odyssey ☇ l.dh

ˢᵒʲᵒᵘʳⁿ 8

"Tea. Oh my God. I love the drama." Another girl claps excitedly, probably due to the alcohol in her system.

Oh, drama it really is.

You wish. It's not a drama, instead, it's opting to be a reality.

And bottom line, your reality fucking sucks.

The boy sitting across from you in the circle is leaning back on his arms, palms spread and supporting his upper body. His legs are crisscrossed (apple sauce) and his head rests partially on one of his shoulders. An indescribable expression flickers upon his features before he masks it over with mock surprise.

"And drama you're gonna get," You grunt at the previous girl.

Watching him eloquently rise to his feet, you suck your cheeks in as he extends an inviting palm in your direction. "Spend 7 minutes in Heaven with me, y/n?"

You snicker, "I object-" But he never lets you finish your statement. "Spend 7 minutes in Heaven with me, y/n?" He echoes, still keeping his palm jutted out.

"You mean 7 minutes in Hell?" You click your tongue back.

He shrugs nonchalantly. "If that's how you'd prefer to play, why not?"

Using your elementary level inferring skills, you get what he's digging at. You roll your eyes at him, filtering out the screeches of several other girls in the space. "Absolutely not."

His lips press firmly together into a thin line, as if he's not approving of your answer. "The bottle chose us," He whispers, leaning closer to you so only you can hear his words. "And people don't like to be kept waiting."

Your amber irises skim the latter. Teenagers, mainly ones with liquor muffling their senses, are watching the scene as if it's an episode of some popular Netflix series.

Taciturnly, you loathingly yet reluctantly set your colder hand into his own.

You shoot one pleading, helpless look at Kina who can simply smile encouragingly. Presently, it feels like even your best friend is letting him drag you closer and closer to the daunting closet entrance.

Immediately, upon entry, the fruition of the intimate propinquity derails, thwarts, and wrecks any proper forming thought.

And curse Haechan's attentive nature supplementary to his nasty silver-tongued social abilities. "Cat got your tongue, y/n?"

In the prospect of lacunae, it is merely nonexistent in the little expanse separating you and the boy you hate.

You grimace as another student locks the two of you in the closet, confining the both of you to the suffocating space. "No."

Despite your dry retort, it does nothing to falter Haechan's abnormal, almost creepy, grin. Keyword: almost.

The celestial ambrosia of his faint cologne is vertiginous. They do say that smell is the most powerful sense. The euphorically enticing pheromones creating whirlwinds in your mind.