Temporal Suspension
I'm not dead, just slightly useless. Also, I am so depressing.
Title: Temporal Suspension.
Rating: 15
Pairing: Kibum x Donghae
Genre: Romance, Angst.
Warnings: Critical illness.
Summary: They sat here before, so different, so wonderful. Then, the fire had been bright and happy, dancing in the grate and heating the entire room while the crackling had drowned out that hateful clock. Always on that couch - he can’t bear to sit there anymore.
AN: Started out to write fluff, wrote this instead. I'm fairly sure this says something about my mental state when I am without internetz.
The pendulum on the Grandfather clock swings in the same quiet way as it has for hours, mocking him gently from the corner. The fire just crackles softly, almost as if it’s afraid of him - it probably should be. The rain is drizzling outside, appropriately depressing and disgustingly pathetic. The Scotch, technically, is excellent - the best money can buy and aged to perfection. Such pretty, pretty poison.
They sat here before, so different, so wonderful. Then, the fire had been bright and happy, dancing in the grate and heating the entire room while the crackling had drowned out that hateful clock. Always on that couch - he can’t bear to sit there anymore. The leather warmed by two bodies twisted and twined together, tucked under the soft, soft throw that now lies folded and sad: a shadow in the corner. Hazy memories that focus around man tucked in his arms. Such soft brown eyes and such a sweet smile, in that beautiful face. Gone now, feels like forever.
The laughter that echoes off the walls cuts like knives.
Something suddenly twists in his gut - pain, loss, despair (something) - and the glass slips from his hand. Grandfather’s crystal shatters on Grandfather’s tiles and that excellent Scotch is lost to dust and shards. The sound that bounces off every object - reverberating off the walls and somehow amplified by silence - manages to miss his ears and he barely even registers the cracking as he walks over it. Not even bothering to put the grate in front of the hearth, he’s striding out of the room - the whole place can burn down for all he cares, it doesn’t matter any more.
The key to the car bites into his hand he’s clutching it so hard and he’s not sure if he locked the door. He never needed to lock it before, it had been done for him for so long. He always forgot you see, and then doe eyes laughed and that sweet smile got brighter and happier, teasing. What would you do without me, silly? Honestly Kibummie~ He probably shouldn’t drive like this - whatever this is - but he will. It’s all on auto-pilot, it has to be. Donghae is everywhere, and it hurts. Like his mind full of razors and every time he thinks he bleeds a little more.
His heart feels worse.
Perhaps there were red lights, but he doesn’t see them. Red lights are for kissing and he doesn’t need them anymore.
Darkness swallows him, and for once not even in the metaphorical sense - he’s just got to the car park. Parking the car is easy, depressingly so, he knows all the hidden spots. Behind the pillars at the south end, under the broken lights behind the bike rack, in the gap by the underground entrance. It’s late enough for him not to really need them, admittedly, but its habit, and one he can’t be bothered to break. The lift still creaks, it used to unnerve him. Whatever.
Lifts used to be fun, before. Somewhere to touch, to caress and to enjoy the feel of lips on lips - or other more exciting places. The stop button used to be one of his best friends. Now, like so many other inanimate objects these days, it seems glaringly obvious and- and mocking. He’s starting to hate that word.
It’s after visiting hours, but the nurses have long since stopped telling him, and the pity in their eyes stings like the smell of disinfectant. This place is too clean, too clinical for someone like Donghae. There should be light and that joyous chaos that always seems to surround him, making even the most alien of places feel like home. It’s the socks on the floor.
It’s like walking to his doom, trailing down these halls. In all likelihood he’s worn a dent in the floor by now and he follows it religiously.
He’d have followed Donghae anywhere. Has followed Donghae anywhere. All it takes are sad eyes and a tug on the hand, a child after the pied piper, incapable and dancing inside. He’s actually been to clubs and he’s even fucking danced, okay, and he doesn’t dance, ever.
The door is red and the handle grey, like all the other doors, but the other doors aren’t important. They don’t matter and he doesn’t see them. The plastic of the handle is cool to the touch and as he pushes it down it almost seems to try and resist - like it knows that opening this door is like coming home and committing suicide.
Darkness swirls around the bed and only a little orange light streams in from street lights outside. The door stays open - a way out - until he shuts it and flicks open the switch on the wall. It’s so bright compared to the dim half-light of the rest of the hospital that it hurts his eyes, but he can’t blink. Instead he stares at the figure on the bed. Harsh hospital lighting caresses high cheek bones and pale skin. He brushes a kiss against a soft cheek, courtesy of the nurse with the very pink cheeks, and smiles as he cries inside.
It’s so wrong it hurts. Those eyes should so blinking open and lighting up, and Donghae should be sitting up and be reaching for him. Kibummie~ I missed you~ They should be talking about whatever has skipped it’s way into Donghae’s mind - about birds or China or flying cans. There should be wandering hands and hot glances. Instead, there is stillness and it burns.
The chair by the bed - as white and clean as everything else - is horribly uncomfortable and familiar. He settles into it easily, leaning across to the bed and taking a limp hand in his own, its warmth is the only sign of life.
Behind him the heart monitor beeps again and again, even more mocking than that damned clock. Not for the first time in the past weeks, he rather wants to die.
Comments are love~
Title: Temporal Suspension.
Rating: 15
Pairing: Kibum x Donghae
Genre: Romance, Angst.
Warnings: Critical illness.
Summary: They sat here before, so different, so wonderful. Then, the fire had been bright and happy, dancing in the grate and heating the entire room while the crackling had drowned out that hateful clock. Always on that couch - he can’t bear to sit there anymore.
AN: Started out to write fluff, wrote this instead. I'm fairly sure this says something about my mental state when I am without internetz.
The pendulum on the Grandfather clock swings in the same quiet way as it has for hours, mocking him gently from the corner. The fire just crackles softly, almost as if it’s afraid of him - it probably should be. The rain is drizzling outside, appropriately depressing and disgustingly pathetic. The Scotch, technically, is excellent - the best money can buy and aged to perfection. Such pretty, pretty poison.
They sat here before, so different, so wonderful. Then, the fire had been bright and happy, dancing in the grate and heating the entire room while the crackling had drowned out that hateful clock. Always on that couch - he can’t bear to sit there anymore. The leather warmed by two bodies twisted and twined together, tucked under the soft, soft throw that now lies folded and sad: a shadow in the corner. Hazy memories that focus around man tucked in his arms. Such soft brown eyes and such a sweet smile, in that beautiful face. Gone now, feels like forever.
The laughter that echoes off the walls cuts like knives.
Something suddenly twists in his gut - pain, loss, despair (something) - and the glass slips from his hand. Grandfather’s crystal shatters on Grandfather’s tiles and that excellent Scotch is lost to dust and shards. The sound that bounces off every object - reverberating off the walls and somehow amplified by silence - manages to miss his ears and he barely even registers the cracking as he walks over it. Not even bothering to put the grate in front of the hearth, he’s striding out of the room - the whole place can burn down for all he cares, it doesn’t matter any more.
The key to the car bites into his hand he’s clutching it so hard and he’s not sure if he locked the door. He never needed to lock it before, it had been done for him for so long. He always forgot you see, and then doe eyes laughed and that sweet smile got brighter and happier, teasing. What would you do without me, silly? Honestly Kibummie~ He probably shouldn’t drive like this - whatever this is - but he will. It’s all on auto-pilot, it has to be. Donghae is everywhere, and it hurts. Like his mind full of razors and every time he thinks he bleeds a little more.
His heart feels worse.
Perhaps there were red lights, but he doesn’t see them. Red lights are for kissing and he doesn’t need them anymore.
Darkness swallows him, and for once not even in the metaphorical sense - he’s just got to the car park. Parking the car is easy, depressingly so, he knows all the hidden spots. Behind the pillars at the south end, under the broken lights behind the bike rack, in the gap by the underground entrance. It’s late enough for him not to really need them, admittedly, but its habit, and one he can’t be bothered to break. The lift still creaks, it used to unnerve him. Whatever.
Lifts used to be fun, before. Somewhere to touch, to caress and to enjoy the feel of lips on lips - or other more exciting places. The stop button used to be one of his best friends. Now, like so many other inanimate objects these days, it seems glaringly obvious and- and mocking. He’s starting to hate that word.
It’s after visiting hours, but the nurses have long since stopped telling him, and the pity in their eyes stings like the smell of disinfectant. This place is too clean, too clinical for someone like Donghae. There should be light and that joyous chaos that always seems to surround him, making even the most alien of places feel like home. It’s the socks on the floor.
It’s like walking to his doom, trailing down these halls. In all likelihood he’s worn a dent in the floor by now and he follows it religiously.
He’d have followed Donghae anywhere. Has followed Donghae anywhere. All it takes are sad eyes and a tug on the hand, a child after the pied piper, incapable and dancing inside. He’s actually been to clubs and he’s even fucking danced, okay, and he doesn’t dance, ever.
The door is red and the handle grey, like all the other doors, but the other doors aren’t important. They don’t matter and he doesn’t see them. The plastic of the handle is cool to the touch and as he pushes it down it almost seems to try and resist - like it knows that opening this door is like coming home and committing suicide.
Darkness swirls around the bed and only a little orange light streams in from street lights outside. The door stays open - a way out - until he shuts it and flicks open the switch on the wall. It’s so bright compared to the dim half-light of the rest of the hospital that it hurts his eyes, but he can’t blink. Instead he stares at the figure on the bed. Harsh hospital lighting caresses high cheek bones and pale skin. He brushes a kiss against a soft cheek, courtesy of the nurse with the very pink cheeks, and smiles as he cries inside.
It’s so wrong it hurts. Those eyes should so blinking open and lighting up, and Donghae should be sitting up and be reaching for him. Kibummie~ I missed you~ They should be talking about whatever has skipped it’s way into Donghae’s mind - about birds or China or flying cans. There should be wandering hands and hot glances. Instead, there is stillness and it burns.
The chair by the bed - as white and clean as everything else - is horribly uncomfortable and familiar. He settles into it easily, leaning across to the bed and taking a limp hand in his own, its warmth is the only sign of life.
Behind him the heart monitor beeps again and again, even more mocking than that damned clock. Not for the first time in the past weeks, he rather wants to die.
Comments are love~