second skeleton (fit it beneath the skin)
second skeleton (fit it beneath the skin)
596w; pg-13 (jaeseop/kiseop)
the artist does not know his craft; the writer exists in the dark and leaves his mark on him before he understands the blessing is a curse.
a/n: do not let me write past midnight. disturbing stuff under the cut. always subject to different interpretations orz
he doesn’t know when he starts signing his name in red. it just is and before he knows it, it’s just him.
the deep scarlet fades to brown the next day. he frowns.
jaeseop does not consider kiseop an artist. “art is overrated,” he says. inhales from his pipe. it smells like piss. “i don’t touch anything that’s overrated.”
he doesn’t look away from his manuscript. kiseop presses a finger against his lips. then, their mouths.
his eyes remain dead. unfeeling. kiseop tastes piss.
we watch as the scene goes bright. hazy. grey shadows against the parlor wall, the clack of his typewriter as he writes.
a scream comes from down the hallway. the man at the desk briefly remembers the razors he left on the counter. they are his paintbrushes. reaches for a smoke. continues typing.
another scream. the scene goes red. then bright and hazy once again.
dust clouds over them as they push on each other. limbs tangled with limbs, sweat, dust, iron in the mouth, biting lips, fighting tongues.
the windows are closed. there is no light. only haze, only dust, only each other.
kiseop’s canvases are continually brown. he leaves them on jaeseop’s desk, so he can see his handiwork. the younger man is not impressed, only puts them back near the easel.
the writer only notices that he cannot see kiseop’s signatures anymore.
we watch him draw a rope. it refuses to loosen its coil, constricting as he ties it to a ceiling. he sketches shadows, jaeseop in the corner. it smells like piss again.
he looks down. doesn’t fall. jaeseop’s pipe clatters on the floor. he turns back to pick it up before he completes the painting.
there are always stains on the porcelain. white turns dark and muddy. unclean. kiseop’s paintbrushes, cleaner than ever, sit in their bowl at the side. fuck you, he hears himself yell down the corridor. no words.
no anything. he takes a razor from the bowl and scratches the brown out of the bathtub. the harsh grating echoes.
kiseop would like to burst into flames. then, in smoke, he would fly away. he thinks about bringing jaeseop with him. frowns. maybe jaeseop wouldn’t understand.
jaeseop does not understand deep red and brown, the beauty of art, how to fly. jaeseop only smokes and types and neglects. that is what he made him to be, so he just is.
it just is.
(he thinks it just needs to end.)
the windows are open. dust flies in the light. jaeseop’s eyes flicker. like a predator. kiseop buries his head in his neck, seeking protection.
he doesn’t fly away, stops himself from losing the neglect that cares.
(he thinks they just need to end.)
we know there is no escape. there is no match. only canvases and paintbrushes and blades. kiseop does not know how to craft a new masterpiece out of these.
art is overrated. he plunges the razor in. he paints with his heart, pumping beating pulsing slowly, until there is nothing left.
everything is red. crimson, mahogany, dapples of pink. they all missed the canvas. a shame. he closes his eyes. it would’ve been beautiful.
he engraves his name into the floor. it stabs, stabs, stabs, then no more.
(it just is. forever will be.)
he finds him on the floor, white shell, cracked open. yolk flowing out, staining dust. marble eyes deadlocked to the ceiling. nothing breathing.
this might be kiseop’s best work yet. his eyes remain dead, unfeeling, as he regards this solemnly.
he lights his pipe. the match burns out.
596w; pg-13 (jaeseop/kiseop)
the artist does not know his craft; the writer exists in the dark and leaves his mark on him before he understands the blessing is a curse.
a/n: do not let me write past midnight. disturbing stuff under the cut. always subject to different interpretations orz
he doesn’t know when he starts signing his name in red. it just is and before he knows it, it’s just him.
the deep scarlet fades to brown the next day. he frowns.
jaeseop does not consider kiseop an artist. “art is overrated,” he says. inhales from his pipe. it smells like piss. “i don’t touch anything that’s overrated.”
he doesn’t look away from his manuscript. kiseop presses a finger against his lips. then, their mouths.
his eyes remain dead. unfeeling. kiseop tastes piss.
we watch as the scene goes bright. hazy. grey shadows against the parlor wall, the clack of his typewriter as he writes.
a scream comes from down the hallway. the man at the desk briefly remembers the razors he left on the counter. they are his paintbrushes. reaches for a smoke. continues typing.
another scream. the scene goes red. then bright and hazy once again.
dust clouds over them as they push on each other. limbs tangled with limbs, sweat, dust, iron in the mouth, biting lips, fighting tongues.
the windows are closed. there is no light. only haze, only dust, only each other.
kiseop’s canvases are continually brown. he leaves them on jaeseop’s desk, so he can see his handiwork. the younger man is not impressed, only puts them back near the easel.
the writer only notices that he cannot see kiseop’s signatures anymore.
we watch him draw a rope. it refuses to loosen its coil, constricting as he ties it to a ceiling. he sketches shadows, jaeseop in the corner. it smells like piss again.
he looks down. doesn’t fall. jaeseop’s pipe clatters on the floor. he turns back to pick it up before he completes the painting.
there are always stains on the porcelain. white turns dark and muddy. unclean. kiseop’s paintbrushes, cleaner than ever, sit in their bowl at the side. fuck you, he hears himself yell down the corridor. no words.
no anything. he takes a razor from the bowl and scratches the brown out of the bathtub. the harsh grating echoes.
kiseop would like to burst into flames. then, in smoke, he would fly away. he thinks about bringing jaeseop with him. frowns. maybe jaeseop wouldn’t understand.
jaeseop does not understand deep red and brown, the beauty of art, how to fly. jaeseop only smokes and types and neglects. that is what he made him to be, so he just is.
it just is.
(he thinks it just needs to end.)
the windows are open. dust flies in the light. jaeseop’s eyes flicker. like a predator. kiseop buries his head in his neck, seeking protection.
he doesn’t fly away, stops himself from losing the neglect that cares.
(he thinks they just need to end.)
we know there is no escape. there is no match. only canvases and paintbrushes and blades. kiseop does not know how to craft a new masterpiece out of these.
art is overrated. he plunges the razor in. he paints with his heart, pumping beating pulsing slowly, until there is nothing left.
everything is red. crimson, mahogany, dapples of pink. they all missed the canvas. a shame. he closes his eyes. it would’ve been beautiful.
he engraves his name into the floor. it stabs, stabs, stabs, then no more.
(it just is. forever will be.)
he finds him on the floor, white shell, cracked open. yolk flowing out, staining dust. marble eyes deadlocked to the ceiling. nothing breathing.
this might be kiseop’s best work yet. his eyes remain dead, unfeeling, as he regards this solemnly.
he lights his pipe. the match burns out.