monsters are very, very real

People are lonely, or that’s what Woohyun thinks as the fire up the remains of a body. His one, he thinks, it’s probably his body right now in the fire. His eyes, his lips, his nose, his heart – everything about him is practically burning. You can’t stop things like that. You can’t really do anything. You just have to let the fire burn. Let the fire burn until it’s done away your scent and it’s finished burning out your veins. Woohyun lets the fire do what it does as he watches the world, his eyes blank. There is nothing but empty rain. Cold, heartless, empty rain. It drowns him but not the fire. The victim instead of the problem. Woohyun can feel his veins shrinking.

And there’s Myungsoo, Myungsoo in the midst of it all.

Myungsoo is Seoul; he’s Tokyo and Beijing and Vienna; London, Paris and New York all at once in the very depths of the night. Myungsoo is a cold city, the large layer of smoke over the sparkling lights at night. He’s beautiful like Seoul, elegant like Paris and the best of all the cities he’s been to and the worst of all the ones he hasn’t seen. He’s concealer, he’s makeup, he’s the click of the camera as he captures humanity at its worse and laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs. In the middle of Seoul and Tokyo, Beijing and the stars, he sits with his slender legs crossed and a smile threatening to eat Woohyun’s lips. At night in another hotel no one can remember he sneaks into Woohyun’s room, burying himself in Woohyun’s sheets like he’s belonged there all along. His body simply fits in so naturally with Woohyun’s dreadful existence. They fit so perfectly Woohyun thinks it hurts.

“The stars,” Woohyun says, out of habit. It’s the same thing ever night. “I’ll give you the stars.”

The other laughs, “Really, Woohyunie? It’ll take awhile to grab them from the sky.” He curls towards the other anyway; his arms wrapping themselves around Woohyun’s toned body.

“I’ll grab them and they’ll all be yours.” Woohyun promises without heart, his words empty. Myungsoo knows this, but he snuggles against the other anyway, his hot breath tickling Woohyun’s neck. His body, Myungsoo’s body, it feels so thin, so delicate that if Woohyun was to squeeze any tighter, he’d break. Break into millions of tiny pieces like a star exploding or glass shattering on marble floors. He’d break and if Woohyun didn’t feel so hopelessly attached to him, he would’ve done it already. Would’ve squeezed and broke him and left him alone with only the ashes of his remains. Myungsoo’s just that painful.

Just that jarring to Woohyun’s existence; just that amazingly taunt that Woohyun must eliminate him to feel peace. (He can’t destroy Myungsoo though; just not anymore.)

He feels drowsy, so he mumbles all forms of good night into Myungsoo’s ear, whispering stories and folklore and fantasies about running away, just the two of them, and moving into an apartment where the floors are made of glass. He mumbles the constellations he was once taught and the verses he’d learned for school. He mumbles lyrics and the ends of Dongwoo’s rap that echo in his head and occasionally he murmurs what Hoya yells when he thinks there’s no one but Woohyun in the room. Eventually he runs out of things to whisper, so instead he opts for sleep, Myungsoo’s scent restricting the oxygen from reaching his lungs. He gets drowsier and drowsier as the world starts to blur, and just as he’s about to lose consciousness he thinks he hears a chuckle (Myungsoo’s chuckle) and a voice saying;

“I know you’re lonely.”

And Woohyun would hate to believe that.

“You know how he knows?” Sunggyu sits with his legs crossed on the bed, answering questions Woohyun hates to think exist. They’re in the hotel again. The same one, he thinks (breathes in contaminated air) – Woohyun’s started to lose track. The glamour’s wearing off, again. The glitter and sparkles he once saw in the idol life; they’re starting to rush. He blinks and tries to contain a headache, the same ones which threaten to take away all the things he’s worked so hard to gain. (The friends, the fans, the love.)

“I’m curious,” Woohyun says dryly. (He really is.)

“Because he’s exactly like you,” Sunggyu replies. He’s the only one willing to give into Woohyun’s pride. “Because even the air above him is everything which reeks of you; he’s even more you than you are. He sees weakness, and he uses it to suit him. He’s fake, he’s surreal and he’s got so many masks he’s forgotten how to find his bare skin.”

Woohyun flicks off imaginary lint from his jumper. It’s too big for him (he’s too thin for it) and while the sleeves fit perfectly, the body is too bulky for his frame. He doesn’t belong. Unlike Myungsoo, he can feel the unfitting way he does not slide in. “My bare skin is dishonesty.”

“That’s cruel.” Sunggyu’s lips curve, like it’s a game. Woohyun supposes it is, to Sunggyu, because the other is so tired of weighing down his heart. So tired of listening to problems and taking worries into his eyes while other people burn them from their shoulders. Sunggyu, he thinks, has learned not to care. And why would he? It’s Woohyun.

“I am a selfish person.” Flicks off more lint (it doesn’t exist, does it?) “I suppose that’s what we all boil down to: selfish human beings. Some of us are just more honest about it than others.”

Sunggyu finds this amusing. “Honest, huh,” he laughs. “And when has Nam Woohyun ever been honest?” He leaves his heart at his home, his love with his parents, only offering stale advice. He’s probably gotten over them, Woohyun thinks, probably gotten over caring. He’s probably figured that none of them are really worth the fight, and that the only thing worse than having no umbrella in the rain is having an umbrella and choosing not to use it.

It rains on the way back to Seoul.

Woohyun kind of likes the rain. He likes planes as well; he likes flying with Sunggyu on one side and Hoya on the other; Dongwoo next to Hoya with his little book full of raps. He can hear the heavy beat from Hoya’s headphones, the jazzy tunes leaking out of Sunggyu’s ear and the small mumblings and scratches Dongwoo makes when he writes. In front of them are the rest. Myungsoo, who’s probably sleeping. Sungyeol, who has Myungsoo on his shoulder, and Sungjong, who’s off with his own thoughts thousands of miles away from here. He supposes they’re all different; Sungjong, Sungyeol, Myungsoo, Hoya, Dongwoo, Sunggyu and Woohyun, that is. Despite being 99% the same chemically, they’re all frightfully different. Woohyun thinks about the distinction between him and Sunggyu, the distinction between him and Hoya, him and Dongwoo, him and Sungjong – the distinction which makes him and the people around him different. He considers this as his feet numb and the lights dim, the only visible head light being the one over Dongwoo’s seat. He thinks he can hear the light snoring of Myungsoo, the breathing of Sungyeol as he lets his fingers run in the other’s hair. Woohyun thinks about what it’s like to be Sungyeol (the one who has Myungsoo around all the time) and wonders if Sungyeol ever feels the same about Woohyun (the one who has Myungsoo’s attention).

Late at night when he can’t sleep Woohyun hears the sound of loud wind and weight on his body and – “Myungsoo, what are you doing?” Coarse whispers, because Woohyun’s mouth is dry and his eyes are sleepy.

“Sungyeol’s snoring got too loud,” The younger complains. His voice is soft, a charm hiding under the innocence. Woohyun doesn’t pretend he doesn’t hear it. Myungsoo’s like a little child – impossible to serve but equally as hard to resist. He shakes his head in self-pity.

“Do you want to switch seats?” Woohyun asks in resignation.

“I want to find a two seater for us.”

Woohyun’s never been good at saying no to Myungsoo, so he finds a spare row three behind the others. Myungsoo gives him the window seat, and while he leans on Woohyun’s shoulder Woohyun mumbles constellations, forgotten songs, wasted lyrics and burnt off promises he used to tell people to get them to like him. The fog blurring his vision moves into his heart, and an odd sense that something has been lost breaks his body into two. There is a heart shaped hole in his body, and Myungsoo has one too many – it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Woohyun tries to find the stars in the sky, but there’s nothing much more than darkness. Dongwoo, for now, is the only light.

Dongwoo, a human, is the only light.

Woohyun’s never had an affinity towards sunlight, so he figures the windowless room suits him well. The darkness leaves him occasionally scared, and there have been times more than once when he wanted to move into Sunggyu’s room and go back to old habits. He doesn’t though; for reasons like his pride and Myungsoo. The latter always ends up in his bed regardless though, either at nine when he chooses to retire or early in the morning when he can’t sleep. Woohyun wonders if Myungsoo has insomnia, if he can’t sleep the same way Woohyun struggles too. He figures he likes the beautifully tragic, because Myungsoo is everything beautiful and Woohyun tries hard to be, but in the end neither are really themselves. Woohyun hears the thunder as Seoul goes under the storm, and beneath his skin he feels the explosions of his own body falling apart. He tells himself ghost stories because he doesn’t know any happy ones, and in between midnight and two Myungsoo comes in, sliding into the bed like he’s been there all along. Woohyun makes room for him.

“What can you promise me in here?” He stretches his long figures, entwining them in Woohyun’s. It’s become a habit for Woohyun to promise things he can’t give. “No constellations to give me now.”

Woohyun chuckles out of habit, his warm fingers in between Myungsoo’s cold ones. “I’ll promise you the storm brewing under my skin.” (The paper thin one; the skin with protruding veins and terrible truths and all kinds of colours.)

The thunder shudders at the sound of the request. The clock in the background ticks. It’s one of Woohyun’s favourite things – analogue clocks.

Myungsoo pushes back into Woohyun, entwining their legs. He grabs Woohyun’s arm, running his icy fingers along the skin. “What about I promise you something then?” He murmurs, nesting his head into Woohyun’s chest.

“Yeah, what then?”

Laughter; “I promise you that you won’t ever be alone.”

Woohyun’s lips quirk in the death of the night, his burning lips threatening to give him all away. He stops, and lets the darkness cover his thoughts. He runs his tongue over his lips in an attempt to calm himself as Myungsoo laughs, turning to face the other.

“You’re lonely, aren’t you Woohyun?” He smirks, his fingers dancing on Woohyun’s arms, his chest, his neck and his face. “That’s why you try so hard to be likeable, because you’re so lonely and all you do is hate yourself, so you don’t believe anyone could ever love you. You can’t love yourself, so you don’t expect anyone else too.” Myungsoo blinks. “Isn’t that why you want to be pretty?”

Woohyun covers up his sadness with to Myungsoo’s hair. “Not everyone can be pretty,” he mutters. The other seems unaware of the compliment, his laughter like tinkling chimes on the door of a fortune telling tent.

“Not even Woohyun likes Woohyun,” another laugh – does Myungsoo even care? “It’s okay; you can be selfish with me. I won’t mind.”

Woohyun closes his eyes; running from himself. “Go to sleep Myungsoo.”

More crawling fingers. Does the other ever stop? “To be honest, I’m not actually a fan of beautiful messes.” Laughter, like the moon’s playing a joke. Woohyun feels shivers as the younger continues his reign. “I’d prefer you to be ugly than pretend to be beautifully sad.”

Myungsoo’s good at pushing buttons, Woohyun thinks as he wraps his arms around the younger. Myungsoo’s full of lean muscle, and since debut either lingered on ridiculously thin (Sungjong) to something of muscular (Hoya). Woohyun wonders what it’s like to be Myungsoo. To be loved for your face and fed on silver platters (each course a meal made from blood). He thinks it’d be good to be Myungsoo, so what does Myungsoo know? What does Myungsoo know about trying to be liked? What does Myungsoo know about anything other than himself?

Constellations, Woohyun murmurs instead.

Woohyun sings his heart out and smiles in pleasure when he hears people chant his name. He likes being liked, and likes it even more when he can hear no hate. His voice strains and occasionally he thinks he might just crack, but things never seem to happen that way. He thanks his lucky stars for that. His days pass normally: he plays a few pranks with Sungyeol as a welcome back, mucks around with Dongwoo and annoys Hoya for the sake of seeing a smile, all of which he does before lying sleeplessly in bed and wondering when the insomnia will go away. One day Sungjong tells horror stories and shows them a few pictures, and that night Woohyun stays covered by his blankets as he curses the night for trapping him in sleep. He wishes it (he) was lovely the way Myungsoo is; he wishes he was a tragically beautiful tale, but instead he’s just Woohyun and his insomnia is frustrating rather than anything else. Not beautiful, not exquisite, not leading to magical adventures and four AM romances; just frustrating as he kicks his sheets. He decides eventually that sleeping pills are the only way.

“Told you!” He hears when he enters the kitchen. Myungsoo and Sungyeol are betting on the table, glasses of milk at their sides. “No one can beat Dongwoo in fear.” Sungyeol’s laughing now, Myungsoo sliding over a crisp bill. He grumbles before pushing the elder away.

“Go to sleep Sungyeol; I’m not losing any more of my money to you.”

Sungyeol snickers, “Whatever you say princess.” He leaves though, money practically overflowing from his pockets. Myungsoo sighs and smiles, like he knows why Woohyun is here.

“We ran out of sleeping pills – Dongwoo took them all.”

Woohyun frowns, settling down onto the seat next to him. Despite moving into a larger dorm, the table is as cramped and broken as ever. One of the legs is uneven, because Hoya doesn’t know how to get through a door. Woohyun pushes away the napkins full of ink. Hoya has too much inspiration. “What’s he trying to do, kill himself?”

Laughter; “I can see that happening.” Myungsoo’s eyes narrow slyly. “I see you doing that too. What would you do, Woohyunie, if suddenly everyone hated you?”

Woohyun shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t want to think about that. “Doesn’t everyone want to be loved?” He voices his opinion like a young boy, like he’s afraid of being wrong. It’s barely a squeak.

“I suppose so.” Myungsoo smiles, leaning closer. “I don’t know, do you?”

He ignores the latter’s question. Myungsoo puts him off – puts him off confidence and his food and going to sleep because there’s a chance he could spend the whole night talking to the younger. Woohyun’s thinks he loves. He loves Myungsoo in a weird, platonic way; in a faint yet mesmerising manner. And Woohyun’s lonely – Woohyun’s always been lonely; and if Myungsoo could pick that out, what does that say about Myungsoo?

Woohyun considers this as the night ticks by.

(He’s lonely too.)

It’s Woohyun’s turn to smirk. Woohyun’s turn to become the night and engulf Myungsoo in the same darkness he had used not so long ago. Woohyun flexes his fingers as Myungsoo leans in to kiss him. He mumbles against the other’s hot, stinging tongue.

“You’re lonely, aren’t you Myungsoo?”

The other pauses, his tongue still on the edge of Woohyun’s lips. He moves away abruptly, cutting the connection. Myungsoo stares at the other with intimidating eyes. He’s silent now.

Woohyun smiles; “We’re all God’s little joke. All collections of failures put together in hopes of making a whole.” The kitchen clock ticks as seconds pass, Myungsoo’s eyes never leaving the other. The night takes very little time.

“Yeah, I know,” Myungsoo replies finally. His fingers curl. “But realising we’re a joke hurts more than blindly believing we aren’t.”

Woohyun nods, because he kind of understands, and he stays next to Myungsoo until his eyes grow sleepy and he ends up snoring on the table, Myungsoo by his side. Woohyun thinks it’s funny, because there are billions of people in the world, millions upon millions of beings similar to us down to the very last chromosome, yet we’re all so very lonely and alone in this world that it seems almost cruel in the irony we were created for. It seems like such a brutal joke, such a demonic trick created by the Gods because perfection was so boring. Woohyun thinks it’s unfair that we’re all so lonely; he thinks it should be forbidden by nature for us to feel alone in a world practically dominated by us. But we do, and he does, and when he wakes up and Myungsoo tells him at two AM that he doesn’t feel like he was meant to be with humanity, Woohyun thinks he can understand.

“You can be selfish with me,” He repeats the same words he was told.

“I want the stars. I want to sea and the ocean and every land here. I want the love of a million supernovas and the satisfaction of the orbits our planets take.” Myungsoo says. Watching Woohyun’s face, his lips curve into a disturbingly sad smile. “No one can give me that, hyung. I can’t be selfish around anyone but myself.”

Myungsoo is every city that no one knew.

Myungsoo reminds Woohyun of ghost towns, of empty skyscrapers and starless nights. He reminds Woohyun of a light without shadows, a darkness which doesn’t turn to day – he’s all the words Woohyun forgot and all the drunken days he could’ve had. He’s the ash of the cigarette and the poison in Woohyun’s veins; he’s a lonely person who Woohyun can’t ever comfort.  One night Myungsoo doesn’t enter his room so Woohyun goes into his, entangling his legs with Myungsoo’s and entwining his hands into the younger’s. Myungsoo opens his mouth, but shuts it just as quickly as Woohyun smiles. The stars are out tonight.

“There are so many things to like about humanity though,” He murmurs, sweet and soft into Myungsoo’s earlobe. The younger snorts.

“Says the person who’s forever lonely.”

His thin frame shrugs as Woohyun inhales his scent. He smells just like a beautiful boy should – cinnamon, nutmeg, saffron; all the spices in the world. Even the way his sheets wrap around him is beautiful. Everything Myungsoo does, Woohyun notices, is beautiful. When he laughs and it looks like he thinks no one is looking, when he believes no one is looking and his face forms a frown; every mask and layer of Myungsoo, real or not, seems to be so undeniably wonderful to Woohyun in a way he can’t understand. The way Myungsoo writes, the way he looks when he wakes up, the confused face he has when he can’t remember which mask he’s meant to wear – everything about Myungsoo seems to be so charming. Woohyun can’t stop, he realises. Myungsoo is the exception, he realises. Myungsoo is the exception to every cruel imperfection and flaw which dominates this planet. Myungsoo is the only thing beautiful.

“Let’s get drunk,” Woohyun says.

Myungsoo turns. “That sounds appealing.” He snuggles back into his pillow, oblivious to the seriousness in Woohyun’s voice.

“No, Myungsoo, let’s get drunk,” Woohyun nudges the other awake, pulling the younger up. In this state – with his heavy lidded eyes and ruffled hair – Woohyun thinks he looks adorable. Love is annoying. “Let’s go out and get drunk.”

The younger’s lips curve into something of a smirk. “What happened to looking after your health hyung?”

Woohyun bits his lip, and Myungsoo says:

“You don’t have to drink wine to be pretty, hyung. You don’t have to do anything. Is there any real point in trying to be beautiful?”

Myungsoo crosses his long legs, trying to wipe sleep from his eyes. “It’s okay. Didn’t I tell you that you wouldn’t be lonely?”

Woohyun doesn’t reply as Myungsoo stretches.

“Hyung, it’s okay.”

(And he’ll sing it to the stars, to the sky, to the lovers and people who lost. He’ll sing it to anyone who will listen – it’s okay.)

He does end up getting wasted. Myungsoo, he means. Myungsoo ends up slumped on the floor of their kitchen, slurring incoherent syllables and an occasional sentence here and there. Sunggyu warned him before about ending up with a drunken Myungsoo; saying Myungsoo was nothing but heartless and blind when he was drunk. Woohyun doesn’t really mind though – that’s just what he wanted to happen, after all. For Myungsoo to be drunk and defenceless from his own masks and to just be Kim Myungsoo – not L, not Hyunsoo, not the silly little boy he pretends to hide under the cosplay of L – just the real Kim Myungsoo. Woohyun catches him, sitting him upright.

“Oh, Woohyunie,” Myungsoo giggles, his cheeks red and sweat rolling down his face. Grudgingly, he still looks beautiful. “What do you want from me, Woohyunie?”

“What do you think of me?” Woohyun asks. Sunggyu’s right – Myungsoo is even more Woohyun than Woohyun is.

“I don’t know, what do you want me to think?” He falls abruptly to the table, leaning on his arms as he turns to Woohyun. “What do you want to hear?”

“I want to hear from you.”

Myungsoo laughs, like Woohyun’s told him the funniest joke in the world. His fingers curl. “I don’t know how to do that anymore.”

The younger laughs again and Woohyun pauses. The thought runs through his mind: if I continue, will I end up like him? The stars are up tonight, though they can’t see beyond each other. Myungsoo tends to have that effect.

“Woohyun, because you’re here, I’ll tell you a secret,” He leans in, and Woohyun does too. Myungsoo’s hot breath ghosts over the other’s ear. It’s like first love, but it’s terrible and heartbreaking and a monster of a relationship Woohyun likes to think he doesn’t want. “I don’t know who I am, Woohyunie. I can’t answer that question.”

(Myungsoo’s a horror story. He’s lonely though, isn’t he?)

Woohyun quickly retreats. The other laughs at him almost carelessly, an innocent smile hanging by the sides of his lips. Myungsoo is a mixture of disturbingly sad and horrendously fake. Woohyun blinks; and slowly all he wants to do is stop, wake up and pretend it was all a dream.

“Then,” Woohyun stutters, tripping over his own words. It feels so unnatural (being with Myungsoo is unnatural) – hell he doesn’t usually do this. “Then, all those things you said, all the stories about being lonely and not feeling like you fit in with humanity, Myungsoo, you – “

Another even smirk; “What do you want to hear, Woohyunie?”

Woohyun remains silent, speechless, just staring at the other in something akin to fear. Myungsoo giggles.

“It’s true though, I don’t really think I’m made for humanity,” He drawls, a smile on his face. “I don’t really feel much pleasure anymore.” He stares. “You make me happy though, Woohyunie, trying to figure me out the way that I found you. That was really cute. You being selfish too – I like that.” His voice is so light, as if he’s talking about the weather or his newest obsession. Woohyun supposes to Myungsoo, he’s a new doll. A new object for Myungsoo to take interest in and play with, and the frightening bit is, Woohyun realises, is the fact that he doesn’t want to bore Myungsoo. So when the younger leans in closer, his head on Woohyun’s shoulder, Woohyun can’t do anything but listen. “I’m lonely too.”

“You say that as if I can help you,” Woohyun replies. His body feels like it’s frozen.

Smirk. “I don’t know – can you?”

(“By the way,” Myungsoo mentions late at night, Woohyun’s legs entwined in his. His lips are swollen and peppered around his slender neck are hundreds upon hundreds of ugly red love bites. Woohyun’s not good at being pretty. “I wasn’t really drunk.”

Woohyun turns. “Oh really now?” He thinks he’s seen it all.

“Yeah. You heard what you wanted to hear, right?” Myungsoo laughs, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “Who knows, I might have even told the truth.”)

Myungsoo is a nightmare. (But that’s him at the very bleakness of his soul, isn’t it?)

Late at night, in the middle of Seoul and Tokyo, Paris and Rome, Woohyun holds Myungsoo in his arms, murmuring all the things he wants to be promised and all the things he wishes he had. Late when Myungsoo should be asleep Woohyun tells him harsh words and cruel splatters; scrapes his long nails against the other’s skin and breaks the doll who told him how lonely he was. He wrecks havoc like a storm and lets his desire to control people reign over his pride. Myungsoo will love him. Myungsoo will love him regardless. Eventually he calms down, calms from his hurricane and his anger and his desire to break the tragically beautiful, and all Myungsoo does is smile. Myungsoo will love him. Myungsoo will love him regardless.

“You’re cute when you’re honest,” leans in for a kiss, receives it. Myungsoo chuckles. “Are you still lonely?”

Woohyun holds the other closer, breathing in his shampoo. “I’m a selfish human being – I don’t think I’ll ever be not lonely. I don’t think I was meant to function without loneliness.” He closes his eyes. “You’re right though; some of us really don’t belong with humanity.”

Myungsoo hums as wind blows in from the balcony. They sleep on the couch today; Woohyun’s room is windowless and Myungsoo’s room has two too many people. Outside, Woohyun can see the constellations he once promised. The stars he’d once promised to pluck out from the sky. The city lights he once compared Myungsoo too and the darkness he thinks of now. Everything, from here to the very tips of infinity, reminds him of Myungsoo. The dirty edges of his fingertips to the galaxies they’ve never explored. Every good, every bad, every thing – it’s all Myungsoo; it’s all Myungsoo’s.

But Myungsoo speaks; he feels his masks stripped bare.

“You asked about my loneliness to avoid feeling loneliness yourself, didn’t you, Woohyun?”

Myungsoo chuckles, like he’s known it all along. He doesn’t even need to turn to see Woohyun’s face. “That’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ll protect you from the monsters, Woohyunie. I promise you they won’t bite.”

(The monster is you, and how can you stop yourself from feeding off my flesh?)

Woohyun wakes in the middle of the night, Myungsoo’s arms straining him down like chains. He looks over to the other. He figures monsters are very real, and sometimes when you meet them they make you believe you can save them, but really all they want is your weakness. Monsters, he thinks, are very, very real. They’re our friends, our lovers, our family and the strangers we meet – they’re the cold cities and the rain before a storm. They’re everywhere, they’re everything, and sometimes they’re us. Sometimes monsters don’t even know they’re monsters. Sometimes we like them, and that excuses them from being the way they are.

a/n:

revised so many times it's not even funny (i read the first few pages about 22328492978 times before i realised it was beyond repair. i apologise for going ridiculously off tangent? it's all practically vomit and constellations and irrelevant sort of things i hope i can stand even the tiniest chance of competing because the other author is so good askjdhaskj anyway, thank you for reading this far~! i hope none of the phrasing was too unappealing, and i hope you all have a nice day.