no—if he could do the same, he would, but his heart chooses the most painful torture it can manage.

it remembers everything in vivid colors.

from the first time they met, to the last time they said goodbye. all of those, jeonghan remembers as if they've happened yesterday, bright and vivid in his mind like the most comfortable shades of gold, purple and pink. how could he forget about these, when these are the brightest colors that his memories have ever taken? there would be no one else for him, and that's fine with him.

jeonghan wouldn't want anyone else.

he's the first one to pull away, and he's leaning his forehead against wonwoo's, his breaths deep and slow. he wonders if this should be the time he cries, as his heart aches for a man he can no longer in his arms the way he used to before. he wonders if there's a point to crying, when he knows wonwoo will only feel burdened for it. so he closes his eyes, taking a shaky inhale, lets his hands fall to his thighs.

"go," he whispers. "they'll be looking for me soon." did his voice crack? is it too weak, too small, too soft to even bother with the facade? he doesn't know—all he can feel are the tears threatening to fall from behind his lids, and really, he'd rather wonwoo leave before they ever see the light of day.

@✶ › jeonghan。 god, wonwoo should pull away, shouldn't he? after all the heartache, all the pain, he should pull away. he doesn't need yet another memory of what he can't have, another memory to remind him of a love he had promised to tuck away in an untouched corner of his mind. he should pull away because neither of them deserve to be tortured like this, because they both deserve to go on their separate ways the way they always should have. god, he really should pull away.

but surprise surprise, he doesn't. not in the slightest.

it's automatic, almost—the way their lips fit together in what feels like a perfect, complete puzzle, more natural than anything in the world. so two years really haven't changed jeonghan the way he thought they had—he still feels the same, still kisses the same. this is still /his/ jeonghan, good and sweet and perfect—except, maybe not so much. wonwoo can taste the regret lingering in the back of his throat, the mistake that this moment is, the anger that's sure to come when he pulls away—and this is a new feeling, he thinks: the feeling that this kiss is simply a mistake.

but he makes it, anyway. wonwoo gets the feeling that he'll make it time and time again.

and god, he really shouldn't. this brings back too many memories of moments where he'd held his tongue from saying those three words that he'd only ever said when jeonghan has already turned his back to him. but it's so familiar, so comfortable, and wonwoo knows from the bottom of his heart that no one else could possibly ever make him feel all these emotions with a simple kiss—the anger, the bitterness, the hurt, the pain, the affection, the nostalgia, the yearning—no, he'd said that jeonghan would ruin him for everyone else once, and that seems to remain true to this day.

so wonwoo decides that he isn't going to be the first to pull away—because even if this is a mistake, it seems to be the only way he and jeonghan can remember each other and the way they used to be.

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 the sudden lack of distance takes the breath out of jeonghan's lips, and he's leaning against the glass, almost as if afraid to let wonwoo touch him—as if afraid of what'll come after if he lets wonwoo come so close again. but he listens to wonwoo's words more attentively that he wants to, and perhaps it's a good idea that wonwoo has his mouth covered then—what more words could have come out of his mouth if he'd been left free to speak? but he simply can't just let wonwoo walk away like this, not when his heart feels like it's about to burst from within his chest, determined to be heard, felt and seen.

it's with lightly quivering fingers that jeonghan reach out to hold wonwoo's wrist, bringing the latter's hand down so he can speak. "if all you're going to do is to pretend then," he says, his voice a whisper that only the two of them can hear—and he thinks he might regret this, might regret doing this at all, but he's already reaching his other hand to let his fingers touch wonwoo's cheek, light and hesitant. "let me kiss you," he continues, a quiet, desperate plea, "one last time, before we pretend again tomorrow," before we go back to being strangers once more, are the words that follow at the tip of his tongue.

and he's leaning in without waiting for a response, his lips slotting against wonwoo's the way jeonghan's always known and memorized—and he thinks he will never regret memorizing the way wonwoo's lips fit perfectly against his own.

@✶ › jeonghan。 wonwoo doesn't think he can bear to hear this. perhaps if he had tried a little harder, if he had convinced jeonghan to tell him the truth, if he had just done something more—then maybe their reunion here wouldn't have been as painful as it is now. maybe just seeing jeonghan wouldn't be as painful as it is now. because he understands, doesn't he? he understands /why/ jeonghan did what he did, even though so many doubts had run through his mind in the aftermath of his ending things. even though wonwoo had spent many nights wondering and even believing in the words that jeonghan had left behind in his wake, deep down he knows that the connection they'd shared can't have been so easily discarded. he knows this; he'd felt it in the way his fingers brushed over jeonghan's in an affectionate caress, the way his hands seemed to automatically gravitate toward whatever part of jeonghan he could touch, the way jeonghan seemed to bare everything to him in the aftermath of their lovemaking—he knows that there's simply no way it had been so easy to toss aside their relationship when it meant so much to both of them.

but jeonghan /did/ toss it aside, even knowing all that—perhaps that's why wonwoo can't exactly listen to him speak of things that could never be—things that /would/ never be.

he's moving before he knows it, leaning down to rest his palm on the bench where jeonghan sits, trapping him against the glass. his other hand comes up to cover jeonghan's mouth, and he tries not to familiarize himself with the way jeonghan's lips feel against his palm—a bad habit that he still hasn't learned how to break, even after all these years. "don't say it," he says, and he doesn't want to look at jeonghan right now. he doesn't think he can. "look, i'll pretend nothing happened tonight. i'll pretend we didn't meet out here so we can go and live our lives in that damn house we're living in together. just—we both know it's over. we both know that there's no bringing it back." he takes a deep breath, unaware that he's held it in his chest all this time. "so i'll pretend, for both our sakes. just don't say anything more—it's too damn late for any of that."

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 ah. this is the first time jeonghan has heard wonwoo take on a tone like this, isn't it? the first time jeonghan's heard this tone being used toward him. a whirlpool of emotions begins to form within his chest, mixing in uncertainty, because, pray tell, which of these emotions is he allowed to feel? is there a point to causing himself—and naturally, wonwoo as well—pain by not being able to move on and let go of the memories and feelings he'd kept to himself from two years ago? he was the one who ended everything between them, the one who had decided to lie—but was there a point to speaking the truth?

jeonghan lifts his gaze hesitantly, and finds himself taken aback by the expression wonwoo wears on his face. this—this isn't a look he's seen on wonwoo's face before, and really, this is jeonghan's fault, isn't it? his lips part, the desire to be honest—the desire to let his heart release the words that it's kept to itself, to let his heart speak of the feelings it's hold onto even with a painful grip—ever so present, but he finds that he doesn't know where to start, what to say. wonwoo's angry and he has every right to, but is it too much to still ask for wonwoo to stay?

"i—" jeonghan starts, and the facade is gone all too easily, just like that, "i couldn't tell you the truth, because i did, then i would have—" he pauses then, catching himself in his thoughts, because /what is the point of saying it now?/

@✶ › jeonghan。 he knows, he says—but does he? does jeonghan truly understand what it feels like? inside, wonwoo knows that yes, he does. he's probably the only one who could ever understand, and yet, wonwoo doesn't want to believe that. after all, if he did understand, if he had understood... well, this would be a different story, wouldn't it? if he had understood, then why did he leave? worse, why did he lie before he did?

he's trying to keep it up, wonwoo realizes—that facade of his that he's never seen donned around him before. knowing that jeonghan still feels the same, however, only makes him feel worse—it's a festering sensation of hurt and anger seeming to rot away at his chest. it hurts that even after all these years, he can still read jeonghan to some extent because he had memorized this man, committed nearly every single detail to memory, engraved his presence into his mind and soul—and for what? for jeonghan to throw it all away, to decide he wasn't even worth telling the truth to. he'd told himself back then that he wouldn't be selfish; jeonghan was the prince, after all. he had a lot of responsibility on his shoulders, and the least wonwoo could do for him was be understanding of the position that he had. but there's not an ounce of understanding left in his body, not anymore. it had all disappeared with every passing day spent thinking about the way jeonghan had decided to leave him.

wonwoo runs a hand through his hair, frustration coiling in his veins. he's itching for another smoke, for something to quell his nerves, to abate his anger, to appease the way his heart seems to hammer in his chest. "yes, because an apology will fix everything," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "it's too late for that, too. i just—i don't know why you're saying all this." he looks at jeonghan then, and he can't help the accusatory tone that his voice takes. "you were the one that ended things, and you were the one that decided i wasn't worth telling the truth to."

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 jeonghan finds it difficult to think of an answer to that—he himself doesn't even know why he let those words come out of his lips, when he could have stopped them. what happened to his self control that he's carefully built over the past year? what's the point of being honest? what's the point of saying the things he wants to say, when nothing he says can bring back what he's already lost? what's the point of saying these things, even if wonwoo still feels the same? there was no coming back to what they had that jeonghan himself had left behind. there was no point to it, not when he's the crowned prince still.

"i know." like before, his voice is quiet, as if resigned. he isn't even the one who has any right doing this, but that doesn't stop his heart from wanting anyway. perhaps this is what the queen had meant when she had asked him: what's the point? what was the point, if all of this would be for naught in the end? his mind begs for a lie to be spoken through his tongue, begs for something—anything—that will change the course of this conversation. but there's nothing but raw yearning in his chest, occupying even his mind. "i... i was not—i did not mean to say that," he says, gaze dropping. "i apologize."

wear the facade, jeonghan, he tells himself, but he knows it's crumbling the moment he had seen wonwoo. it's easy to fall back into it, but difficult to maintain—especially around wonwoo. perhaps he should've let wonwoo leave. perhaps it'll be easier if wonwoo were the one to leave this time. then maybe, jeonghan wouldn't have to learn how wonwoo sounds like when he's like this: angry, hurt, bitter.

[post deleted by owner]

@✶ › jeonghan。 jeonghan doesn't touch him. he doesn't physically hold onto wonwoo in an attempt to get him to stay, but he may as well have. the moment the word "stay" leaves his lips, he's already halted—but his next words are enough to have wonwoo reeling, the memory replaying in his mind as if it had only been yesterday.

it doesn't mean anything—it shouldn't mean anything. jeonghan had said that himself. wonwoo had fervently, angrily, stubbornly whispered it to himself in the dead of the night, when he longed for jeonghan to come into his arms again. 'it doesn't mean anything,' as if somehow, that would alleviate the years he'd spent /aching/ for this man.

and yet...

he's stunned, but it takes a moment for him to collect himself, to fight the hope that bubbles in his chest at the simple thought that perhaps there is still a chance; perhaps jeonghan still feels the same as he had two years ago. even if things went back to the way they were, what then? all it would turn out to be in the end would be something temporary—the only ending they would have would be something long overdue.

"i don't know what you get out of saying that," wonwoo says, and it's so, so difficult to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "what did you want me to tell you? that i want to watch it with you forever?" he's clenching his fists, irritated at the memories that come with those eight words. he'd swallowed them away a long, long time ago, and now the mere mention has it all flooding back. "in case you've forgotten, it's a little too late to say those kinds of things to me."

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 jeonghan's gaze finally moves back to wonwoo when the latter stands, and for a moment, he wonders if this is similar to how wonwoo had seen him the last time. with jeonghan's back turned, face and mind unreadable despite having known each other like the back of their hands. he stares at wonwoo's back then, and he tries to swallow down the guilt—one that has lingered in the back of his mind, haunting him with the empty space in his bed every night. perhaps he should let wonwoo leave. perhaps he should let wonwoo walk away this time. perhaps he should let himself learn the bitter taste of being left behind.

but his lips are moving before he thinks about it, mind reeling from the moment he speaks it. "stay," he says, and it's soft, quiet, barely there. he almost regrets saying it. almost. perhaps it's the ambience of the gala, or the way people seem to chase what they want tonight without thinking of the consequences—words continue to stumble out of his lips, desperate but never honest enough.

"don't you think the moon is beautiful tonight?"

@✶ › jeonghan。 wonwoo can't keep himself from following jeonghan's gaze up into the sky, up into the moon, up into the stars that jeonghan once made a promise to him under—and he wonders why the memory doesn't seem real anymore. is this really the jeonghan that he'd shared so much with? is this really the man that had promised him stars he hadn't wanted? the memory is laughable now, and wonwoo curses himself for ever letting them get this far. he curses himself for these unwanted memories, because even now all he wants to do is hold this man the way he used to.

what will it take for this longing to cease?

his mind is a cesspool of emotions—to stay, or to leave? he /wants/ jeonghan to go, wants to watch him walk away for what seems like the millionth time so he can torture himself, remind himself that the sight of him with his back turned is the only sight he deserves to see. but why would wonwoo want him to go when he's been gone all this time? this confusion isn't new to him, but it's jarring nonetheless, and he tears his gaze away from the moon, a bitter taste in his mouth. "it's fine—i'll go," he says, and he's standing before he realizes it. maybe it would feel better if he was the one that left for once. "wouldn't want to take you away from what little free time you have."

still, he lingers, hands in his pockets as he gazes to the sky once more—almost as if looking for a reason to stay, because he is. "it's nice out tonight," he comments. "enjoy it, prince jeonghan."

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 perhaps jeonghan deserves this—he /knows/ he deserves this—but a part of him wants to correct wonwoo—to say that no, jeonghan isn't ever going to find someone else. there is no space in his heart for someone else, not when wonwoo still occupies quite a large part of it. there are, however, no words that come out of his lips, no thoughts from his heart slipping past them. pretending is easier now, jeonghan thinks, as he watches wonwoo step on his cigarette on the ground. it's easier now that they're strangers once more—strangers who've seen far too much of each other to be called one, but strangers in the end nonetheless.

but it still hurts, still leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, to see the one who's known him better than anyone else had speak to him with such anger, with so little care.

though he supposes this isn't anything he isn't used to.

jeonghan doesn't meet wonwoo's eyes. instead, he keeps his gaze at the sky. once again, the moon is their witness, but this time, he keeps his heart away from bleeding, from spilling. "we aren't," he answers quietly. "but i'll have to make it clear that i'm not saying here for you." a lie. what else could it be? "i'm merely taking a break, and you just happened to be here." he still isn't looking at wonwoo. "but if you'd like me to leave, then i shall."

@✶ › jeonghan。 all that wonwoo is hearing from jeonghan is an excuse to stay, to rekindle the memories of their time together, to reignite the feelings that being together had brought on. but do they really deserve that? hadn't they suffered through enough? won't they spend these next two years living in the same damn house? the reminder that this moment isn't going to be the last they see of each other makes wonwoo irritated, somehow. he'd have preferred it if they never crossed paths again, if his time with jeonghan had remained a distant dream—but no, here he is making what only sound like excuses to wonwoo's ears.

wonwoo shrugs. "i guess it's not so bad," he says, but the grimace that seems to twist itself onto his face says otherwise. "but who knows what kind of people you'll come across like this? you might find someone else that's only meant to be temporary." he doesn't know where this sudden anger comes from, but it's there, and wonwoo tosses the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his heel. he leans back in his seat, suddenly feeling all the exhaustion at once—perhaps he should have resisted harder against his parents' decision to drag him here.

"besides, if it's me you're staying here for," he continues, shrugging. "we're going to be seeing a lot more of each other, aren't we? don't tell me you want me to walk you home." his face twists, fingers tapping against his thigh. "i don't think we're close enough for that anymore."

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 this is oddly reminiscent of the first time they had met, but so obviously different. back then, wonwoo was a mystery to jeonghan—but now all jeonghan carries are memories of a man he once knew, and he /aches/ to familiarize himself with everything he's missed, everything he's forgotten. but his hands stay right where they are, unlike when they had known no other place than wonwoo's hold, body or just even somewhere close.

wonwoo's distance doesn't make it easier for jeonghan to breathe. in hindsight, it could be the smoke—there are thoughts in his mind then, about the consequences of having such as smell clinging onto him; about the disappointed looks he used to get from the queen when so much as a scent was out of place. but his heart is beating in a way it hasn't since the day it all ended, too fast, too loud in his ears.

he /should/ go back, but the words that come out of his mouth are different. "jisoo will cover for me," he says, like the butler has always done. and then he's letting out a shaky chuckle that comes out more as a breath. "is it so bad of me to take a break from such events?"

@✶ › jeonghan。 it sounds like an excuse, is wonwoo's first thought. jeonghan doesn't seem to break his gaze, and wonwoo knows that if he tries hard enough, he can dissect that gaze. he can try to figure out exactly what he'd missed in those years they'd spent apart, and he can solve the mystery of exactly how much jeonghan has changed in his absence. but then again, what would be the point? no, it's better like this—that they stay strangers searching for an escape from the hustle and bustle of the socialite world.

distantly, wonwoo thinks it would have been better if he'd never given his name, if he'd never asked for jeonghan's number—they would have remained a mystery to each other, and wonwoo wouldn't have to regret all the knowledge his mind contains about the man in front of him. he wouldn't have to regret the way his body aches to be nearer, even now. he wouldn't have to regret the way they'd grown to know each other, body and soul. seeing this man again is like a distant dream, rather than a memory—part of him can hardly believe they had happened at all. sometimes, it had just felt too good to be true.

and he supposes it was, wasn't it?

"you could get in trouble just for being here, couldn't you?" wonwoo asks, and he pulls away, taking a seat beside the prince. he leans against the glass and takes another puff of smoke, breathing it out in a soft, tired sigh. his gaze turns to jeonghan then. "you should go back," he says. /go back before i do something we both regret./ "you're the prince, after all. they're going to be looking for you."

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 jeonghan never did, really. partly because no one likes to smell smoke on a prince, but he himself has come to dislike the scent, heavy and itchy against his nose and throat. he had wondered then, how wonwoo did it, and had wanted to try once. he remembers how wonwoo had tried to stop when jeonghan had asked him to, remembers the things wonwoo has done for /him/, as if what they had was permanent. as if what they had was going to last.

there's a part of him that wants to reach out, to take away that cigarette in wonwoo's hand and pull him closer instead. there's a part of him that wants to run his hands through wonwoo's body, clothes gone, to memorize once again the feeling he has forgotten.

he wonders, faintly, if wonwoo's heart still beats the same for him. he wonders, much more aware now, if wonwoo's heart now beats for someone else.

his nose scrunches when wonwoo blows smoke right into his face, and he raises the back of his hand to cover the lower half of his face, trying to stop himself from coughing. his eyes grow mildly glassy at the smoke, and yet he keeps his eyes on wonwoo—or tries to, at least. "i could," he says, but what's the point, when he hasn't seen wonwoo since that... day? "but since you have—" he clears his throat, trying to remove the itch he feels, "—since i already have the smoke's smell on me, then i suppose i can get in trouble as well if i do."

so far, so good. jeonghan wonders if he's a stranger to wonwoo now too—because then, wouldn't it be easier for both of them to walk away if that was the case?

@✶ › jeonghan。 jeonghan hasn't changed much—not that wonwoo had expected him to. it's quite difficult to avoid all mentions of the man when he rules over the country as its future monarch, so physically, he hardly looks different from how he had two years ago. the only thing different now, he supposes, is that facade of his—it's completely unfamiliar. perhaps it's the final reminder that despite how familiar he looks, how little he's changed over the years, jeonghan is still someone he no longer knows. a stranger in the flesh.

"you never did like me smoking," wonwoo recalls faintly, memories of twitching fingers and swallowed addiction all for jeonghan's sake fading away like the smoke that leaves his lips. wonwoo stuffs his free hand into his pockets, keeping them to himself, resisting the urge to pull jeonghan closer, the way he always had in the past—but he can't resist this conversation. he can't resist the urge to know this man again, to see how he's been faring in the years they've spent without each other. so he certainly can't resist the urge to inhale once more, to lean closer, to let the smoke billow out over jeonghan's face, slow and hot and heavy. he can't resist the urge to look at him then, his gaze questioning: /who are you without me? who have you become? what have i missed about you in these years we've been apart?/

questions he has no right to know the answers to. questions that will never leave his mind, not if he can help it.

he keeps their gazes level, eyes drifting down to those lips that wonwoo had memorized in the past. he wonders if jeonghan tastes the same, if he kisses the same way. "are you gonna report me, your highness?" he breathes, and the smoke drifting in between their faces seems like an appropriate atmosphere to support the state of wonwoo's mind now—hazy, clouded, distant.

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 jeonghan visibly stiffens when he hears a voice—an extremely familiar voice that he didn't think he'd hear this close again. but how—he catches himself in his own thoughts. of course. /of course/. this was how they used to meet, wasn't it? far from the scrutinizing eyes of the public, far from the cameras that would soon or later reach the king and queen, far from the rest of the world, as if it's only the two of them that exist at that moment.

it was what jeonghan had looked forward to then, and now...

he takes a quiet, deep inhale, hoping to pick up the pieces of the facade that he may or may not have accidentally let down on the way to his isolation. he hasn't looked up yet, doesn't know what to expect on wonwoo's face. he doesn't know the face that wonwoo had made when jeonghan ended it, and he isn't sure if he'll see it today—if he wants to see it at all.

but he's good at pretending, isn't he? once again, he adorns his facade like a mask seated comfortably on his face, and he finally lifts his gaze from the ground—only to be slapped with another sort of truth.

for the first time in a long while, perhaps jeonghan can't read the things that are going through wonwoo's mind.

"i was merely taking a break," jeonghan replies, his tone hopefully as calm as he presents himself to be. his eyes follow the smoke that floats by wonwoo's face, moving to the roll of cancer in between the latter's fingers. his gaze momentarily narrows. "i don't believe that they allow smoking within campus grounds."

@✶ › jeonghan。 ( your request has been acknowledged and denied. )

perhaps he should have expected this.

wonwoo had, by no means, been under the illusion that he was to have a peaceful experience at stellavenace, given all the media coverage about the beloved crown prince's attendance at the prestigious academy. he had expected to see him in the halls somehow, had expected to have the man (fling? past? ex? none of these words seem appropriate for the chasm that jeonghan had left in his life, wide and open and encompassing.) in some of his classes, and had decided he'd remedy those undoubtedly awkward and painful situations by slipping away, unseen and unheard of.

that's what he's good at, isn't he? that's why he'd slipped out of the gala nearly thirty minutes ago, attempting to calm himself down with a cigarette. he isn't even sure if smoking is allowed on campus, but then again, who cares? if they catch him, maybe they'll kick him out, and he won't have to spend the next two years living with prince jeonghan.

no, that sounds too lucky for him—wonwoo sighs, letting his feet lead him around the expanse of the greenhouse.

and perhaps he'd jinxed himself, because who else could be here when the gala is at full swing? who else would slip out during such an event after he'd received... bad news? really, wonwoo should know him better, but it's been two years since he's had jeonghan up close like this. he tries to swallow his memories, his bitterness, his anger, his sadness—he tries to swallow all those emotions with acceptance, and leans against the glass, taking a deep breath of the cigarette to try and calm his nerves.

"evening," he says, and he doesn't even know why he's attempting a conversation. "don't you have somewhere else to be?"

@✶ › j. wonwoo。 (DO NOT MIRROR IM BEGGINGJN)

[ september 1st. ]

this has got to be a joke, right? this can't be anything else other than that—but of course. perhaps this world hates him as much as his people love him—they have decided to play quite the cruel joke on him, and now he's meant to live with /him/ in question for the rest of his academic years here.

perhaps he should've taken jisoo's idea to learn which students are attending the academy...

it takes jeonghan quite the effort to excuse himself from the faculty that has grown interested in conversing with him, takes a few more moments to tell jisoo where he's going (or plans to, unless he gets derailed from his path once again), until he's finally out of the garden, away from the rest. it takes a moment for his guards to be at ease, to fully enjoy the cool breeze of the night against his skin, and his eyes catch sight of the moon.

a voice enters his mind, but he's quick to push it away. he keeps his gaze down then, following the movement of his feet.

he finds himself at the greenhouse this time, a little far from the event now, and it's only then that he finally breathes a soft sigh. he leans against the glass of the greenhouse, sitting down on one of the stone benches, and he runs a hand through his hair, no doubt messing it up. but he supposes that's fine—it isn't as if he can go back to the garden with a clear mind.

not when jeon wonwoo is there anyway.