(no subject)
new : fanfic : super junior
medium : one-shot
rating : PG
focus : heechul (x many people)
pretentious rambling and inconsistent analogy, mostly. post-accident (you know, the other one), pre-T.
butterfly dust
He is alive because he was sleeping.
Because he couldn't see it coming, he is alive.
Sometimes, Heechul contemplates this; the irony of the situation (because he was unresisting, unaware, unprepared he is alive) and the matchstick-snap memory of the impact, his mind one step ahead of his body and just in time for the (this is going to--) moment of lucidity before there was only pain and lights and noises and stupid, thoughtless little girls shoving flashbulbs in his face as blood trickled down his chin.
He remembers the copper-sharp taste of it in time with the stabbing, grating shocks from his leg and then the dry, dull cotton in his mouth, in his mind. Floating. Dark.
Weeks, drifting past in a drug-induced haze, alternately nauseated and numbed to the point of stupidity.
Brittleness kills, he learns, watching seconds fracturing one by one as they tick away, the space between one visit and the (who is going to remember me, does anyone remember me, who am I?) next.
Heechul is brittle by nature, grasping, clinging, driving his nails and teeth in and hanging on to, loving people and ideas and dreams with every scrap of tenacity he possesses. Strike him, all spread open like that, and he crumbles with a breath.
Dark eyes won't meet his, before the door swings shut, and he feels something snap like dry twigs in the dark, echoing in the stillness of the empty room.
"Okay," he says. "Okay." He can go limp, unresisting and uncaring and maybe he will survive that, too. "I didn't care, anyway."
He vomits bitter lies into a bucket and looks at nothing in particular while a nurse takes them neatly away.
Heechul's (I'm sorry, but--) life is a series (I don't think of you that--) of head-on (there's someone--) collisions, tripping from (I can't stop thinking about--) one into the (let's just be--) next. It's important to roll with the punches, he thinks. Go limp. Pick himself up when it's over and grind on.
Easy come, easy go, and butterflies never land in one place for long. Broken fingers would only crush them.
medium : one-shot
rating : PG
focus : heechul (x many people)
pretentious rambling and inconsistent analogy, mostly. post-accident (you know, the other one), pre-T.
butterfly dust
He is alive because he was sleeping.
Because he couldn't see it coming, he is alive.
Sometimes, Heechul contemplates this; the irony of the situation (because he was unresisting, unaware, unprepared he is alive) and the matchstick-snap memory of the impact, his mind one step ahead of his body and just in time for the (this is going to--) moment of lucidity before there was only pain and lights and noises and stupid, thoughtless little girls shoving flashbulbs in his face as blood trickled down his chin.
He remembers the copper-sharp taste of it in time with the stabbing, grating shocks from his leg and then the dry, dull cotton in his mouth, in his mind. Floating. Dark.
Weeks, drifting past in a drug-induced haze, alternately nauseated and numbed to the point of stupidity.
Brittleness kills, he learns, watching seconds fracturing one by one as they tick away, the space between one visit and the (who is going to remember me, does anyone remember me, who am I?) next.
Heechul is brittle by nature, grasping, clinging, driving his nails and teeth in and hanging on to, loving people and ideas and dreams with every scrap of tenacity he possesses. Strike him, all spread open like that, and he crumbles with a breath.
Dark eyes won't meet his, before the door swings shut, and he feels something snap like dry twigs in the dark, echoing in the stillness of the empty room.
"Okay," he says. "Okay." He can go limp, unresisting and uncaring and maybe he will survive that, too. "I didn't care, anyway."
He vomits bitter lies into a bucket and looks at nothing in particular while a nurse takes them neatly away.
Heechul's (I'm sorry, but--) life is a series (I don't think of you that--) of head-on (there's someone--) collisions, tripping from (I can't stop thinking about--) one into the (let's just be--) next. It's important to roll with the punches, he thinks. Go limp. Pick himself up when it's over and grind on.
Easy come, easy go, and butterflies never land in one place for long. Broken fingers would only crush them.