i've told you imma spam lj tonight
of black furs and gold eyes
taemin/kibum; pg-13; ~3,500w
taemin is a blood-sucking werewolf, and kibum just doesn't want to live alone.
a/n: for my lovely wife stickyblocks \o/ this is inspired by this beautiful picture. i've been toying with the idea for a long time, and this is kind of experimental, so I know this is confusing. even I am confused by this piece of disaster i've created orz. i hope you like this though, my lovely key ♥
“I really don’t think you should drink that,” he picks the dirt on her toenails, his body bends forwards like it almost snaps into half and his loose white shirt is turning brown from the soil; he doesn’t even look up from his feet. His wrist is, wrists are skinny, and her ankles dangling helplessly as if they will break easily like he is all bone, bone, and his collarbone popping out gracefully, pale neck and sharp shoulders and he is all bone, blood, bone, “It’s unhygienic.”
Taemin spares him a Look over the corpse below him.
So it goes like this:
“Me, drink from me. My blood.”
Don’t be ridiculous.
“If there’s anyone who is being ridiculous, I know it’s not me.”
Look, I don’t think you understand.
“No, you are the one who need to look. Wait, shut up. Listen, I’m not human. I won’t, I can’t die. It will be a long ass life for me, and I need someone, something, to be with me.”
You-
“I’m not done. See, we’re the same. We have eternity. It will be boring if we’re alone, don’t you think?”
I-You. I mean.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean. You and I. It’s not that difficult, is it?”
Wait, hold on. Stop, you’re going too far. You don’t understand. People-I’ve been with people. Like you. Eternity, that’s what they say.
“I think I missed your point, or you really don’t have anything at all?”
You see, this is why we can’t. I don’t want to. They-people like you-they don’t know the meaning of eternity. Of long ass life, the way you say it. In the end, everything ends. Every single one. Every person, people. They misunderstand or miscalculate-I don’t know. But I know for sure that they really have a wrong and off definition of. This. This long time. When I say, see. What I understand and what you understand, they are not the same. It’s a fucking long time.
“You’re talking too much.”
What-okay, here’s what I think.
“I don’t want to know what you think, you are stupid. No, seriously, close your mouth, it’s disturbing.”
Are you-did you even listen to me?
“No, not really. You say useless thing, they are all pointless. I mean, what is your loss, really. You get blood, companion. Even when I’m gone.”
I-I’ve lost a lot. People like you, they always end up being too much. A burden. A wanted burden. You-people like-you always, always end up being-I don’t know. But I know that I’ve lost too much. This person? The one I just buried? He was one of you. Can’t you see? It won’t work-
“Heart.”
I-what?
“You lost your heart, didn’t you? They end up being important. You gave them your heart, or whatever it is that you have. They go, and you lost it. You lost them all.”
Shut up.
“I won’t. You know I won’t.”
You won’t stop, will you?
“No. Okay, listen to me. No, asshole, look at me, where’s your respect? You’re so old, people would expect you to at least know and learn some attitude, and you need to learn how to not annoy other people. Listen, I am different. You know why? Because I know what you’re going through. What you have gone through. Have been. I understand-fine, I won’t lie, maybe I’m not, so cut your skeptical look, but at least I care. It’s. I’m not human, and neither are you, but I know for sure that we have something that make us more that those non-human things. With me, it’s not only you, it’s not only your hard work, it’s not only you trying, it’s both of us. With me, it’s not an eternity. Yes, it’s a freaking long time, but with me, it’s not, it won’t be those things you’re afraid of. It will never be a miscalculated eternity. It will be. I don’t know. It means more than-“
Forever.
“You-pardon?”
Does it mean forever?
“I-yes. It could, it will, we could make it forever.”
There’s no such thing as forever.
“We can always try.”
And it won’t be a happy forever.
“It won’t. Well, at least not for the whole time.”
But it’s okay.
“Yeah, it is. We have an eternity to solve that problem. Maybe we can find a way to make our own happy forever along the way.”
In the end, Taemin finds out that his name is Kibum, and he is three hundred and forty eight years old; eighty three years older than him.
Taemin sits behind the dining table as he stares at the straight back, the older (by appearance, at least) boy tries not to burn whatever it is that he is trying to make, arms flailing and expression serious and he’s jumping around and Taemin wonders if he thinks that this is a playground and not a kitchen and-did he just throw that knife carelessly to the sink and almost cut her own palm or is he just imagining things because he is too hungry, he’s not so sure anymore.
Kibum hums and whistles and he is either too engrosses in whatever it is that he is doing or he really doesn’t care much about his existent or he really couldn’t be bothered of him staring at her like he is his food (in a way, he is-wait no, he is), looking at him hungrily. Taemin walks forward, wiggles his tail as he nudges his hips with his nose (rosemary scent, mixed with a slight sapphire dust?), soft fabric and it smells so, so good, almost too good, and he closes his big black eyes, his fur stands up. His own gold eyes looks down at him and smiles, and he reaches out and scratches the back of his ear, makes him growls.
“One minute,” he laughs, taps his nose softly, “let me fulfill my appetite first.”
He barks a laugh.
He can only hope that no one would burst through the door right now; not that anyone would be able to come into their house, thanks to Kibum’s spells and some poisons that make their big house hidden between the ordinaries, but he can’t help but to be worried. He is worried, because he is pretty sure that there’s something slightly-very-wrong with this picture of him pushing Kibum to the couch, with Kibum lying breathlessly under his touch, with Kibum’s legs gripping tightly at the sides of his waist, of Kibum’s pretty long fingers practically tearing the front of his shirt, nails digging to his collarbone, with his long, long fangs buried deeply in Kibum’s neck, red blood dripping furiously to his side, to his chin, and he just drinks more and more and more and it’s sweet and raw and hot and it tastes too good for him to think about anything else, so he stops caring.
“You know,” the dark haired says suddenly, over his pants, trying to swallow the moan building up his throat, and Taemin might be smug but he wants to at least be respectful to the one who supplies food for him, so he stops sucking and leans up, eyes on him and his mouth and his nostrils and his wide eyes are glaring at the ceiling at the lamp and he waits patiently because Kibum doesn’t, never, complain before. “I kind of want to taste your lips,” Kibum finishes.
Now that throws him off.
The younger shifts himself up with his elbow, his bangs falling and covering his sight and he breathes loudly, harshly, to the other’s face, but he keeps his gaze up, up, up, static and motionless except for the rise of his chest, high and hard and his chest is hitting his chest, soft and hard and his ribs are breaking for trying to keep his breathing even.
I, he starts, but then Kibum looks down, looks at him at his eyes and it’s deep; they’re dark, they’re pulling him in, in, deeper, gold against black and long eyelashes are striking so obvious so glorious so beautiful and he feels himself stops breathing, for the first time after he changes, the first time after he stops being a human; they stop and he pauses and he tries not to think and to act and to please stop being so stupid for God’s sake.
Kibum tilts his head to the side and gives him and apologetic smile, eyes droopy as he drapes his soft, soft palm across Taemin’s chest, across Taemin’s neck up and up to tangle itself in Taemin’s messy hair as he pulls him back, guides his red dry lips to his own red wet neck, throws his head backward so that it’s easier for him, easy to eat, to drink, to suck, and he presses his lips, opens and takes out his tongue, tastes it and licks it and savors it and not long after that, Kibum is panting again, remaking the bright scar on his back, on his front, bruising his waist and his hips.
Taemin wonders if the other realizes that he doesn’t pull out his fangs, no teeth, no another ripping of skin, only kisses and tasting. He wonders what her lips would taste like.
When he pushes the door open with his nose, Kibum is lying on his front, arms pillowing his head and his neck is twisted it looks like his head is not a part of his body. The papers with weird curvy and messy writing are scattered all around-some even cover his lower part-and are yellowing, and the blanket that is supposed to warm him is thrown to the other side of the room, even though the fire is, Taemin realizes, not lighted. He chuckles (rough and hard and low and) makes the one with light brown, almost orange hair, shifts and opens his eyes halfway, gazes at him with sleepy eyes and throws him a dozing smile.
The wizard (“I do magic,” he tells the black wolf with a laugh) lifts a hand and gestures him to move forward, to move, to come closer, nearer, and he blinks slowly before he starts walking, foot after foot, tail hung lazily as he slips his body under the long, long arm, warm and cold and hot and soft and silky and he closes his eyes, trying to pretend. The breath against the side of his face is captivating, addicting, and he doesn’t think, never once the thought passes on his mind, that a dog’s stomach could swirl and makes him want to throw up. It’s cherry scent that he smells, and not blood. His snore is loud in his ear.
It has become a habit now, really, how he opens his eyes and realizes that he has changed into his human form and that the circulation of his right (or left) hand is being cut and he almost jerks violently before he catches sight of the ridiculous pink-yellow-green lamp on the desk beside him (he still wants to break it or at least to have Kibum’s ability so that he can change the color to anything that is not ridiculous pink-yellow-green because it seriously hurts his eyes) and he sighs as he relaxed back to the cold sheets of the bed. Taemin looks down and he is clinging to his side for dear life, as if he is the last lifeline he has (pretty ironic he thinks, considering he is the one who fed off him), as if he is the fragile and younger and smaller one, and Taemin thinks that the hold around his waist is suffocating but no, he’s not complaining, not when he could ticks his nose to the brown hair and the top of his head and it smells like strawberry when he is pretty sure that the shampoo he is using is either citrus or aloe vera (he is the one who bought it-stole it) and he wraps his arm around the shoulder, the wider shoulder, just that little bit tighter.
Kibum groans, yawns, loudly, morning breathe swirling in front of his face (why is it not bad, it’s unfair) as he looks up and moves his arms lazily to his side, stroking slowly, softly, and it’s a little bit too intimate, but it’s habit, no really.
And Kibum brings his hand, his fingers, up and up and up and he almost think that he wants to strangle his neck with those long and thin fingers but no, he puts his thumb over his lips. Taemin doesn’t look at him, he doesn’t know where he’s looking, what he’s looking, but after a few second, Kibum’s fingers pries his lips open slowly, softly, gently, and presses itself to the inside of his cheek, to his tongue, delicate strokes, delicate moves, before finally he pushes it against his fangs, sharp and cutting and it rips his skin, blood flowing into Taemin’s mouth, flooding his tongue, his senses, drips, dripping, making its way to his throat, and he closes his eyes, his air passage, trying his hard not to choke, or worse, opens the scar wider to get more blood. He does it herself though, moves so that the cut would be, can be, longer, and it’s a waterfall then, falling more and more and more and there’s something at the back of his head, something like firework or just simply fire, but he licks gently at her cut, let the gravity brings the fluid down and down and down his body and not forces anything.
It has become a habit, really, maybe their way to say and greet ‘good morning’, but he’s not sure whether to like it or not, whether to laugh at it or to cry over it.
He doesn’t expect it to end so soon, too soon, when they got a visitor three days ago, a wise-looking, small eyed boy with his tall, lean man that can turn into a big white bird, tells them that their time is ending, ticking, ending, that they have broken the highest, mightiest rule, and Taemin thinks maybe the rule is that they cannot have a forever, that there’s no forever, nowhere.
Kibum sends them home with a tired smile, and he doesn’t look at Taemin for a very long time. They both know that they’re lying, pretending, when no one brings up about the newly made scar across Kibum’s back, about the pitch black hole in the middle of Kibum’s study room, about the ringing bell in the air, loud and clear when they are sleeping. They don’t say anything else, they keep their mouth shut, and keep, keep, keep pretending.
Until there’s a knock on their door.
It’s Taemin’s first time crying, because even as a human, he has never had an experience that makes him feel like this. He is the one who asks his first master to turn him into the endless; when he is dying, when the venom is spreading in his body, he doesn’t, cannot cry, so. When he cries, the salty water tastes weird against his mouth, like it’s not supposed to be there, but he has a feeling that it shouldn’t be anywhere else.
Please, he whispers, and Kibum’s fingers shake as his shoulder becomes stiff, and he bites his lips but he doesn’t let the tears fall, his red, wide eyes reflecting his own; Taemin smiles despite of his tears, just let me do something for you, just this once.
They ignore everything; they ignore the shouts, the crumbling of the air around them, the falling of the ceiling, the plasters of the wall shattering around them, as if nothing happens, as if nothing matters (in fact, nothing is, not anymore), but he can feel the sharp little pain against his skin, all over, like his skin is being pulled from his body, and he knows that Kibum feels it too, because his nails are poking through the skin of his wrist, like he wants to say, to tell him, that the only real thing is him, from him, because of him, just him, and Taemin really believes so, so maybe he doesn’t, anyone doesn’t, they don’t need to worry about anything.
“Fuck you, just,” Kibum snarls from behind the gritted teeth, and the black haired almost laughs, smiles, chuckles, because he never sees Kibum mad, angry, least of all to him, but there he is, full of rage and pain and maybe it’s not to him, but it’s surely because of him, “keep this in mind. Keep that, if you’re thinking that you’re paying me anything because you leave, because of-,“ he chokes a little,”-this, than you are stupider than you look.”
He smiles and Kibum stills and something is pulling his back, pulling him, the pain is becoming more real, more vivid, and they have to be quick, quick, and he bits the inside of his lips so hard that he winces, because he can feel it, they can feel it, the time ticking off, slipping away, and it might be their last time, the last, and the two boys reaches up and in the end, Taemin closes his eyes and releases his wrist from the tight grip, bright red bright scar bright mark around them and maybe they’re not, they won’t, see each other anymore, it’s scaring him, them, I don’t look stupid, he laughs, barks.
The older smiles then, at last, at last, and he regrets nothing when he pushes him away, when the back of his clothes are taken away, pulled away, ripped and in a second it will be his skin, but he regrets nothing, it’s all worth it. “The forever we talked about? About the happy one,” Kibum breathes, uneven and soft and it’s ending, encore, closing, and maybe it will start again maybe it won’t, and usually Taemin’s impatient, but maybe-no, he’s sure he can wait for this one time, “we will find it when you come back, okay?”
He kisses him for the first time then. Right before everything blurs out, blows up, blinding light turns into darkness. Disappears. The taste of his lips is bitter, sweet, salty, sour, and it’s all kind of perfect.
Taemin kisses Kibum for the first time, and maybe the last time.
He whispers to the material of his dark blazer, fingers drawing circles on his chest.
Taemin wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to crawl into a hole and rot there, wants to zip his lip and lock it and never open it but he wants to answer, wants to tell Kibum that God, isn’t it obvious already, but he stays still (like a freaking statue, he wants to curse) and grips his hips, pulls him closer, tighter, sighing softly, but his ear can almost pick the sound of friction of the air he takes in with the wall of his throat, bubbling and rising and rising and choking him as he tries to breathe normally. Maybe he should stop breathing, but then Kibum would realize everything and maybe Kibum will go and that night will be the same as the other night when he knows that nothing is the same, everything is shifting, changing, but then.
He breathes eventually, answering to Taemin’s hair, muffled but still as clear as a bell, echoing in the room, until it is sipped by the carpet they are lying on, staying around the paper surrounding them, maybe curling and dancing with the smudged blood, with the sharp juncture of the black ink, wherever or whatever, it still hurts his eyes the back of his throat his skull is throbbing his chest contracting his ribs threatening to break and he wonders what is happening when he has no heart at all, he wonders and wonders and keeps wondering and really, maybe that’s all he does even until the last day, their last day, the said last day, their last, he breathes, the last.
Kibum tries, smiles, cheek pressing against his left shoulder, breathe ghosting hotly around his neck and. He stops breathing.
Taemin’s body is cold, turning into a dog and a skeleton and dusts, dusts are everywhere, and that’s when Kibum realizes that he needs to stop searching for forever.
“Hey, do you know?” (tears, tears, medley.)
I. Yes. I do. Taemin takes his last breath. Sips the last drop of blood, his blood, I know. Always know. Have always known. All along.
Good. Finally, Kibum is crying, but Taemin cannot see it. That’s great. (tears, smile, tears, more tears, closure. infinite intermission.
done.)
FML I'M SORRY THIS SUCKS MAJORLY ;_________; guh, idek.
taemin/kibum; pg-13; ~3,500w
taemin is a blood-sucking werewolf, and kibum just doesn't want to live alone.
a/n: for my lovely wife stickyblocks \o/ this is inspired by this beautiful picture. i've been toying with the idea for a long time, and this is kind of experimental, so I know this is confusing. even I am confused by this piece of disaster i've created orz. i hope you like this though, my lovely key ♥
“I really don’t think you should drink that,” he picks the dirt on her toenails, his body bends forwards like it almost snaps into half and his loose white shirt is turning brown from the soil; he doesn’t even look up from his feet. His wrist is, wrists are skinny, and her ankles dangling helplessly as if they will break easily like he is all bone, bone, and his collarbone popping out gracefully, pale neck and sharp shoulders and he is all bone, blood, bone, “It’s unhygienic.”
Taemin spares him a Look over the corpse below him.
So it goes like this:
“Me, drink from me. My blood.”
Don’t be ridiculous.
“If there’s anyone who is being ridiculous, I know it’s not me.”
Look, I don’t think you understand.
“No, you are the one who need to look. Wait, shut up. Listen, I’m not human. I won’t, I can’t die. It will be a long ass life for me, and I need someone, something, to be with me.”
You-
“I’m not done. See, we’re the same. We have eternity. It will be boring if we’re alone, don’t you think?”
I-You. I mean.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean. You and I. It’s not that difficult, is it?”
Wait, hold on. Stop, you’re going too far. You don’t understand. People-I’ve been with people. Like you. Eternity, that’s what they say.
“I think I missed your point, or you really don’t have anything at all?”
You see, this is why we can’t. I don’t want to. They-people like you-they don’t know the meaning of eternity. Of long ass life, the way you say it. In the end, everything ends. Every single one. Every person, people. They misunderstand or miscalculate-I don’t know. But I know for sure that they really have a wrong and off definition of. This. This long time. When I say, see. What I understand and what you understand, they are not the same. It’s a fucking long time.
“You’re talking too much.”
What-okay, here’s what I think.
“I don’t want to know what you think, you are stupid. No, seriously, close your mouth, it’s disturbing.”
Are you-did you even listen to me?
“No, not really. You say useless thing, they are all pointless. I mean, what is your loss, really. You get blood, companion. Even when I’m gone.”
I-I’ve lost a lot. People like you, they always end up being too much. A burden. A wanted burden. You-people like-you always, always end up being-I don’t know. But I know that I’ve lost too much. This person? The one I just buried? He was one of you. Can’t you see? It won’t work-
“Heart.”
I-what?
“You lost your heart, didn’t you? They end up being important. You gave them your heart, or whatever it is that you have. They go, and you lost it. You lost them all.”
Shut up.
“I won’t. You know I won’t.”
You won’t stop, will you?
“No. Okay, listen to me. No, asshole, look at me, where’s your respect? You’re so old, people would expect you to at least know and learn some attitude, and you need to learn how to not annoy other people. Listen, I am different. You know why? Because I know what you’re going through. What you have gone through. Have been. I understand-fine, I won’t lie, maybe I’m not, so cut your skeptical look, but at least I care. It’s. I’m not human, and neither are you, but I know for sure that we have something that make us more that those non-human things. With me, it’s not only you, it’s not only your hard work, it’s not only you trying, it’s both of us. With me, it’s not an eternity. Yes, it’s a freaking long time, but with me, it’s not, it won’t be those things you’re afraid of. It will never be a miscalculated eternity. It will be. I don’t know. It means more than-“
Forever.
“You-pardon?”
Does it mean forever?
“I-yes. It could, it will, we could make it forever.”
There’s no such thing as forever.
“We can always try.”
And it won’t be a happy forever.
“It won’t. Well, at least not for the whole time.”
But it’s okay.
“Yeah, it is. We have an eternity to solve that problem. Maybe we can find a way to make our own happy forever along the way.”
In the end, Taemin finds out that his name is Kibum, and he is three hundred and forty eight years old; eighty three years older than him.
Taemin sits behind the dining table as he stares at the straight back, the older (by appearance, at least) boy tries not to burn whatever it is that he is trying to make, arms flailing and expression serious and he’s jumping around and Taemin wonders if he thinks that this is a playground and not a kitchen and-did he just throw that knife carelessly to the sink and almost cut her own palm or is he just imagining things because he is too hungry, he’s not so sure anymore.
Kibum hums and whistles and he is either too engrosses in whatever it is that he is doing or he really doesn’t care much about his existent or he really couldn’t be bothered of him staring at her like he is his food (in a way, he is-wait no, he is), looking at him hungrily. Taemin walks forward, wiggles his tail as he nudges his hips with his nose (rosemary scent, mixed with a slight sapphire dust?), soft fabric and it smells so, so good, almost too good, and he closes his big black eyes, his fur stands up. His own gold eyes looks down at him and smiles, and he reaches out and scratches the back of his ear, makes him growls.
“One minute,” he laughs, taps his nose softly, “let me fulfill my appetite first.”
He barks a laugh.
He can only hope that no one would burst through the door right now; not that anyone would be able to come into their house, thanks to Kibum’s spells and some poisons that make their big house hidden between the ordinaries, but he can’t help but to be worried. He is worried, because he is pretty sure that there’s something slightly-very-wrong with this picture of him pushing Kibum to the couch, with Kibum lying breathlessly under his touch, with Kibum’s legs gripping tightly at the sides of his waist, of Kibum’s pretty long fingers practically tearing the front of his shirt, nails digging to his collarbone, with his long, long fangs buried deeply in Kibum’s neck, red blood dripping furiously to his side, to his chin, and he just drinks more and more and more and it’s sweet and raw and hot and it tastes too good for him to think about anything else, so he stops caring.
“You know,” the dark haired says suddenly, over his pants, trying to swallow the moan building up his throat, and Taemin might be smug but he wants to at least be respectful to the one who supplies food for him, so he stops sucking and leans up, eyes on him and his mouth and his nostrils and his wide eyes are glaring at the ceiling at the lamp and he waits patiently because Kibum doesn’t, never, complain before. “I kind of want to taste your lips,” Kibum finishes.
Now that throws him off.
The younger shifts himself up with his elbow, his bangs falling and covering his sight and he breathes loudly, harshly, to the other’s face, but he keeps his gaze up, up, up, static and motionless except for the rise of his chest, high and hard and his chest is hitting his chest, soft and hard and his ribs are breaking for trying to keep his breathing even.
I, he starts, but then Kibum looks down, looks at him at his eyes and it’s deep; they’re dark, they’re pulling him in, in, deeper, gold against black and long eyelashes are striking so obvious so glorious so beautiful and he feels himself stops breathing, for the first time after he changes, the first time after he stops being a human; they stop and he pauses and he tries not to think and to act and to please stop being so stupid for God’s sake.
Kibum tilts his head to the side and gives him and apologetic smile, eyes droopy as he drapes his soft, soft palm across Taemin’s chest, across Taemin’s neck up and up to tangle itself in Taemin’s messy hair as he pulls him back, guides his red dry lips to his own red wet neck, throws his head backward so that it’s easier for him, easy to eat, to drink, to suck, and he presses his lips, opens and takes out his tongue, tastes it and licks it and savors it and not long after that, Kibum is panting again, remaking the bright scar on his back, on his front, bruising his waist and his hips.
Taemin wonders if the other realizes that he doesn’t pull out his fangs, no teeth, no another ripping of skin, only kisses and tasting. He wonders what her lips would taste like.
When he pushes the door open with his nose, Kibum is lying on his front, arms pillowing his head and his neck is twisted it looks like his head is not a part of his body. The papers with weird curvy and messy writing are scattered all around-some even cover his lower part-and are yellowing, and the blanket that is supposed to warm him is thrown to the other side of the room, even though the fire is, Taemin realizes, not lighted. He chuckles (rough and hard and low and) makes the one with light brown, almost orange hair, shifts and opens his eyes halfway, gazes at him with sleepy eyes and throws him a dozing smile.
The wizard (“I do magic,” he tells the black wolf with a laugh) lifts a hand and gestures him to move forward, to move, to come closer, nearer, and he blinks slowly before he starts walking, foot after foot, tail hung lazily as he slips his body under the long, long arm, warm and cold and hot and soft and silky and he closes his eyes, trying to pretend. The breath against the side of his face is captivating, addicting, and he doesn’t think, never once the thought passes on his mind, that a dog’s stomach could swirl and makes him want to throw up. It’s cherry scent that he smells, and not blood. His snore is loud in his ear.
It has become a habit now, really, how he opens his eyes and realizes that he has changed into his human form and that the circulation of his right (or left) hand is being cut and he almost jerks violently before he catches sight of the ridiculous pink-yellow-green lamp on the desk beside him (he still wants to break it or at least to have Kibum’s ability so that he can change the color to anything that is not ridiculous pink-yellow-green because it seriously hurts his eyes) and he sighs as he relaxed back to the cold sheets of the bed. Taemin looks down and he is clinging to his side for dear life, as if he is the last lifeline he has (pretty ironic he thinks, considering he is the one who fed off him), as if he is the fragile and younger and smaller one, and Taemin thinks that the hold around his waist is suffocating but no, he’s not complaining, not when he could ticks his nose to the brown hair and the top of his head and it smells like strawberry when he is pretty sure that the shampoo he is using is either citrus or aloe vera (he is the one who bought it-stole it) and he wraps his arm around the shoulder, the wider shoulder, just that little bit tighter.
Kibum groans, yawns, loudly, morning breathe swirling in front of his face (why is it not bad, it’s unfair) as he looks up and moves his arms lazily to his side, stroking slowly, softly, and it’s a little bit too intimate, but it’s habit, no really.
And Kibum brings his hand, his fingers, up and up and up and he almost think that he wants to strangle his neck with those long and thin fingers but no, he puts his thumb over his lips. Taemin doesn’t look at him, he doesn’t know where he’s looking, what he’s looking, but after a few second, Kibum’s fingers pries his lips open slowly, softly, gently, and presses itself to the inside of his cheek, to his tongue, delicate strokes, delicate moves, before finally he pushes it against his fangs, sharp and cutting and it rips his skin, blood flowing into Taemin’s mouth, flooding his tongue, his senses, drips, dripping, making its way to his throat, and he closes his eyes, his air passage, trying his hard not to choke, or worse, opens the scar wider to get more blood. He does it herself though, moves so that the cut would be, can be, longer, and it’s a waterfall then, falling more and more and more and there’s something at the back of his head, something like firework or just simply fire, but he licks gently at her cut, let the gravity brings the fluid down and down and down his body and not forces anything.
It has become a habit, really, maybe their way to say and greet ‘good morning’, but he’s not sure whether to like it or not, whether to laugh at it or to cry over it.
He doesn’t expect it to end so soon, too soon, when they got a visitor three days ago, a wise-looking, small eyed boy with his tall, lean man that can turn into a big white bird, tells them that their time is ending, ticking, ending, that they have broken the highest, mightiest rule, and Taemin thinks maybe the rule is that they cannot have a forever, that there’s no forever, nowhere.
Kibum sends them home with a tired smile, and he doesn’t look at Taemin for a very long time. They both know that they’re lying, pretending, when no one brings up about the newly made scar across Kibum’s back, about the pitch black hole in the middle of Kibum’s study room, about the ringing bell in the air, loud and clear when they are sleeping. They don’t say anything else, they keep their mouth shut, and keep, keep, keep pretending.
Until there’s a knock on their door.
It’s Taemin’s first time crying, because even as a human, he has never had an experience that makes him feel like this. He is the one who asks his first master to turn him into the endless; when he is dying, when the venom is spreading in his body, he doesn’t, cannot cry, so. When he cries, the salty water tastes weird against his mouth, like it’s not supposed to be there, but he has a feeling that it shouldn’t be anywhere else.
Please, he whispers, and Kibum’s fingers shake as his shoulder becomes stiff, and he bites his lips but he doesn’t let the tears fall, his red, wide eyes reflecting his own; Taemin smiles despite of his tears, just let me do something for you, just this once.
They ignore everything; they ignore the shouts, the crumbling of the air around them, the falling of the ceiling, the plasters of the wall shattering around them, as if nothing happens, as if nothing matters (in fact, nothing is, not anymore), but he can feel the sharp little pain against his skin, all over, like his skin is being pulled from his body, and he knows that Kibum feels it too, because his nails are poking through the skin of his wrist, like he wants to say, to tell him, that the only real thing is him, from him, because of him, just him, and Taemin really believes so, so maybe he doesn’t, anyone doesn’t, they don’t need to worry about anything.
“Fuck you, just,” Kibum snarls from behind the gritted teeth, and the black haired almost laughs, smiles, chuckles, because he never sees Kibum mad, angry, least of all to him, but there he is, full of rage and pain and maybe it’s not to him, but it’s surely because of him, “keep this in mind. Keep that, if you’re thinking that you’re paying me anything because you leave, because of-,“ he chokes a little,”-this, than you are stupider than you look.”
He smiles and Kibum stills and something is pulling his back, pulling him, the pain is becoming more real, more vivid, and they have to be quick, quick, and he bits the inside of his lips so hard that he winces, because he can feel it, they can feel it, the time ticking off, slipping away, and it might be their last time, the last, and the two boys reaches up and in the end, Taemin closes his eyes and releases his wrist from the tight grip, bright red bright scar bright mark around them and maybe they’re not, they won’t, see each other anymore, it’s scaring him, them, I don’t look stupid, he laughs, barks.
The older smiles then, at last, at last, and he regrets nothing when he pushes him away, when the back of his clothes are taken away, pulled away, ripped and in a second it will be his skin, but he regrets nothing, it’s all worth it. “The forever we talked about? About the happy one,” Kibum breathes, uneven and soft and it’s ending, encore, closing, and maybe it will start again maybe it won’t, and usually Taemin’s impatient, but maybe-no, he’s sure he can wait for this one time, “we will find it when you come back, okay?”
He kisses him for the first time then. Right before everything blurs out, blows up, blinding light turns into darkness. Disappears. The taste of his lips is bitter, sweet, salty, sour, and it’s all kind of perfect.
Taemin kisses Kibum for the first time, and maybe the last time.
He whispers to the material of his dark blazer, fingers drawing circles on his chest.
Taemin wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to crawl into a hole and rot there, wants to zip his lip and lock it and never open it but he wants to answer, wants to tell Kibum that God, isn’t it obvious already, but he stays still (like a freaking statue, he wants to curse) and grips his hips, pulls him closer, tighter, sighing softly, but his ear can almost pick the sound of friction of the air he takes in with the wall of his throat, bubbling and rising and rising and choking him as he tries to breathe normally. Maybe he should stop breathing, but then Kibum would realize everything and maybe Kibum will go and that night will be the same as the other night when he knows that nothing is the same, everything is shifting, changing, but then.
He breathes eventually, answering to Taemin’s hair, muffled but still as clear as a bell, echoing in the room, until it is sipped by the carpet they are lying on, staying around the paper surrounding them, maybe curling and dancing with the smudged blood, with the sharp juncture of the black ink, wherever or whatever, it still hurts his eyes the back of his throat his skull is throbbing his chest contracting his ribs threatening to break and he wonders what is happening when he has no heart at all, he wonders and wonders and keeps wondering and really, maybe that’s all he does even until the last day, their last day, the said last day, their last, he breathes, the last.
Kibum tries, smiles, cheek pressing against his left shoulder, breathe ghosting hotly around his neck and. He stops breathing.
Taemin’s body is cold, turning into a dog and a skeleton and dusts, dusts are everywhere, and that’s when Kibum realizes that he needs to stop searching for forever.
“Hey, do you know?” (tears, tears, medley.)
I. Yes. I do. Taemin takes his last breath. Sips the last drop of blood, his blood, I know. Always know. Have always known. All along.
Good. Finally, Kibum is crying, but Taemin cannot see it. That’s great. (tears, smile, tears, more tears, closure. infinite intermission.
done.)
FML I'M SORRY THIS SUCKS MAJORLY ;_________; guh, idek.