sky lights | jakehoon

008

"oh, you guys again?"

"hyungs!" heeseung shouts.

"heeseung knows these counselors? i thought it was only you, jay."

"uh, let's just say heeseung and i tried taking the class last year and ended miserably. the counselors in front of us were our cabinmates."

"LMAO YOU FLUNKED."

"hey, don't be rude."

"that's crazy."

"it's not crazy, look at daniel. he's what? only fourteen? it's suggested you shouldn't take this class until this year, but daniel is about three or four years ahead of us."

"so you're crazy. daniel and niki are maniacs."

"jake, you sound like a maniac."

"yeonjun hyung!" jay shouts. he leaves us and gives a nice bro hug with his hyungs.

"we love the feeling of abandonment."

"jake, chill, you still have me." sunghoon puts his arm over my shoulders again. for some reason, it feels comfortable.

"why are you getting closer to me?" sunghoon's voice suddenly drops to a lower tone.

"r-really?" maybe it's because it's comfortable. or maybe i'm overthinking the possibilities. i back away. "s-sorry..." i whisper.

.

three hours later

.

it's been what? three hours? i have no strength to lift a muscle. what could i be possible doing when i'm feeling more dead than dead skin cells sitting on my pores? i couldn't just be sitting in the cabin's lounge room helplessly lounging, would i?

hah, in my dreams. the main point of a lounge room is for people to lounge around. which is exactly what i'm doing. do i make sense? no? good, your brain is functioning clownally.

"jake..." sunghoon groans as he plops arm-length down next to me. he makes some odd noises like a dying frog. dying frog? how do dying frogs even sound like? nonexistent incoherent croak-croak wheezing like a flying pig?

pigs don't fly... no, they can. they just need to think about it. poor pigs ain't trying hard enough. they'll have delicate wings of a penguin when they try hard. assuming they try hard enough. and penguins don't fly so that gives pigs the chance to try their hardest.

i'm an intellectual intellect aussie with no sense of humor, hah-

a warm touch slithers down my arm. i freeze and turn my head to the moving sensation. "what are you doing?" i mumble. i can't believe i have enough brain cells to talk.

"shhh, no talk, just dead." sunghoon continues to poke at my arm. he grabs the forearm lazily and attempts to pick it up, drop it on the couch, and repeat.

i snort. snort, snort, honk, quack. moo to all human beings.

again, i am not a furry. i'm indeed just high. i think.

sunghoon's fingers snake to the palm of my hand, causing me to shiver at the skinship. shiver? ho- why am i shivering? sunghoon lays his fingers in the form of intertwining and my brain goes poof and white and nothing but emptiness.

"u-uh, do you want to arm wrestle?" i blurt out, slightly shoving his hand off mine and sitting more straight. assuming that i am straight and think like a well intellect scholar.

"ah, sure..." there was a table in front of us, and i walk to the opposite side as sunghoon takes my spot where i had just been sitting. "i'm pretty sure i'll win, let's go."

"right hand?" i nod, thinking of a way to cheat. i created a mess. i don't want to be in a mess, but i must clean the mess. messes are always a mess. it will never be solved or whatever if you don't do a thing about it, and you is me. why do i speak to myself like i'm someone else? i shall break my own wall and become the narrator of my own life.

the only way for me to win arm wrestling is to twist the wrist. woah, i am a poet, i made two words rhyme, i'm a genius. "oh, he bent his wrist-" i accuse sunghoon. heeseung and some of our other eggie friends were with us. of course, i must win, meaning accusing my companions.

i realize to realize that i am so poetic, way more poetic than the greatest shakespearean shakespeare. thoust the forketh is sunghoon the parketh?

"what- no, i'm-"

"3, 2, 1, go!" hah, my wrist won the first round. kudos to my beautiful dominant right wrist.

second match? not so well when sunghoon asks to do my left hand. curse you, my left arm. if only i was an ambidextrous boy of culture, i would be achieving better than just learning how to shoot marshmallows into my old dog's face. ha... my old dog... i miss my dog...

was i expecting a third match? no, but it made sense since we had a tie. don't mind me sobbing in the corner. it's just me and my lame excuses.

"yo, stop bending your wrist." i accuse sunghoon once more.

"yo, you're bending yours, too!" don't expose me. don't expose me. don't-

"i'm not! you're bending mine, don't do that!" i attempt to rearrange the form indirectly. i swear, this sunghoonth parketh is a smart lad, his intelligence coming close to my knowledge of mental income.

"hey, hey, no, that's how you won last time!" he points at my elbow bending more to the open air. i almost whacked seon hyung. sorry, seon, i'm trying to keep life rated pg, but a rude dude won't allow me to do stuff like that. excuse my mistakes.

"no, no."

"you're supposed to put your thumb in, then spread the fingers over."

"guys, guys, we want rated pg content." heeseung interrupts. he rearranges our hands to the correct way. man, was i about to throw some hands right then and there.

"okay, ready... and... start."

i'll sell my soul to sunghoon, a dude who beat me in a game of arm wrestling just because i panicked over plain skinship that had happened at least three times or so, i haven't been counting, oh well, i'll create my will in my next thoughts later. note: will is for park sunghoon.

life ended when sunghoon slammed my arm down on the table.

"AHA-" i sigh.

"AHAHA-" i sigh again.

"AHAHAHA-"

repeat after me.

i sigh.

.

A/N: we hopeth that sir jaketh wilt maketh his journey outh alive.