whitman is my daddy, monaco's my mother
whitman is my daddy, monaco's my mother
745w; pg-13 (soohyun/kiseop)
i'll remember how your cigarettes burned out at three thirty in the morning.
summer’s almost over. they’re lying face-down in the pool, cheek-deep in chlorine, playing make believe. make believe is the blue stuff - the tiled bottom six feet under: reality is the puddles that pool onto the ground, the pink horizon, the swaying palm trees.
pretend is dead.
wednesday’s cadillac day. they take out soohyun’s for a drive, aquamarine but two tints darker, windows rolled all the way down, the one-oh-one lifting the neatly ironed collars of their givenchy shirts. kiseop laughs as he pushes past eighty (like he always does) - spontaneous combustion, it’s oh so funny - or at least it used to be, soohyun thinks, nicotine gum stale between his teeth, that’s what the gasoline taste like, pollution palatable, regurgitated into the atmosphere anyway with kiseop’s three AM menthols, ends glowing orange as soohyun holds onto his hand beneath the sheets.
that’s what the gasoline tastes like: washed up new money millionaires who spend like they’ll die tomorrow.
it’s not like he doesn’t want to go back to school - you know what i’m talking about, you do soohyun, you do, don’t you? it’s too early to be up but he doesn’t sleep, kiseop doesn’t, the scent of menthols peppering his morning breath when he presses his lips against soohyun’s shoulder. i just can’t, he says, excuses again, excuses always, and soohyun’s in too deep to notice what’s real and what’s not anymore.
just give it another shot, the older tries again, squeezing kiseop’s palm in his own. then we can find you something else to do, ok?
they sit in silence for ten minutes. then kiseop untangles himself from the sheets and leaves for a beer,
and another smoke, of course.
summer’s almost over. the gardeners come saturday afternoon, when soohyun’s feeling lazy, his copy of tolstoy face down on the lawn chair beside his, long vacated by kiseop. it gets him paranoid, the sound of leaf blowers and lawn mowers - but then again, what doesn’t anymore? soohyun imagines he’s spiking the sweating glass of raspberry lemonade he was drinking earlier with shots of vodka in the kitchen, menthol protruding from his lips. destruction in the flesh, damnation in a man, deterioration preserved in a pretty boy with lively eyes that sink in the silver of the moon, that only deaden with the booze and cigarettes, and soohyun thinks it’s a fucking shame, a goddamn waste that such a boy has been felled by the world when he’s feeling lazy, his copy of tolstoy face down on the lawn chair beside his, eyes to the blue sky.
it is so, so blue.
it could just be you and me, kiseop shrugs one day like the whole idea is nonchalant when it’s not, and quite the contrary. he has one lazy arm strung around soohyun, or as best as he can position it there as soohyun lays flat on his back, hands folded neatly over his torso, the perfect coffin body. it could just be you and me, here, forever. he looks down at soohyun for approval.
soohyun closes his eyes, stinging from staring at the fluorescent bulb overhead for too long, from watching the boy beside him, finally beside him, burn out like the orange ends of the menthols he kisses more than his own lips, and decides he prefers feigning death instead.
he’s not crying. the tolstoy he hasn’t finished reading is tucked beneath his arm (he keeps finding kiseop in the passages, in every turn of the page - the paper caressing his thumb like kiseop’s lips on his neck and - ), suitcases on the steps. kiseop’s sitting at the formal dining table as he passes, empty bottles of beer rolling around him, a poisonous pile of paranoia and pessimism coating the glossy finish on the wood. fuck you, he yells, drunk, drowning, as soohyun walks out the door. fuck, fuck, fuck you - it builds, sounds overlapping, raw screams, as he gets into his benz.
this is what the world looks like as it ends.
summer’s almost over. he stares at his cadillac, innocuous in the driveway, for a moment, contemplating. make believe is the blue stuff - aquamarine but two shades darker, kiseop laughing as he went up to eighty, spontaneous combustion oh so funny when you had nothing to lose, menthols and booze, cheek-deep in chlorine as the sunset burned their bare backs.
reality is that he doesn’t believe in it - the make believe, west coast syndrome, new money sickness - anymore.
pretend is dead.
a/n: slowly trying to get back to writing again. for pearlfuchsia! only you bb ♥ i still owe you u-kiss!star trek ;;
745w; pg-13 (soohyun/kiseop)
i'll remember how your cigarettes burned out at three thirty in the morning.
summer’s almost over. they’re lying face-down in the pool, cheek-deep in chlorine, playing make believe. make believe is the blue stuff - the tiled bottom six feet under: reality is the puddles that pool onto the ground, the pink horizon, the swaying palm trees.
pretend is dead.
wednesday’s cadillac day. they take out soohyun’s for a drive, aquamarine but two tints darker, windows rolled all the way down, the one-oh-one lifting the neatly ironed collars of their givenchy shirts. kiseop laughs as he pushes past eighty (like he always does) - spontaneous combustion, it’s oh so funny - or at least it used to be, soohyun thinks, nicotine gum stale between his teeth, that’s what the gasoline taste like, pollution palatable, regurgitated into the atmosphere anyway with kiseop’s three AM menthols, ends glowing orange as soohyun holds onto his hand beneath the sheets.
that’s what the gasoline tastes like: washed up new money millionaires who spend like they’ll die tomorrow.
it’s not like he doesn’t want to go back to school - you know what i’m talking about, you do soohyun, you do, don’t you? it’s too early to be up but he doesn’t sleep, kiseop doesn’t, the scent of menthols peppering his morning breath when he presses his lips against soohyun’s shoulder. i just can’t, he says, excuses again, excuses always, and soohyun’s in too deep to notice what’s real and what’s not anymore.
just give it another shot, the older tries again, squeezing kiseop’s palm in his own. then we can find you something else to do, ok?
they sit in silence for ten minutes. then kiseop untangles himself from the sheets and leaves for a beer,
and another smoke, of course.
summer’s almost over. the gardeners come saturday afternoon, when soohyun’s feeling lazy, his copy of tolstoy face down on the lawn chair beside his, long vacated by kiseop. it gets him paranoid, the sound of leaf blowers and lawn mowers - but then again, what doesn’t anymore? soohyun imagines he’s spiking the sweating glass of raspberry lemonade he was drinking earlier with shots of vodka in the kitchen, menthol protruding from his lips. destruction in the flesh, damnation in a man, deterioration preserved in a pretty boy with lively eyes that sink in the silver of the moon, that only deaden with the booze and cigarettes, and soohyun thinks it’s a fucking shame, a goddamn waste that such a boy has been felled by the world when he’s feeling lazy, his copy of tolstoy face down on the lawn chair beside his, eyes to the blue sky.
it is so, so blue.
it could just be you and me, kiseop shrugs one day like the whole idea is nonchalant when it’s not, and quite the contrary. he has one lazy arm strung around soohyun, or as best as he can position it there as soohyun lays flat on his back, hands folded neatly over his torso, the perfect coffin body. it could just be you and me, here, forever. he looks down at soohyun for approval.
soohyun closes his eyes, stinging from staring at the fluorescent bulb overhead for too long, from watching the boy beside him, finally beside him, burn out like the orange ends of the menthols he kisses more than his own lips, and decides he prefers feigning death instead.
he’s not crying. the tolstoy he hasn’t finished reading is tucked beneath his arm (he keeps finding kiseop in the passages, in every turn of the page - the paper caressing his thumb like kiseop’s lips on his neck and - ), suitcases on the steps. kiseop’s sitting at the formal dining table as he passes, empty bottles of beer rolling around him, a poisonous pile of paranoia and pessimism coating the glossy finish on the wood. fuck you, he yells, drunk, drowning, as soohyun walks out the door. fuck, fuck, fuck you - it builds, sounds overlapping, raw screams, as he gets into his benz.
this is what the world looks like as it ends.
summer’s almost over. he stares at his cadillac, innocuous in the driveway, for a moment, contemplating. make believe is the blue stuff - aquamarine but two shades darker, kiseop laughing as he went up to eighty, spontaneous combustion oh so funny when you had nothing to lose, menthols and booze, cheek-deep in chlorine as the sunset burned their bare backs.
reality is that he doesn’t believe in it - the make believe, west coast syndrome, new money sickness - anymore.
pretend is dead.
a/n: slowly trying to get back to writing again. for pearlfuchsia! only you bb ♥ i still owe you u-kiss!star trek ;;