Some poison with my pancakes.
Title: Some poison with my pancakes.
Pairing: Jonghyun/key
Rating: PG 15
Summary: Jonghyun is tired.Key is stuffing the cupboard with rat poison.
We built our lives on one September night, following the lines of a bet. We took a pair of azure colored sheets and pillowcases, spelled our single beds into a double, filled the gap in between with black satin ribbons for the (in your opinion) obvious reason that I just had too many, and set out to prove -to whom, really? - that we could fail on our own.
We were in our late twenties, both deserters of a life too strenuous for our bodies, too distant for our hearts. You would play your guitar seated on the wooden floor of our home on Sunday mornings, the blinds pulled slightly open, weak rays of winter light coming through the cold glass, and I would lean against the door-frame, steaming cup of coffee in one hand, fingers twitching with content as if they were eager to grasp eternity.
There we were, you finally at peace with yourself, crying a lot less and singing more for yourself than for me, giving me the impression that if you could plug your vocal chords to your head, you would actually do it and lock the sound away - and me, locking myself in our shared room and taking the curved, round mirror out of my drawer, tracing the lines of my face and painting my lips, thinking back to the screams of the crowd and the pretty lights of the stages of the world, a lost soul that never knew what it wanted more, love or glory.
Yes, there we were, fresh flowers in our vase every morning, coupled with your persistence to learn how to make the best pancakes in the world, and me storing rat poison in our kitchen cupboard.
“What is all that!” I hadn’t realized it had become an obsession until I actually looked at the number of boxes. “are you planning on killing anyone?” you said, and I smiled awkwardly. “I thought every house should have it! What if we need it!” I stared at you in mock seriousness, throwing my hands in the air. “Need it for what? To poison Korea?” we laughed. You went back to your guitar, and I slipped some poison in our flower vase that same night.
We grew apart. I guess you were too tired and I was too restless, a combination that can hardly exist. Staring out the window grew on me, sometimes you would walk by and touch your lips with mine, and I’d think of colorful, animal-shaped balloons flying away, of backstage kisses and hands rough like guitar strings collecting my tears because we just wouldn’t ever be-we couldn’t ever be -together.
And we still can’t.
Here, in this small kitchen with the round table and the wooden cupboards, I look out the huge windows at the fresh October snow and ask you for some poison on my pancakes. Here, in this kitchen, you laugh and hand me my plate along with a soft peck on the lips, but your smile is tired and I can’t find the key to my cupboard for the life of me.
Pairing: Jonghyun/key
Rating: PG 15
Summary: Jonghyun is tired.Key is stuffing the cupboard with rat poison.
We built our lives on one September night, following the lines of a bet. We took a pair of azure colored sheets and pillowcases, spelled our single beds into a double, filled the gap in between with black satin ribbons for the (in your opinion) obvious reason that I just had too many, and set out to prove -to whom, really? - that we could fail on our own.
We were in our late twenties, both deserters of a life too strenuous for our bodies, too distant for our hearts. You would play your guitar seated on the wooden floor of our home on Sunday mornings, the blinds pulled slightly open, weak rays of winter light coming through the cold glass, and I would lean against the door-frame, steaming cup of coffee in one hand, fingers twitching with content as if they were eager to grasp eternity.
There we were, you finally at peace with yourself, crying a lot less and singing more for yourself than for me, giving me the impression that if you could plug your vocal chords to your head, you would actually do it and lock the sound away - and me, locking myself in our shared room and taking the curved, round mirror out of my drawer, tracing the lines of my face and painting my lips, thinking back to the screams of the crowd and the pretty lights of the stages of the world, a lost soul that never knew what it wanted more, love or glory.
Yes, there we were, fresh flowers in our vase every morning, coupled with your persistence to learn how to make the best pancakes in the world, and me storing rat poison in our kitchen cupboard.
“What is all that!” I hadn’t realized it had become an obsession until I actually looked at the number of boxes. “are you planning on killing anyone?” you said, and I smiled awkwardly. “I thought every house should have it! What if we need it!” I stared at you in mock seriousness, throwing my hands in the air. “Need it for what? To poison Korea?” we laughed. You went back to your guitar, and I slipped some poison in our flower vase that same night.
We grew apart. I guess you were too tired and I was too restless, a combination that can hardly exist. Staring out the window grew on me, sometimes you would walk by and touch your lips with mine, and I’d think of colorful, animal-shaped balloons flying away, of backstage kisses and hands rough like guitar strings collecting my tears because we just wouldn’t ever be-we couldn’t ever be -together.
And we still can’t.
Here, in this small kitchen with the round table and the wooden cupboards, I look out the huge windows at the fresh October snow and ask you for some poison on my pancakes. Here, in this kitchen, you laugh and hand me my plate along with a soft peck on the lips, but your smile is tired and I can’t find the key to my cupboard for the life of me.