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Still a little tight. Hasn't worn it out enough yet. Little bow tickling her pulse point. A butterfly kiss dancing over her skin.
It's just them, the other two occupied otherwise. Sit in front of the 7-Eleven. Coffee for Siyo. Energy drink for Cheonsa. They always were opposites like that.
Siyo fiddles with the pastel hair tie on her wrist. Fingers under it, pulling it away. Careful not to let it snap back.
Cheonsa's prattling on about a new drama featuring some kinda idol. Another unexpected thing about her: when she's actually got the necessary free time, she does do some common girl things.
Well. Almost.
Usual watches action dramas, criticizing the stances and forms of the actors, no, no, no one would actually hit like that.
Fingers snap before her face. Immediately looks up at Cheonsa. Eyebrows raised, a teasing grin on her face as she says, “Are you even listening, Siyo-yah?”
Siyo looks at her. Expression carefully blank. “Absolutely.”
Cheonsa stares at her. Returns her impassive gaze. Laughs, light and airy, as she leans back in her chair. Pushes her hand under the hair in her neck as she pushes the strands up. Airs her hair out, let fresh air hit her heated neck. The matching pastel tie on her right wrist's like lightning on a stormy night.
Siyo's hand twitches. Hands return to play with the one on her own wrist.
Left hand.
(Opposites. Complete each other anyway.)
Cheonsa rests her head over the backrest of the chair, eyes the night sky. “Haaaah,” she says, “Siyo-yah's always so mean to unnie. It hurts my feelings, y'know?”
Siyo's staring. Can't help herself. The way Cheonsa's hair swings whenever she moves her neck the slightest bit. Long and straight and glossy and beautiful, and if Siyo was anyone else, she'd be envious. Self-conscious about her own hair, messy and wavy and always held up in a high ponytail, a few strands usually escaping to frame her face.
She's not. Not when she gets to see Cheonsa like that, relaxed and with her hair down and so, so pretty it makes something in Siyo ache painfully. Like a fist squeezing around her heart, trying to slow the rapid pitter-pattering of it against her rib cage.
She's been silent too long. Cheonsa glances at her from the corner of her eye, grin lazy. Cocky. “What, am I so beautiful it makes you speechless?”
Siyo scoffs. Pulls the hair tie over her fingers. Without realizing.
“You wish,” she says.
Cheonsa gasps. Puts her hand over her chest. “You wound me,” she says, not an ounce of sincerity in her voice.
“Good,” Siyo says. “Someone should take you down a peg.”
Cheonsa hums. “So you're saying everyone else puts me on a pedestal?”
Siyo's heart constricts against her will. The girls in their class, always chattering about Ahn Cheonsa, the girl so pretty she even gets confessions from underclassmen.
Cheonsa always turns them down. Has Siyo feeling both relieved and… not.
Doesn't allow herself to consider why, even if she knows, even if she's already realized—rejection means a chance. Rejection also means Cheonsa might not be interested in girls—interested in Siyo. And why should she? Yeon Siyo, the nerdy girl, small stature and messy hair and birdbone wrists and she's nothing a girl like Cheonsa wants.
Deserves.
“Whateve lets you sleep better at night,” Siyo mutters. Good mood destroyed. Took a 180.
Cheonsa blows a raspberry. “You've really got it out for me tonight, huh?”
Siyo doesn't answer. Gets up with too much force. The chair scrapes over the floor as it's pushed backward.
“Ohhh,” Cheonsa says, “what'cha gonna do now?” Teasing glint in her eyes as they follow Siyo. She rounds the table between them. Stops directly behind Cheonsa. Puts a hand on the back of Cheonsa's still reclined head to put it upright.
“Oh no,” Cheonsa drones, “what are you gonna do to a frail unnie like me, hm?”
Siyo pulls at her hair. “Nothing frail about you,” she says. Makes Cheonsa laugh.
Siyo puts her hand under Cheonsa's hair. Cards her fingers through it.
Soft. Siyo knows Cheonsa doesn't care about hair care. Not like other girls. Yet still she's got the most gorgeous hair Siyo's ever seen. Ever felt.
Cheonsa's suspiciously quiet. Siyo's grateful for it. Grateful for Cheonsa not turning her neck to glance at her. See the way heat creeps up Siyo’s ears, embarrassment heavy in her stomach.
She doesn't deter from her initial intention.
Combs her fingers through that waterfall of black strands. Inhales the fresh scent of shampoo wafting from Cheonsa's hair. Boy's brand. Smells like drenched rain.
Wants to pick a strand and nose at it. Breathe in until she won't ever forget that tantalizing smell.
Even when Cheonsa finally realizes Siyo’s not worth it.
She tucks Cheonsa's hair up. High up on the back of her head. Pushes it together until she's caught every stray hair in a tight grip. Holds it with one hand. Bites the hair tie on her wrist and pulls it forward until it's warped around her fingers. Slips it over Cheonsa's hair, again and again and again until it's taut, ponytail swishing when Cheonsa does finally turn around. Questioning look on her face.
Siyo clears her throat. Hopes the blush isn't as obvious as it feels. Says, like justification, “You were hot, weren't you?”
Barely keeps herself from saying, you are.
Cheonsa stares at her. Long. Silent. Blinks eventually. “Yeah.” Doesn't say anything further. Not until Siyo's returned to her own chair, fisted hands on her thighs, legs straight together.
Cheonsa's eyes haven't left her the entire time. When Siyo finally dares to meet her gaze, there's a soft smile on Cheonsa's face. “Thanks,” she says. Simple and easy.
Siyo huffs. Like she's unaffected.
She's not.
Really, really not.
Yet says, “Whatever.”
She doesn't contemplate why Cheonsa didn't just use the matching tie on her own wrist.
Doesn't dare.
(Hope's such a cruel mistress.)