𝑭𝑳𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑹 𝑩𝑶𝒀 » ᵏᵗʰ

۪۫❁ཻུ۪۪ ； 九

» [ ❁ཻུ۪۪ ʄƖơῳɛཞ ცơყ ; episode nine ] «
»unedited«
-ˋˏ ༻ poetry buddy ༺ ˎˊ-

Han-sung smiled gently as he met her gaze. "Yeo-wool-Hyung
gave the Poong Wol Joo this 'The End' wine," he stated,
furrowing his eyebrows then smiling, "Supposedly
two shots of that stuff will make you forget your own eomma."
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» [ author-nim ] «

y/n frowned, softly closing her book and glancing in the direction of the gathered Hwarangs. Strange . . . why would they be here at such a time?

She trotted over to the boys, stopping near Han-sung. He was leaning against a tree, completely dazed over by the scene displayed before him. y/n followed his eyes to Wi-hwa, seated on a elegantly dressed chair, supported by five Hwarang.

"What's happening?" she inquired softly, raising a curious eyebrow.
Below her, Han-sung sighed deeply, resting his head in his hand. "They snuck out last night," he explained monotonously, "As punishment, Poong Wol Joo ordered them to carry him around the trail 100 times."

Han-sung glanced up trying to locate her. Once he realized she stood rather near him, he dropped his head, a hint of pink dotting his cheeks.

y/n chuckled softly, gathering up her hanbok and taking a seat next to him. "How did they even pull it off? This place is even more guarded than the gates of hell."

Han-sung smiled gently as he met her gaze. "Yeo-wool-Hyung gave the Poong Wol Joo this 'The End' wine," he stated, furrowing his eyebrows then smiling, "Supposedly two shots of that stuff will make you forget your own eomma."

y/n laughed, gently nudging the younger impulsively. "Aish that must some kind of wine," I remarked.
Han-sung shrugged slightly, scratching the side of his head. "I don't like drinking," he mumbled softly, "It burns."

She chuckled at the boy's remark, returning her attention to the caravan ahead. Han-sung tapped his fingers rhythmically against his thigh, stare directed to the book in the woman's hand. "New poetry book?"

She hummed in response. The younger's smacked his lips together, gently prying the artifact from her grasp, which she handed over with no objections.

"It's from Harappa," Han-sung muttered amazed, reading the title, "Harappen Love Poems. Wouldn't it be written in their language, Noona?"

y/n nodded. "Normally. But this one is translated into Chinese," she replied casually, "It was selling in a junk heap; probably brought over from some merchants. Good price though . . . maybe one or two silvers. Not many Harappen poems are translated into Chinese; it takes a good deal of stress and time to find a translated version."

Han-sung nodded his head eagerly, running his fingers over the cover religiously. "It is good?"

The poetry teacher let out a small laugh, the sides of her lips itching into smile. "Depends," she said, directing her gaze back to the youngest Hwarang, "If the reader enjoys reading about love."

Han-sung's doe eyes met her, captivating the entirety of her attention. How could she not have noticed the natural beauty of this youth. His long dark chestnut hair pulled back and swept out of his V-shaped face. His coffee eyes were watching mine with anticipation and almost a childlike innocence. Lips were plump and succulent as a strawberry in the June heat against his honey tanned skin.

y/n tore her gaze away, smiling gently to herself. She heard the youth sigh softly.
"Could I borrow it?" Han-sung inquired, his gaze still directed to her, "After you finish it, of course."

y/n chuckled gently, running her fingers through her short mocha hair. "We can start with this book if you like?"

Han-sing frowned delicately. "You mean in class?"

"No," the teacher responded, shaking hee head, "I've taken a notice to your poetic intrigue, flower boy. I brought it up with Wi-hwa and with his blessing, you and I can meet to take on extra studies in the particular subject. Only if you wish it, Han-sung-ah."

The boy's ears reddened at her enunciated address. He bit his lip thoughtfully as his head dipped lowly. "So I'd be a poetry buddy?"

Her head tottered gently. "In a sense, yes," she admitted, smiling keenly at the boy, "We could read a few poems together or silently, discuss their attributes, symbols, so on. Basically almost the same thing we do in class."

Han-sung rubbed the nape of his neck, redirecting his glaze to y/n. "I don't have a problem with the proposal," he replied, smiling his cute boxy smile, "When should we meet, Noona?"

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