four legs in the morning
a/n: a his-story, her-story drabble set. you can imagine any character/pairing in their place, but i was thinking jaeseop/jiyeon or myungsoo/suzy? i know i still have to write my requests (got my ideas ready!), but i had to do something.
we wake up
281w; pg-13 (insert your favorite het pair here, jaeseop-centric, jaeseop/jiyeon or myungsoo-centric, myungsoo/suzy)
and you'll find that no one bothers, or takes the time, to think about it more.
crazy, they call them from their rocking chairs and cable knit sweaters. false impressions on both ends, both parties realize. he laughs at the irony.
crazy in everything: love, media, running home from school through traffic. drunk and high off of life and its offerings, taking what can and cannot be touched.
there is no solid definable moment when he knows he’s here, really here. stinging eyes from staying up late, pressure on the skull from studying. it’s a subconscious thing, he delegates it as. subconscious thoughts implanted in the mind, information collected but not touched upon every day, a kind of subliminal message industry for living.
how do they explain it? blood rushing through their veins, warm bodies shivering in the winter. living, simple as that. is pinpointing that necessary?
shame. they know the word, they’re fucking fluent, thank you very much.
shame. he stops being crazy for just one moment, hand in hers (cold, they have not been held in a long while), eyes sobered from glazing over the details.
and he feels it.
some people hit growth spurts early. like his neighbor (he eventually grew taller than him). you open your eyes one day and realize that you don’t see the world from four feet and seven inches anymore.
maybe hundreds of days later, you’ll outgrow the measuring tape. they’ll stop counting. you’ll stop remembering that they used to count.
and maybe hundreds of hundreds of days later, you’ll blink, realizing that the world looks different, incredibly different, at six feet.
crazy, you’ll call them from your offices and kitchen windows. accurate impressions on your side, you might realize.
and he won’t laugh because it’s no longer ironic.
and get over our past selves
251w; pg (insert your favorite het pair here, jiyeon-centric, jaeseop/jiyeon or suzy-centric, myungsoo/suzy)
but what's worse than feeling is feeling nothing at all.
it’s not a public thing. people know, she knows they know, and let them know, she guesses. let them know and think better of themselves, think worse of her. bad things have a way of traveling, like foul odors in a heated house.
let them know. she embraces indifference.
when their triumph is apparent, when their love friendship companionship feeling of another body next to yours and wanting to be there is reciprocated, it’s not like she won’t notice. and it stings, some kind of miniscule paper cut on a whole blank sheet of nothing. she doesn’t know what to call it. (jealousy? bitterness?) she can’t be jealous for things she never had. never will have.
jaded. settles for the green stone, on the border of everything and anger.
(because this is how you move on, she remembers. you get angry.)
and when she disappoints, she disappoints. not everyone, not anyone. sometimes no one at all. his lips in a firm line, wanting to sever something, her, them, whatever is left of the rope she has diligently frayed.
every time she fears not seeing his back. every time she does not see it, she fears seeing it.
this is how you are. staring at a ceiling, five-forty in the morning, winter and dark. thirty minutes until the alarm, sleep, you should be sleeping.
but this is how i am. disappointing. it clutches her heart then, unassuming grip, an intrusive private, intimate moment.
(this is how she is. bleeds, silent, tired, alone.)
we wake up
281w; pg-13 (insert your favorite het pair here, jaeseop-centric, jaeseop/jiyeon or myungsoo-centric, myungsoo/suzy)
and you'll find that no one bothers, or takes the time, to think about it more.
crazy, they call them from their rocking chairs and cable knit sweaters. false impressions on both ends, both parties realize. he laughs at the irony.
crazy in everything: love, media, running home from school through traffic. drunk and high off of life and its offerings, taking what can and cannot be touched.
there is no solid definable moment when he knows he’s here, really here. stinging eyes from staying up late, pressure on the skull from studying. it’s a subconscious thing, he delegates it as. subconscious thoughts implanted in the mind, information collected but not touched upon every day, a kind of subliminal message industry for living.
how do they explain it? blood rushing through their veins, warm bodies shivering in the winter. living, simple as that. is pinpointing that necessary?
shame. they know the word, they’re fucking fluent, thank you very much.
shame. he stops being crazy for just one moment, hand in hers (cold, they have not been held in a long while), eyes sobered from glazing over the details.
and he feels it.
some people hit growth spurts early. like his neighbor (he eventually grew taller than him). you open your eyes one day and realize that you don’t see the world from four feet and seven inches anymore.
maybe hundreds of days later, you’ll outgrow the measuring tape. they’ll stop counting. you’ll stop remembering that they used to count.
and maybe hundreds of hundreds of days later, you’ll blink, realizing that the world looks different, incredibly different, at six feet.
crazy, you’ll call them from your offices and kitchen windows. accurate impressions on your side, you might realize.
and he won’t laugh because it’s no longer ironic.
and get over our past selves
251w; pg (insert your favorite het pair here, jiyeon-centric, jaeseop/jiyeon or suzy-centric, myungsoo/suzy)
but what's worse than feeling is feeling nothing at all.
it’s not a public thing. people know, she knows they know, and let them know, she guesses. let them know and think better of themselves, think worse of her. bad things have a way of traveling, like foul odors in a heated house.
let them know. she embraces indifference.
when their triumph is apparent, when their love friendship companionship feeling of another body next to yours and wanting to be there is reciprocated, it’s not like she won’t notice. and it stings, some kind of miniscule paper cut on a whole blank sheet of nothing. she doesn’t know what to call it. (jealousy? bitterness?) she can’t be jealous for things she never had. never will have.
jaded. settles for the green stone, on the border of everything and anger.
(because this is how you move on, she remembers. you get angry.)
and when she disappoints, she disappoints. not everyone, not anyone. sometimes no one at all. his lips in a firm line, wanting to sever something, her, them, whatever is left of the rope she has diligently frayed.
every time she fears not seeing his back. every time she does not see it, she fears seeing it.
this is how you are. staring at a ceiling, five-forty in the morning, winter and dark. thirty minutes until the alarm, sleep, you should be sleeping.
but this is how i am. disappointing. it clutches her heart then, unassuming grip, an intrusive private, intimate moment.
(this is how she is. bleeds, silent, tired, alone.)