planetkuhn - Tumblr blog

planetkuhn · 4 years

Text

* “i’m sorry” ( ft.niko )

WRITING TASK #003: 2-word prompts!

TW: serious injury // torture // TMW: which stands for Too Much Writing i’m sorry don’t clock me

kuhn doesn’t know for how long they’ve been down here. years, maybe? probably years... yeah.

there’s a fog hovering just over his mind that doesn’t lift very often, and when it does it’s typically only for long enough to take in a little bit of his surroundings, to notice niko beside him and remember -- with the same thunder strike of terror through his chest -- where they are, and what they’re doing here. it’s kind of horrible, really, because if he could just stay fully aware the whole time he wouldn’t have to face that same realization over and over. it feels like waking up from a nightmare inside a different nightmare, except it’s over and over and this time, no one is going to wake you up with a kiss or a hug and a glass of water...

on the other hand, it would be even nicer if he could just stay knocked all the way out the whole time, to just be put to sleep. he begs for that, actually, more than once, during his worst moments.

he doesn’t like to do that in front of niko, though. he hates how hopeless it sounds, when he knows the younger will often look to him as a source of strength that isn’t actually there anymore.

but when there’s a break where they’re actually alone, and kuhn is conscious enough to lift his head and check if niko is still breathing (he is, thank god, as he has been for the other dozen times kuhn has done this), he still feels that need to try to put forth a brave face, or as much of it as he can muster.

“you awake?” his voice echoes in the chamber, and niko doesn’t speak, but after a moment kuhn watches his head move a little, a nod.

though kuhn is relieved to see him move, niko looks, for lack of a better word, like absolute shit. kuhn has never seen a man look that broken. judging from the mind-numbing pain he goes through just from speaking and lifting his head, he knows he’s no better off. this feels worse than the apparition accident, even. in fact, the only part of him that doesn’t hurt is the stupid metal toe.

how did they go from goofy laser tag teammates to this? their decision to break into the school was fueled by the intense, desperate need for kuhn to see minhyuk and make sure he was okay spurred him on at first. staying in disguise, running around to try to save people was stupid. normally, kuhn would argue that saving the people that they did would mean this was worth it, but it’s hard to feel that valiant right now, when all he wants to do is go back in time and stop himself -- and stop niko -- from ending up here. from being separated from the ones they love... possibly, probably, forever.

as he lays there, chest heaving, eyes on the same piece of stone jutting out from the ceiling that he’s been fixated on for however many hours they’ve been here, he doesn’t expect to hear niko’s voice at all. but he does speak up, in a meek little voice that breaks his heart.

”i tried,” is all kuhn can hear, and kuhn shuts his eyes tight, hot tears making themselves known when the salt stings in the scrapes on the sides of his face.

“i know,” he says, his voice breaking at the end. “i know. you did good. we did good.”

does he believe that? no, not really. but right now he needs to hear it as badly as niko does.

he repeats it to himself gently, too quiet for niko to hear this time, as he slowly slips back into the fog.

#* // 🪐 ɢᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ sᴏᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɴᴏɪsᴇ. — › ft. niko.#( * solo )

1 note · View note

planetkuhn · 4 years

Text

* robot seagulls ( solo )

LOCATION: an animab psychologist’s office located somewhere in washington, USA TIME: some sunday in 2005-2006... around there TW // disability (ADHD), medication (+ mentions of side effects incl. bad eating habits), a lil sprinkle of anxiety LENGTH: 2k

“-- maladaptive daydreaming.”

kuhn first hears the term in that cramped little office, watching his mother’s intently face for signs of a negative reaction, but she just nods at doctor campbell, looking calm as ever. doctor campbell is another american doctor -- but is she really a doctor? she acts more like a teacher. it’s confusing.

“...can be a symptom of children with ADHD... mostly when he’s overwhelmed... might not be the only thing going on but it will explain the stories... the ADHD should be treated properly, otherwise his school...” the blonde lady goes on and on and on; all those english words blend together and kuhn can’t even try to understand what she’s saying, but he does recognize the term school and immediately feels a spike of nerves in the pit of his stomach once he realizes that they’re probably talking about all the math tests he keeps failing. his mom nudges his shoulder gently and gives a short translation, but kuhn is only half-listening and he still doesn’t really get it anyway, so he just nods nicely.

kuhn’s gaze travels from his mother, to the walls and the ceiling and the window and the floor and then back to doctor campbell the doctor/teacher-person, where it lingers for a while as she and his mom talk about the sheet of paper in her hands. she’s weird, he thinks. the outfit she’s wearing seems more teacher-y than doctor-y. her name starts with doctor, but there’s no stethoscope anywhere, and only somebody like a teacher would ask him to answer so many questions and give him weird tests where he has to tell her what kinds of shapes are in those ugly black pictures. maybe ‘doctor’ means teacher in english?

he shouldn’t be at the doctor’s anyway. he doesn’t feel sick at all, and he definitely doesn’t want them to give him any more medicine -- he hates it! it sucks! around four times out of ten, he will forget to actually swallow the pill his mom gives him, so then it dissolves in his mouth while he lays there Thinking or dozing off in the morning. which makes his mouth taste like the one time he ate the neighbour kid’s chalk to prove that he was cool-- and then spitting it all out is even more like the time he ate chalk to prove that he was cool. but he can’t win -- when he does swallow it properly, his food at lunch never tastes good anymore and then he gets in trouble for pawning off his mom’s nice korean-style home cooking for as much blue jello and goldfish crackers as he can get from the other students, because he can’t stomach anything else.

today is sunday, so he didn’t have to take his medicine, which in his mind was a Victory; but now little kuhn can’t stop shifting restlessly in the too-big chair, bony shoulders dancing as he looks around the room yet again. he starts to hums under his breath. it’s a tune someone showed him at school on friday. i’m bringing sexy back, yeah! he'd been hollering it on repeat in the schoolyard for the rest of that break, until one of the supervisors got him in trouble for saying a bad word. even though none of his new american friends had told him it was bad. he forgave them pretty quick though, as he always does.

bored eyes fix upon some pictures on the wall behind doctor campbell, but they don’t look like pictures. they’re just big white sheets of paper with nothing but words on them. biiiig, loopy-looking english words, and some numbers that look a lot like the ones on their calendar at home.

mama says that kuhn is getting really good at reading english. but he still doesn’t understand why american adults sometimes write in squiggly-lines. he has tried to teach mom how to write properly whenever he catches her writing on something like that at home, but she keeps telling him not to worry about it -- you’ll learn how to write like this at school when you’re older, she says patiently, to which kuhn almost always replies that he doesn’t need to learn how to write in wiggly because mister english-teacher-whose-name-he-can’t-pronounce-yet always says his writing is “getting better”. (kuhn even has bravo! and fantastic! stickers stuck all over his spelling workbook now, so that means he’s basically an english master now, he’s pretty sure.)

kuhn’s eyes travel from the boring non-pictures to the more interesting ones facing him on the desk. there’s a big one showing doctor candle -- oops, doctor campbell (mom said it’s rude to keep forgetting her name, even though it’s not his fault american names are so hard) -- with two kids, and a tall man. they’re all golden-haired and they’re all smiling, and they look burnt, but happy. kuhn can make out the beach in the background, with white sand and blue skies and flecks of colour where beach umbrellas stick up in the distance. everything seems very colourful.

kuhn hasn’t been to the beach in so long. the last time he went, he was little, or littler, anyway; it was with both dad and mom together, and it’s one of his favourite memories, one he revisits a lot when his mind wanders. kuhn blinks a few times, and as eyes lose a little focus, the man in the photo starts to look a lot like dad.

the fact that that other guy was american and blond and definitely not korean in the slightest doesn’t seem to matter at all, as kuhn still feels warmth flow through him at the imaginary sight of his father regardless. he tilts his head just a little and watches doctor campbell’s image also morph, but into mom this time. he blinks once and the taller of the two children is mirroring kuhn himself.

kuhn then looks into the eyes of his father and sees that gentle smile and the teeth that matched kuhn’s as soon as his two front ones finished growing in; he imagines he can feel a little ruffle of the hair on top of his head, and then he feels the heat of the sun left behind on the top of his head as the ghost of his father’s hand disappears.

mom and the doctor’s voices are long gone now, replaced by the sound of ocean waves, seagulls, kids screeching as they chase each other with seaweed. kuhn doesn’t move an inch but the world around him does, the sensation of his father and mother swinging him by the arms far too vivid for him to be able to register how his butt hurts from sitting on an uncomfy chair for too long, or how cold this room felt when he got here.

he can’t help but smile a little to himself; he loves the beach, he loves home, he loves mama. he loves dad.

this vision is much more realistic than most of the things he daydreams about, though, and as if on cue, a giant godzilla-like monster emerges from the water in front of them.

but this monster is his friend, because kuhn said so, and he’s become quite used to adapting things within these little daydreams in ways that makes him happy. the kids around them start climbing godzilla like a jungle gym, kuhn waves, godzilla waves back, and kuhn goes back to hanging out with his likewise-unbothered family.

he’s just begun chasing the robot seagulls around with a lighstaber, while waiting for his dad to return with his french fries, when a gentle, albeit firm shake of the shoulder snaps him back to reality. he finds himself looking to his right and staring up at his mom’s face. a slow, confused blink, a pause, then-- “uh-huh,” kuhn states with some confidence, nodding -- answering the question he assumes he missed.

his mother’s gaze softens, though the way her brows draw closer together betrays her worry. she squeezes his shoulder and speaks to him in korean: “...kuhnie. i asked you what you want for dinner.”

with both sets of eyes on him, it feels like his mother’s question was more of a test than anything, and he feels more than a little embarrassed about getting his answer wrong. so he huffs, waving a hand. “oh. yeah, i know! i was just, um... still thinking about it,” neither of them call him out on his lie, so kuhn relaxes a little.

“i want french fries.” his gaze flicks up toward the ceiling as he remembers his fry stand he was just visiting. his stomach grumbles. “not mcdonald’s, though! i want the kind dad was gonna get me before.”

there is a pause before his mother speaks again, confused. “the-- the which kind?”

“remember the beach fries? can we get those?” pause. a thought occurs to him, and he adds, a little concerned: “i’ve been good enough today, right?”

though she assures him he has indeed been good today, kuhn’s mother reminds him, gently, that the beach he’s remembering from years ago is very, very far away from their new home now and they can’t go there. there is a part of him, the more mature part who has started to understand more of the real world around him lately, that understands how ridiculous his request is, but the other, more bratty side of him is stubborn. it’s not really the fries he’s that worried about anyway.

kuhn hesitates, then answers with a shrug: “i think dad knows where it is, it’s okay.” he stretches out a hand. “mama. can i have your phone? i’ll ask him to take us there all by myself. so you don’t have to talk to him,” he offers, helpfully, because, for a kid his age, the empathetic kuhn has been made far too aware of the tension between his parents, even if he doesn’t understand what all of it means yet.

his voice comes out small, and it has taken on an almost pleading note now. it’s not the first time he’s asked to call dad -- and it’s not the first time mom has set her jaw like that or sighed so delicately and it’s not the first time she’s said no, it’s too late where he lives, or no, he’s too busy with work to talk on the phone. she also adds that he can’t drive across the ocean and kuhn puffs out his cheeks because um, yes he can, he remembers that his dad can do basically everything.

but even still, kuhn can’t stop how his lower lip juts out, nor how that strange, sharp feeling in his chest comes back. he looks furtively out the window -- before his mom can notice his expression, because he doesn’t like when she sees that he’s sad.

he can already feel the tug of his little fantasy beckoning him to return, as he blinks furiously, his eyes focusing on something outside that he can’t really see. the doctor and his mom have started talking again now, and since he doesn’t want to listen anyway, he lets himself zone out again. he just wants to go back to his dream. just for a little bit. he doesn’t get to go away like this much anymore, not since he started taking his medicine.

it’s way more fun than this stupid STINKY office, he thinks, and then immediately feels bad about because he’s already thought about how doctor campbell can probably read his mind or something. sorry, doctor campbell. your office is not that stinky. i’m just a little mad at mama right now because she won’t let me call dad for some reason. he imagines himself sitting there, hands folded in his lap, attitude an exact mirror of his mother’s calm demeanor beside him. though he also pictures himself as bigger than he is now, sitting tall, shoulders squared in a strong way that reminds him more of his dad.

i need to talk to him real bad, doctor campbell. mama keeps bringing me to doctors like you when i don’t need to go. i think she thinks i’m sick, but i’m not.

he does feel a little sick, sometimes, but it usually just happens when he’s too worried. just like mama does when she gets too worried. the difference is for kuhn, it goes away when he finds something else to think about or someone to play with, while it seems like his mother has a harder time with that part. he sometimes wonders if his mom needs her own doctor/teacher people to talk to.

i think dad will believe me, doctor candl-- campbell. maybe i can show him my magic tricks and he’ll think they’re super awesome and cool and not just me making things up. maybe he’ll teach mom about them so she doesn’t look at me so sad anymore.

this awfully one-sided conversation in his head plays out for a while, as he explains everything to his internal doctor-teacher that he doesn’t want his mom to have to translate for him: how frustrating it is that dad works so far away now, how annoying it is that mom won’t let him talk on the phone anymore. how much it sucks that the only way he’s figured out how to talk to is dad is by writing letters, because it’s been so hard to keep them secret, but he worries that his mom will get him in trouble if she finds out, since she’s so weird about calling him on the phone nowadays. (kuhn has been dropping them off in their mailbox on his way to catch the bus in the morning, trusting the mailman to get them and send them to his father because... that’s just how it works, kuhn thinks. anyway, the letters are always gone when he gets home so he’s pretty sure it’s working.)

and then soon, dad will know that i miss him, and he’ll come and he’ll take me and mom away from stupid STINKY america. he bites his lip and scolds himself again. sorry america. you’re not that stinky. i’m just feeling mad again--

“--kuhnie. yah, kuhn. han kuhn.”

he jolts. “uh-huh,” he answers, quieter this time as he watches his breath fog up the window a little. he almost lifts a finger and draws a frowny-face on it before stopping himself.

“it’s time to go home. do you want to stop for mcdonald’s on the way?”

no! mcdonald’s sucks! i want beach fries, i want home, i want to see dad--

“uh-huh,” he repeats anyway, rubbing the sting of tears away with the back of his hand.

#( * solo )#tw: medication #tw: disability #tw: eating habits #( whyd i do this )#tw: Divorce Angst #?????

0 notes