The Fictions You Make
Title: The Fictions You Make
Rating: G
Pairing: junmyeon being asleep [...]implied krisho hehhe
Genre: oneshot, drama, maybe angst
Wordcount: ~1200
Summary: Junmyeon's having freaky ass dreams. This fic is not as silly as the description[...]
Inspired by Childish Gambino's 3005 MV which I watched like 8 times today
Every night it was the same. His head would roll to one side, jerking himself awake. He would squint at the blue glow of his computer, lyrics blurred on the screen, his eyes accustomed to the comfortable darkness that his eyelids provided. The piercing light would be cut short, the computer closed, and he would crawl onto the couch, the slender fingers of anxiety barely reaching the hairs on his neck as he let sleep claim him, but only for a few hours.
And every time it was the same: He was there, already buckled into the ferris wheel as it started spinning. Looking out, the rest of the fairground was a dark cluster of buildings and long burnt out lights; he wondered how long it had been out of business.
Looking at himself, he realised he was wearing the same striped t-shirt and shorts as he had that day. His hair was the same black he was born with and the same body that he occupied thirteen years before. Some things were different: he could still feel hunger eat at him as it did in the waking world, and the blare in his eardrums that never went away just ringing and ringing as always. He wore a paper band around his head, a feather of the same material taped to it crudely, he wondered why as he adjusted it, already applying analysis to something that wasn’t even real. Everything was a question to him lately, wondering and wondering until his head ached and the wrinkles by his nose were deeper, blending with the little scar over his eye, another mystery to the others and a testament of time gone by. That’s all it was. Around and around with time to himself, too much time. Waking life was a tsunami, unconsciousness was a riptide.
He was thrown into anxiety when he felt his heart lurch as the wheel stopped at the top. His car staggered slightly, his knuckles rivaling the colour of fresh snow as they clung to the metal and condensation gathered at his palms. All he could hear was the overbearing grind of rusted metal and his own heart beat, a shallow tinkering, practically mocking him, mocking his fear, mocking his loneliness as it echoed and echoed and
“It’s a long way down,” the low tone sliced the silence.
His eyes snapped open and slowly, he turned to identify the speaker. The voice was familiar, so familiar. He could feel the pain behind his temples as frustration overtook his concentration. His subconscious had a sick sense of humour: the speaker was not a human at all, just black matter. A silhouette of scribbles next to him, accessorized only by circle frame glasses and the possibility that the misshapen scrawls were to indicate a rather neat ensemble.
The figure didn’t move, it seemed to stare ahead into the bleak darkness. Even at a child’s size, he could tell it was someone tall, someone stoic, maybe even kindhearted. A king of dreams perhaps? No, far too casual. An old friend from the waking world? Maybe. The figure made him feel safer somehow, as if the dark contortions could wrap around him, a warm blanket of theory and conception.
He nodded, not daring to look below him. “It is a long way down,” He could hear his own voice, untouched by puberty, as it shakily delivered the words.
The figure seemed to chuckle, the loose strands distorting further as it wheezed. “Ah, you always were scared of heights then, leader.”
The low voice was calm, but his vexation grew as it continued: the voice was almost fatherly in tone, but he didn’t recognize it as a relative. The figure seemed to raise a hand to push the glasses back up it’s nose.
“There are no stars out tonight,” it sighed.
He, too, looked up. He realised he had never sent his eyes towards the stars. The sky was black, as black as the mesh besides him, as black as the foreclosed fairground. He swallowed, analysis digging into his brain. Does this mean no future? No stars to reach to? Just nothing at all to look forward to?
“No,” The voice murmured, his ears suddenly aware of the smallest accent peeking through. “It doesn’t mean anything, not for you.”
He could feel his eyes widen as the figure stood up, the cart rocking as it phased through the bar. He could almost see the figure smile as it turned to face him. It floated there, hovering among the black. He was overcome by the ferris wheel lights, the blues and yellows and reds, reflecting off every wire that made up the memory. He saw it began to form a wireframe of a person, but the face was still obscured by the sheer mass.
It nodded at him and suddenly he knew they had to go. He raised his hand in a small salute and the figure raised a hand, a gesture of goodbye. He could feel his chin quiver and a sob taking nest in his chest.
But neither of those things were anything more as the cart jerked. His eyes snapped shut and his hands were on the bar again, his knuckles cracking as they squeezed the cold steel.
When he opened them again, things were different. He was different.
He was older now, as he had been when he started dreaming. He shook the platinum strands out of his eyes, trying his hardest to not look down. The lights had all burnt out: the only thing he could see was his own cart and the connecting beams. Not even the darkened carnival was visible anymore. The image was too bleak, he felt his mood sinking, anxiety and nausea sweeping over him. He couldn’t look out anymore.
Instead, he looked up
and suddenly, everything was aglow.
Stars scattered the sky, the same hues that once occupied the ferris wheel lights. He felt uplifted somehow, as if all of the bad things in this small world were absent as he took in the optimism dotting the sky. He closed his eyes, feeling the cool summer air filling his lungs.
And the next breath he took was warm studio air. His eyes opened, blinking away sleep as he glanced at his phone. He rubbed his eyes, a lingering headache from three hours ago still present.
He would never tell anyone of his dreams, just agreeing and laughing as his friends complained about their own lack of sleep. He would never tell anyone of the recurring childhood symbols or the omnipotent scribbles that comforted him in the darkness. He would never tell anyone when the dreams abandoned their cloudy nature, when the figures face was no longer obscured, when the voice finally struck a chord with his memory and everything became as clear as the stars he found solace in every night.
That night was the last time the dream resurfaced in his unconscious mind.
That morning, he woke with a name on his lips.
Rating: G
Pairing: junmyeon being asleep [...]implied krisho hehhe
Genre: oneshot, drama, maybe angst
Wordcount: ~1200
Summary: Junmyeon's having freaky ass dreams. This fic is not as silly as the description[...]
Inspired by Childish Gambino's 3005 MV which I watched like 8 times today
Every night it was the same. His head would roll to one side, jerking himself awake. He would squint at the blue glow of his computer, lyrics blurred on the screen, his eyes accustomed to the comfortable darkness that his eyelids provided. The piercing light would be cut short, the computer closed, and he would crawl onto the couch, the slender fingers of anxiety barely reaching the hairs on his neck as he let sleep claim him, but only for a few hours.
And every time it was the same: He was there, already buckled into the ferris wheel as it started spinning. Looking out, the rest of the fairground was a dark cluster of buildings and long burnt out lights; he wondered how long it had been out of business.
Looking at himself, he realised he was wearing the same striped t-shirt and shorts as he had that day. His hair was the same black he was born with and the same body that he occupied thirteen years before. Some things were different: he could still feel hunger eat at him as it did in the waking world, and the blare in his eardrums that never went away just ringing and ringing as always. He wore a paper band around his head, a feather of the same material taped to it crudely, he wondered why as he adjusted it, already applying analysis to something that wasn’t even real. Everything was a question to him lately, wondering and wondering until his head ached and the wrinkles by his nose were deeper, blending with the little scar over his eye, another mystery to the others and a testament of time gone by. That’s all it was. Around and around with time to himself, too much time. Waking life was a tsunami, unconsciousness was a riptide.
He was thrown into anxiety when he felt his heart lurch as the wheel stopped at the top. His car staggered slightly, his knuckles rivaling the colour of fresh snow as they clung to the metal and condensation gathered at his palms. All he could hear was the overbearing grind of rusted metal and his own heart beat, a shallow tinkering, practically mocking him, mocking his fear, mocking his loneliness as it echoed and echoed and
“It’s a long way down,” the low tone sliced the silence.
His eyes snapped open and slowly, he turned to identify the speaker. The voice was familiar, so familiar. He could feel the pain behind his temples as frustration overtook his concentration. His subconscious had a sick sense of humour: the speaker was not a human at all, just black matter. A silhouette of scribbles next to him, accessorized only by circle frame glasses and the possibility that the misshapen scrawls were to indicate a rather neat ensemble.
The figure didn’t move, it seemed to stare ahead into the bleak darkness. Even at a child’s size, he could tell it was someone tall, someone stoic, maybe even kindhearted. A king of dreams perhaps? No, far too casual. An old friend from the waking world? Maybe. The figure made him feel safer somehow, as if the dark contortions could wrap around him, a warm blanket of theory and conception.
He nodded, not daring to look below him. “It is a long way down,” He could hear his own voice, untouched by puberty, as it shakily delivered the words.
The figure seemed to chuckle, the loose strands distorting further as it wheezed. “Ah, you always were scared of heights then, leader.”
The low voice was calm, but his vexation grew as it continued: the voice was almost fatherly in tone, but he didn’t recognize it as a relative. The figure seemed to raise a hand to push the glasses back up it’s nose.
“There are no stars out tonight,” it sighed.
He, too, looked up. He realised he had never sent his eyes towards the stars. The sky was black, as black as the mesh besides him, as black as the foreclosed fairground. He swallowed, analysis digging into his brain. Does this mean no future? No stars to reach to? Just nothing at all to look forward to?
“No,” The voice murmured, his ears suddenly aware of the smallest accent peeking through. “It doesn’t mean anything, not for you.”
He could feel his eyes widen as the figure stood up, the cart rocking as it phased through the bar. He could almost see the figure smile as it turned to face him. It floated there, hovering among the black. He was overcome by the ferris wheel lights, the blues and yellows and reds, reflecting off every wire that made up the memory. He saw it began to form a wireframe of a person, but the face was still obscured by the sheer mass.
It nodded at him and suddenly he knew they had to go. He raised his hand in a small salute and the figure raised a hand, a gesture of goodbye. He could feel his chin quiver and a sob taking nest in his chest.
But neither of those things were anything more as the cart jerked. His eyes snapped shut and his hands were on the bar again, his knuckles cracking as they squeezed the cold steel.
When he opened them again, things were different. He was different.
He was older now, as he had been when he started dreaming. He shook the platinum strands out of his eyes, trying his hardest to not look down. The lights had all burnt out: the only thing he could see was his own cart and the connecting beams. Not even the darkened carnival was visible anymore. The image was too bleak, he felt his mood sinking, anxiety and nausea sweeping over him. He couldn’t look out anymore.
Instead, he looked up
and suddenly, everything was aglow.
Stars scattered the sky, the same hues that once occupied the ferris wheel lights. He felt uplifted somehow, as if all of the bad things in this small world were absent as he took in the optimism dotting the sky. He closed his eyes, feeling the cool summer air filling his lungs.
And the next breath he took was warm studio air. His eyes opened, blinking away sleep as he glanced at his phone. He rubbed his eyes, a lingering headache from three hours ago still present.
He would never tell anyone of his dreams, just agreeing and laughing as his friends complained about their own lack of sleep. He would never tell anyone of the recurring childhood symbols or the omnipotent scribbles that comforted him in the darkness. He would never tell anyone when the dreams abandoned their cloudy nature, when the figures face was no longer obscured, when the voice finally struck a chord with his memory and everything became as clear as the stars he found solace in every night.
That night was the last time the dream resurfaced in his unconscious mind.
That morning, he woke with a name on his lips.