(no subject)
name: lu han
band: exo m
journal: deboiter
aim: of finer things
age: twenty-two
year: senior
housing: off-campus
major: fine art & art history
first glimpse.
first, he tosses and turns in his bed three times, tugging the ragged covers over his face because he still can't afford any blinds to block the sunlight pouring through his dirty windows. his alarm is ringing in the background, a pathetically embarrassing girl group song preaching bouncy notes and love-stricken lyrics to him. he turns it off after some deliberation, one lithe limb peeking out from beneath a mountain of pillows to fumble with the bedside table.
the music dies.
second, he sighs from beneath his fortress of bedsheets and pillows before poking his head out. his hair is messy--he feels and looks sort of like a disgruntled lion cub. he pats it down (attempts to, at least), and it doesn't work so he gives up right then and there before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. he checks his phone, eyes squinted, and there are four missed calls. that's four less than yesterday morning and he wonders very briefly if anything's wrong.
he moves on.
third, he shrugs a shirt on and digs through the pocket of the jeans he wore last night, producing a worn-out, nearly empty box of cheap cigarettes. one of them balances in his fingers and he tosses the box back to his bed. he shuffles onto the balcony, which looks more like a metal contraption threatening to collapse any second now, and toes the door shut behind him. the match flickers.
inhale. exhale. relief.
fourth, he picks up a phone call and immediately grins. "just woke up," he replies in korean, a tiny foreign drawl accenting his syllables. he enters his bedroom and hums thoughtfully. "i'll be in class soon," he assures in mandarin.
"yeah, she called. no, i didn't pick up."
history.
thirteen year old lu han boasts conduct and obedience. his parents flaunt him to their friends and business partners at lavish parties thrown together with too much red wine dripping casually onto tiled floors and too many french words coming out of the mouths of waiters. "vols-au-vent?" he shakes his head and glances up from where he's perched. he can see his mother in her red dress and his father in his brand new suit. they're talking animatedly to people he can't recognize.
his mother is wearing tall heels and lu han worries--i hope she doesn't fall.
may 4
my name is lu han. when mama's in a good mood she calls me xiao lu.
i like to draw and my favorite food is chicken feet.
it's two hours later when they board into the car--his father in the front seat, his mother and himself in the back. the driver, an elderly old man, greets them cordially before going onward. the family in the car is much quieter than the family at the party. his mother is gazing out the window idly. his father is sifting through business cards he received. lu han silently counts the white hairs he can see on his father's head.
twenty-four.
"it's late, xiao lu," his mother murmurs. "mama is very sorry that you'll be tired at tutoring tomorrow." she reaches out to pat him affectionately on the head and he smiles a little bit.
"it's okay," he replies with a firm nod. it probably isn't; he'll doze off during the morning and his tutor will tell his dad and he'll get the speech again--the whole do you know what success is, han? "it's okay," he repeats.
-
high school is lu han delving head first into vices his parents will never find out about. the trickle of alcohol down his throat burns and he hates it. his friends from soccer (a one year thing) pat him on the back and fill his cup back up. his friends from choir (a three semester thing) snatch the cup from him and chide him to mind his voice. they're smoking cigarettes. he grins because they're hypocrites.
"give me one," he urges instead, reaching out flimsily to latch onto a slender white stick. "light it." he's feeling a little dizzy and lightheaded so it isn't his fault that he loses his footing and falls into somebody's lap.
it is his fault, but he doesn't care. "comfy," he murmurs instead.
september 1
he kissed me first.
he's supposed to feel the compelling urge to improve when he's surrounded by people who have résumés just as good as his. everyone around him in this private cram school is preparing for the gao kao. his first day there, everyone is forced to scrawl out their individual aspirations for note-keeping purposes. they're anonymous, he's told, so he writes out what his father's ingrained into his mind--i want to graduate from beida and take my father's company. i want to make my father's company greater.
anonymous, he's told. so he crosses everything out.
i want to and time runs out. his paper's grabbed by the teacher and he doesn't protest.
september 16
baba says gao kao is my biggest obstacle.
my tutor says i could become 状元 if i keep studying hard.
should i tell baba that i want to be [scratched out]
sometimes he comes home late at night to his mother whispering sorrowful words to his grandmother on the phone. things like miserable, sad, and lonely. he heads straight up the stairs and immediately closes the door to his bedroom behind him. another day, he thinks. another day, he'll be able to do something.
-
"she doesn't love me."
"she is a very nice girl--very pretty, very kind..."
"it isn't that simple."
"she is willing to do this and your father, he thinks-"
he feels like the veins inside of his body are going to burst any second now and he can't remember--was he ever taught how to scream? say no? say please just listen to me just this once please? lu han knows she isn't willing; she cried in his arms at his friend's party just two nights ago about her fucking boyfriend for god's sake. he thinks arranged marriages are obsolete and they are, which is why he thinks sneaky business practices are even worse.
"we aren't like that."
"han, are you listening? the compan--"
"i don't know her enough."
"you've met many times. almost four times."
"no." the word repeats itself. "i can't."
"it'll be easy."
(don't lie to me) his mind screams as he turns and exits the dining room, clambering up the stairs to slam his door shut behind him. there are words still coursing through his mind, explanations, excuses, reasons. he's only seventeen and fuck it if he's going to sign up to waste the rest of his life on a girl that doesn't love him. a girl that doesn't like him like that. a girl that doesn't like him back.
the past few years have been cloudy. all lu han remembers is thinking incriminating, dastardly thoughts about packing up and leaving and doing his own thing in his own place. he remembers thinking about how great art is every single time he found himself sneaking into studio after hours to borrow some easels and a two chunks of charcoal. he remembers thinking--
he pulls a suitcase out and begins to wildly shove belongings in. he's not going to run away. he's going to pack his suitcase up, stow it away in the corner of his closet, and wait.
-
six points short of parental acceptance and he slowly, carefully takes a measured breath.
the door to his bedroom is locked. his parents aren't home yet. he's sprawled out across his bed, counting the splotches in his vision because he's taken off his glasses. he has tutoring in two hours; korean and japanese, today. lu han squints.
he breathes again.
-
june 29
tired.
"i'm not doing business," he tells his father over dinner. "and i don't want your company." he sets down the fork and knife and lets his fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans.
"i've enrolled you in tsinghua," is the only response.
lu han swallows the lump in his throat and rises from his seat. "i'm not hungry."
"sit down," his father orders and he really loathes the fact that he automatically obeys. his father settles the cutlery neatly on the napkin. "this is your future you're toying with. i won't force you to do anything." they aren't making eye contact and it would have been disgruntling if he wasn't already so used to it. "where do you want to go?"
he's shaking a little bit. "away." that's as ambiguous as it gets. "away from beijing. away from--"
"home?"
hesitation is laced in his every word. "yes."
"then go. don't regret it."
july 20
the wind's direction is changing.
pek to icn: arrival 20:10.
he leaves the next week and doesn't bother looking back. seoul is exhausting. within weeks, he's worn himself out from a killer combo of sleep deprivation and malnutrition. but this is seoul. his parents are in beijing. his obligations are back in beijing. this is seoul--not beijing.
"here's your student id..."
"this is really mine."
"... yes?"
"wow."
"wow?"
"you're fantastic, thank you."
"you have an accent. where you from?"
"beijing."
"wow, be sure to call your parents--"
"uh-huh."
"let 'em know you arrived safely..."
"yeah."
"they're probably worrying."
"probably. but fuck it."
- - -
his father enrolls him in numerous classes from the start. he learns how to play violin and cello; he has a vocal teacher and a dance teacher; he's put into soccer camps and tennis camps during the summer; one year, archery became a thing because of the olympics. nothing sticks. he has things to put on his résumé for college but nothing really amounts to emotional worth except for art. he's first taught art when he's twelve years old. soon, it becomes impossible to teach so he learns on his own.
"this is my portfolio."
"there's a lot."
"it tells a story."
"a story?"
"i call it 'fuck childhood.'"
last look.
he's not a realist or an idealist. he's just what he calls a struggling artist searching for his muse, which, sounds much cheesier than intended. there's little tact in what lu han does--he simply does. he's an exhausting person in that sense because ever since he's shed his obligations back in beijing for the sake of pursuing his own individual passions in seoul, he's shed a majority of his past self as well. the values he has and the priorities he has contrast starkly from his past; he is, in one sense, much happier while being much worse off.
there's optimism, though, because lu han cares very little for material goods. he's genuinely happy and content where he is (a shitty apartment outside of yonsei, sort of a walk but who gives a fuck) and with where he's headed (the live of a starving artist--keep your fingers crossed). that's the easygoing, laid-back, "let things happen" attitude that defines lu han. sure, this means he doesn't really care for the important things (read: health) and he might be a little loose in the head to the point of valuing his art over everything, but he's a nice guy.
life is an experience. it sounds progressive and loose and overly liberal but he's not in any mood, nor does he have any time to stop to linger over things that bother him. he moves on quickly and that's that. he doesn't like dwelling on things and he has no qualms with being blunt and forward. there are good intentions somewhere deep down; he's a nice guy and he doesn't have the time or energy to terrorize people actively.
breathing art. it's probably therapeutic or something 'cause he's high off of it.
band: exo m
journal: deboiter
aim: of finer things
age: twenty-two
year: senior
housing: off-campus
major: fine art & art history
first glimpse.
first, he tosses and turns in his bed three times, tugging the ragged covers over his face because he still can't afford any blinds to block the sunlight pouring through his dirty windows. his alarm is ringing in the background, a pathetically embarrassing girl group song preaching bouncy notes and love-stricken lyrics to him. he turns it off after some deliberation, one lithe limb peeking out from beneath a mountain of pillows to fumble with the bedside table.
the music dies.
second, he sighs from beneath his fortress of bedsheets and pillows before poking his head out. his hair is messy--he feels and looks sort of like a disgruntled lion cub. he pats it down (attempts to, at least), and it doesn't work so he gives up right then and there before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. he checks his phone, eyes squinted, and there are four missed calls. that's four less than yesterday morning and he wonders very briefly if anything's wrong.
he moves on.
third, he shrugs a shirt on and digs through the pocket of the jeans he wore last night, producing a worn-out, nearly empty box of cheap cigarettes. one of them balances in his fingers and he tosses the box back to his bed. he shuffles onto the balcony, which looks more like a metal contraption threatening to collapse any second now, and toes the door shut behind him. the match flickers.
inhale. exhale. relief.
fourth, he picks up a phone call and immediately grins. "just woke up," he replies in korean, a tiny foreign drawl accenting his syllables. he enters his bedroom and hums thoughtfully. "i'll be in class soon," he assures in mandarin.
"yeah, she called. no, i didn't pick up."
history.
thirteen year old lu han boasts conduct and obedience. his parents flaunt him to their friends and business partners at lavish parties thrown together with too much red wine dripping casually onto tiled floors and too many french words coming out of the mouths of waiters. "vols-au-vent?" he shakes his head and glances up from where he's perched. he can see his mother in her red dress and his father in his brand new suit. they're talking animatedly to people he can't recognize.
his mother is wearing tall heels and lu han worries--i hope she doesn't fall.
may 4
my name is lu han. when mama's in a good mood she calls me xiao lu.
i like to draw and my favorite food is chicken feet.
it's two hours later when they board into the car--his father in the front seat, his mother and himself in the back. the driver, an elderly old man, greets them cordially before going onward. the family in the car is much quieter than the family at the party. his mother is gazing out the window idly. his father is sifting through business cards he received. lu han silently counts the white hairs he can see on his father's head.
twenty-four.
"it's late, xiao lu," his mother murmurs. "mama is very sorry that you'll be tired at tutoring tomorrow." she reaches out to pat him affectionately on the head and he smiles a little bit.
"it's okay," he replies with a firm nod. it probably isn't; he'll doze off during the morning and his tutor will tell his dad and he'll get the speech again--the whole do you know what success is, han? "it's okay," he repeats.
-
high school is lu han delving head first into vices his parents will never find out about. the trickle of alcohol down his throat burns and he hates it. his friends from soccer (a one year thing) pat him on the back and fill his cup back up. his friends from choir (a three semester thing) snatch the cup from him and chide him to mind his voice. they're smoking cigarettes. he grins because they're hypocrites.
"give me one," he urges instead, reaching out flimsily to latch onto a slender white stick. "light it." he's feeling a little dizzy and lightheaded so it isn't his fault that he loses his footing and falls into somebody's lap.
it is his fault, but he doesn't care. "comfy," he murmurs instead.
september 1
he kissed me first.
he's supposed to feel the compelling urge to improve when he's surrounded by people who have résumés just as good as his. everyone around him in this private cram school is preparing for the gao kao. his first day there, everyone is forced to scrawl out their individual aspirations for note-keeping purposes. they're anonymous, he's told, so he writes out what his father's ingrained into his mind--i want to graduate from beida and take my father's company. i want to make my father's company greater.
anonymous, he's told. so he crosses everything out.
i want to and time runs out. his paper's grabbed by the teacher and he doesn't protest.
september 16
baba says gao kao is my biggest obstacle.
my tutor says i could become 状元 if i keep studying hard.
should i tell baba that i want to be [scratched out]
sometimes he comes home late at night to his mother whispering sorrowful words to his grandmother on the phone. things like miserable, sad, and lonely. he heads straight up the stairs and immediately closes the door to his bedroom behind him. another day, he thinks. another day, he'll be able to do something.
-
"she doesn't love me."
"she is a very nice girl--very pretty, very kind..."
"it isn't that simple."
"she is willing to do this and your father, he thinks-"
he feels like the veins inside of his body are going to burst any second now and he can't remember--was he ever taught how to scream? say no? say please just listen to me just this once please? lu han knows she isn't willing; she cried in his arms at his friend's party just two nights ago about her fucking boyfriend for god's sake. he thinks arranged marriages are obsolete and they are, which is why he thinks sneaky business practices are even worse.
"we aren't like that."
"han, are you listening? the compan--"
"i don't know her enough."
"you've met many times. almost four times."
"no." the word repeats itself. "i can't."
"it'll be easy."
(don't lie to me) his mind screams as he turns and exits the dining room, clambering up the stairs to slam his door shut behind him. there are words still coursing through his mind, explanations, excuses, reasons. he's only seventeen and fuck it if he's going to sign up to waste the rest of his life on a girl that doesn't love him. a girl that doesn't like him like that. a girl that doesn't like him back.
the past few years have been cloudy. all lu han remembers is thinking incriminating, dastardly thoughts about packing up and leaving and doing his own thing in his own place. he remembers thinking about how great art is every single time he found himself sneaking into studio after hours to borrow some easels and a two chunks of charcoal. he remembers thinking--
he pulls a suitcase out and begins to wildly shove belongings in. he's not going to run away. he's going to pack his suitcase up, stow it away in the corner of his closet, and wait.
-
six points short of parental acceptance and he slowly, carefully takes a measured breath.
the door to his bedroom is locked. his parents aren't home yet. he's sprawled out across his bed, counting the splotches in his vision because he's taken off his glasses. he has tutoring in two hours; korean and japanese, today. lu han squints.
he breathes again.
-
june 29
tired.
"i'm not doing business," he tells his father over dinner. "and i don't want your company." he sets down the fork and knife and lets his fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans.
"i've enrolled you in tsinghua," is the only response.
lu han swallows the lump in his throat and rises from his seat. "i'm not hungry."
"sit down," his father orders and he really loathes the fact that he automatically obeys. his father settles the cutlery neatly on the napkin. "this is your future you're toying with. i won't force you to do anything." they aren't making eye contact and it would have been disgruntling if he wasn't already so used to it. "where do you want to go?"
he's shaking a little bit. "away." that's as ambiguous as it gets. "away from beijing. away from--"
"home?"
hesitation is laced in his every word. "yes."
"then go. don't regret it."
july 20
the wind's direction is changing.
pek to icn: arrival 20:10.
he leaves the next week and doesn't bother looking back. seoul is exhausting. within weeks, he's worn himself out from a killer combo of sleep deprivation and malnutrition. but this is seoul. his parents are in beijing. his obligations are back in beijing. this is seoul--not beijing.
"here's your student id..."
"this is really mine."
"... yes?"
"wow."
"wow?"
"you're fantastic, thank you."
"you have an accent. where you from?"
"beijing."
"wow, be sure to call your parents--"
"uh-huh."
"let 'em know you arrived safely..."
"yeah."
"they're probably worrying."
"probably. but fuck it."
- - -
his father enrolls him in numerous classes from the start. he learns how to play violin and cello; he has a vocal teacher and a dance teacher; he's put into soccer camps and tennis camps during the summer; one year, archery became a thing because of the olympics. nothing sticks. he has things to put on his résumé for college but nothing really amounts to emotional worth except for art. he's first taught art when he's twelve years old. soon, it becomes impossible to teach so he learns on his own.
"this is my portfolio."
"there's a lot."
"it tells a story."
"a story?"
"i call it 'fuck childhood.'"
last look.
he's not a realist or an idealist. he's just what he calls a struggling artist searching for his muse, which, sounds much cheesier than intended. there's little tact in what lu han does--he simply does. he's an exhausting person in that sense because ever since he's shed his obligations back in beijing for the sake of pursuing his own individual passions in seoul, he's shed a majority of his past self as well. the values he has and the priorities he has contrast starkly from his past; he is, in one sense, much happier while being much worse off.
there's optimism, though, because lu han cares very little for material goods. he's genuinely happy and content where he is (a shitty apartment outside of yonsei, sort of a walk but who gives a fuck) and with where he's headed (the live of a starving artist--keep your fingers crossed). that's the easygoing, laid-back, "let things happen" attitude that defines lu han. sure, this means he doesn't really care for the important things (read: health) and he might be a little loose in the head to the point of valuing his art over everything, but he's a nice guy.
life is an experience. it sounds progressive and loose and overly liberal but he's not in any mood, nor does he have any time to stop to linger over things that bother him. he moves on quickly and that's that. he doesn't like dwelling on things and he has no qualms with being blunt and forward. there are good intentions somewhere deep down; he's a nice guy and he doesn't have the time or energy to terrorize people actively.
breathing art. it's probably therapeutic or something 'cause he's high off of it.