INVICTUS | JAEYONG

1: Welcome to IV

Taeyong curves his body, keeping his spine arched and his muscles lax. There's a certain thrill to dancing that he can never find anywhere else. It's in the way his heart thrums in time to the beat of the music and his bones ache for days afterward when he pushes himself too hard. It's all that and more, and despite having been at it for hours now, beads of sweat sliding down his nape, he doesn't stop. It's the only way he knows how to forget - the only way he can block out images of lifeless skin, shut eyes, and boxy coffins whilst still managing to keep himself intact.

His limbs throb when he finishes up, rusty now after not practicing for over a week. He's been up to his neck in assignments because, for some reason, it seems as if all the professors in Ivory have decided that these past couple days would serve as their designated hell week and piled things upon them all at once. He had practically passed out after typing out and submitting the final one last night, and now he has the opportunity to release all the pent up tension that had wrapped around his bones, keeping him stiff for the past seven days. He pauses to shrug off the blazer that's been suffocating him and making it hard to dance, and he picks up the remote to switch the music. He drops it and moves again, twisting his body in time with the music.

It doesn't take long before he loses himself in it completely. Or, at least, he tries to. He doesn't know whether it's because it's been so long since he stepped foot into the dance practice room, but when he closes his eyes again, he finds that he can't concentrate. Images flash in his eyes one after the other on a reel without pause, plaguing him no matter how hard he screws his eyes shut. He stumbles as he moves, and his eyes shoot open as he lets out a frustrated breath. It's clear that dancing isn't working, and it's not going to magically start cooperating with him either. Truthfully, it hasn't been helping him cope for a long time now, and he finds himself more annoyed after such workouts than before them.

Dancing is meant to be his outlet, his source of relief from the grief, but with his dance partner long gone, he's lost his spark.

Taeyong's chest pangs as he picks up his blazer and turns the music off. From the middle of the room, he hears his phone buzz where he left it in the corner, strewn across the floor with his bag. Walking over, legs tense and somewhat sore, he sees a couple of notifications from his aunt and uncle. Guiltily scrolling over them, he clicks on his most recent ones - a couple messages from Ten, and going off the tone of them, it's urgent.

TEN
um...
u need to get to the cafeteria rn please
it's the student council members again...

At the words student council, Taeyong's heart picks up speed and his hand tightens around the sides of his phone, digging lines into his palm. A part of him wants to laugh at how Ten refers to them even in text as if they'll somehow find out if he calls their name out as what it truly is. But he focuses on more pressing matters. The supposed student council never really come out, nor ever really draw much attention to themselves, so shock envelopes him at the news that something's only come up with them now after having to wait such a long time for them to act. Usually, they lay low, doing whatever the fuck it is that they do. Taeyong's only been attending Ivory for a month, and despite the digging he's done, he only vaguely knows about the shit that they advocate for.

But he's well aware that there's more to it - he's sure that they're what he's looking for exactly. After all, Sunmi was a part of their group, and he guesses, in a sick way, that he's come to follow in her footsteps.

Taeyong puts off replying to Ten in lieu of packing his things up and rushing out of the practice room. He slips on his blazer and bag as he closes the door and paces down the hallway, heading in the direction of the cafeteria. He keeps his head high and back straight as he walks, determined not to let the stares of the other student get to him. He knows he's an oddity, a rare commodity in somewhere like Ivory that's been built only for the elite - built only for the purebloods - but he thinks that after a month of attending, they really should've grown tired of staring at him by now. Even if their burning stares haven't let up, at least the vicious whispers have died down. He ignores all of that, though, and opts to admire the hallway's decor as he walks.