Summiting
Title: Summiting
Words: 1171
Disclaimer: © MoonishLips @ Livejournal. Do not redistribute without permission. The views and opinions expressed in this piece of fiction do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the author.
Notes: Not what people have been waiting for, yes, but I like to think that it's acceptable. Fan!moment. What it feels like to loose yourself completely and watch it happening, I suppose. JaeJoong-inspired because goddamn it i have a problem.
When the class falls silent save for the scratches of lead against paper, you find yourself thinking about bland irises, round and trim and off-grey like thinly sliced grapes. The image resonates, fleshes out into barely-there eyelashes and purpley puffs of tired skin - into the curve of a bridge, snow topped mountains; the white of a canvas and rain in the fall. Before you, suddenly, is a portrait bearing fulls lips and an awkward jawline, rigid and unsure, framed by long strands of grass, pale as the fields of the Serengeti - a painting of skin, smoothed over by clay and ash, and the types of things that fake perfection where flaws run rampant...
And when the bell rings and you stare down at what you have - a lined sheet of paper and a pencil above it's surface, positioned dutifully in your hand, wavering - there is a sinking of your soul, and you feel pathetic, and you fail your exam.
That is how it starts, and how you would choose to end it, had you any ability to control the thoughts of a stranger, smiling at what looks like you but what you know is the lens of an expensive camera, raising up from your memory in warm wafts. You don't fight it, because you don't realize it's happening - the wandering of your mind to the birthmark lingering under makeup, waiting patiently until the flashes die down and it can be uncovered; to the rehearsed tenseness of lips, too uncomfortable to be loud and stretch naturally; to the neatly kept cuticles and broad spectrum of two palms, and the delicate arches of the lines that spills over them. You don't fight it, because you don't realize it's happening - and when you do, you set down your rifle and start running, because you know you can't fight it but you pray to God you'll be able to outrun it before it captures you, swallows you whole.
And when you're head is back and the ceiling is clouded over by darkness and a face you've seen but never in person, you realize you're sitting in thick dampness, on the bumpy bed of someones tongue - and you curl your fingers around the molars and bask in the last few moments you have being you, purely you, before insanity and obsession. You sit there longer than you're supposed to, pretend you're still there when you know you aren't, until you finally give in and push yourself back, letting yourself fall, weak and masticated, down the well. You know it'll do nothing but make it a more painful departure, but you still dig your nails into the walls, and scream yourself senseless the entire way down.
Afterwards, there isn't much you can do to escape the fluttering in your chest whenever you see those eyes, familiar now, on your computer screen. They tease at the part of you that they planted - and cultivated and watered; the part of you that stands there now, feet planted on either side of your carcass, singing along to the voice that floods in from the speakers.
It's over that voice that you begin to entertain irrational thoughts - you start thinking of the Pacific like it's only ground to over - like the language is only something to master - like "if only" is just a predicate to something else; something plausible; something real. Before you have the opportunity to set borders around your thinking, "if only" morphs into "when."
You're contented in the delusion - happy with it. Because in your mind you've factored in every possible variable, every last word and thought and action you have to do to get you from where you are now, to where you want to be - and where you want to be has become somewhere locked between thick, warm biceps that exist out there, somewhere, in a country that is maybe five thousand miles away. Five thousand translates into thirteen when you're shooting through the air, just grazing the stratosphere, pressing your back into the navy fabric of your seat. The music filtering through your headphones isn't heard - the clouds whizzing by you like smoke on the road isn't seen - you're smiling to yourself, you're thinking, every summit can be mounted, and the serengeti is just a field.
You stay with the family of friends. The room is tiny, like a closet with a window, and you set up your life inside of it - segregate a corner of the room for a picture as a reminder. It sits like a shrine. They don't speak much to you nor you to them, but it's out of necessity. You sit outside of the labels building, pressed firmly against the gates, eyes closed, mind somewhere else - someone else: a pink little tongue peeking over the brim of grinning lips.
There are other girls there, you see them, wandering around the street, playing oblivious. You know that they're like you by the way they finger their phones occasionally, as if anticipating an appearance - yours is clutched in your hand, ready and eager. Time isn't important to any of you right now - what matters is the way the air smells, the fact that, on the other side of the gate, he's breathing it, too. The thought is exciting - he's breathing too. You slide further down the slick walls, nails retracted, no longer feeling the need for effort.
And then, suddenly, the gates are open, and there comes a stream of men in white suits, with slick haircuts and wires in their ears. There are suddenly people everywhere, pushing and clawing - screaming, and you see him, head down and uninterested. More screaming - chaos, absolutely, with people snapping photos and splaying out their fingers, pushing their arms farther than they can go, hoping and pray that an extra millimeter is all they need, and that, with another strained push, they'll feel warm flesh under their fingers - that their nails will graze something human, white as a canvas, burning, flushed, under them. You don't reach, you don't scream - but you smile, you say his name, you film every moment of it and wait for the tilt of a head, the playful flop of a bed of lively hair, and the meeting of puffy eyes and yours.
It's over in seconds. He never looks at you. The Serengeti isn't a field - it's a dessert, stretching on and on in an endless performance of emotions and struggling. You continue slipping - mucus in your pores. The video follows the car until it is a tiny, lost shape in the distance.
It's when you're sitting in the closet, shrine face down on the floor, that you finally reach the bottom and the stomach acid eats you alive.
And you hate that it doesn't burn enough to stop you from cradling your phone, holding the only evidence that you'd even seen him at all.
Words: 1171
Disclaimer: © MoonishLips @ Livejournal. Do not redistribute without permission. The views and opinions expressed in this piece of fiction do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the author.
Notes: Not what people have been waiting for, yes, but I like to think that it's acceptable. Fan!moment. What it feels like to loose yourself completely and watch it happening, I suppose. JaeJoong-inspired because goddamn it i have a problem.
When the class falls silent save for the scratches of lead against paper, you find yourself thinking about bland irises, round and trim and off-grey like thinly sliced grapes. The image resonates, fleshes out into barely-there eyelashes and purpley puffs of tired skin - into the curve of a bridge, snow topped mountains; the white of a canvas and rain in the fall. Before you, suddenly, is a portrait bearing fulls lips and an awkward jawline, rigid and unsure, framed by long strands of grass, pale as the fields of the Serengeti - a painting of skin, smoothed over by clay and ash, and the types of things that fake perfection where flaws run rampant...
And when the bell rings and you stare down at what you have - a lined sheet of paper and a pencil above it's surface, positioned dutifully in your hand, wavering - there is a sinking of your soul, and you feel pathetic, and you fail your exam.
That is how it starts, and how you would choose to end it, had you any ability to control the thoughts of a stranger, smiling at what looks like you but what you know is the lens of an expensive camera, raising up from your memory in warm wafts. You don't fight it, because you don't realize it's happening - the wandering of your mind to the birthmark lingering under makeup, waiting patiently until the flashes die down and it can be uncovered; to the rehearsed tenseness of lips, too uncomfortable to be loud and stretch naturally; to the neatly kept cuticles and broad spectrum of two palms, and the delicate arches of the lines that spills over them. You don't fight it, because you don't realize it's happening - and when you do, you set down your rifle and start running, because you know you can't fight it but you pray to God you'll be able to outrun it before it captures you, swallows you whole.
And when you're head is back and the ceiling is clouded over by darkness and a face you've seen but never in person, you realize you're sitting in thick dampness, on the bumpy bed of someones tongue - and you curl your fingers around the molars and bask in the last few moments you have being you, purely you, before insanity and obsession. You sit there longer than you're supposed to, pretend you're still there when you know you aren't, until you finally give in and push yourself back, letting yourself fall, weak and masticated, down the well. You know it'll do nothing but make it a more painful departure, but you still dig your nails into the walls, and scream yourself senseless the entire way down.
Afterwards, there isn't much you can do to escape the fluttering in your chest whenever you see those eyes, familiar now, on your computer screen. They tease at the part of you that they planted - and cultivated and watered; the part of you that stands there now, feet planted on either side of your carcass, singing along to the voice that floods in from the speakers.
It's over that voice that you begin to entertain irrational thoughts - you start thinking of the Pacific like it's only ground to over - like the language is only something to master - like "if only" is just a predicate to something else; something plausible; something real. Before you have the opportunity to set borders around your thinking, "if only" morphs into "when."
You're contented in the delusion - happy with it. Because in your mind you've factored in every possible variable, every last word and thought and action you have to do to get you from where you are now, to where you want to be - and where you want to be has become somewhere locked between thick, warm biceps that exist out there, somewhere, in a country that is maybe five thousand miles away. Five thousand translates into thirteen when you're shooting through the air, just grazing the stratosphere, pressing your back into the navy fabric of your seat. The music filtering through your headphones isn't heard - the clouds whizzing by you like smoke on the road isn't seen - you're smiling to yourself, you're thinking, every summit can be mounted, and the serengeti is just a field.
You stay with the family of friends. The room is tiny, like a closet with a window, and you set up your life inside of it - segregate a corner of the room for a picture as a reminder. It sits like a shrine. They don't speak much to you nor you to them, but it's out of necessity. You sit outside of the labels building, pressed firmly against the gates, eyes closed, mind somewhere else - someone else: a pink little tongue peeking over the brim of grinning lips.
There are other girls there, you see them, wandering around the street, playing oblivious. You know that they're like you by the way they finger their phones occasionally, as if anticipating an appearance - yours is clutched in your hand, ready and eager. Time isn't important to any of you right now - what matters is the way the air smells, the fact that, on the other side of the gate, he's breathing it, too. The thought is exciting - he's breathing too. You slide further down the slick walls, nails retracted, no longer feeling the need for effort.
And then, suddenly, the gates are open, and there comes a stream of men in white suits, with slick haircuts and wires in their ears. There are suddenly people everywhere, pushing and clawing - screaming, and you see him, head down and uninterested. More screaming - chaos, absolutely, with people snapping photos and splaying out their fingers, pushing their arms farther than they can go, hoping and pray that an extra millimeter is all they need, and that, with another strained push, they'll feel warm flesh under their fingers - that their nails will graze something human, white as a canvas, burning, flushed, under them. You don't reach, you don't scream - but you smile, you say his name, you film every moment of it and wait for the tilt of a head, the playful flop of a bed of lively hair, and the meeting of puffy eyes and yours.
It's over in seconds. He never looks at you. The Serengeti isn't a field - it's a dessert, stretching on and on in an endless performance of emotions and struggling. You continue slipping - mucus in your pores. The video follows the car until it is a tiny, lost shape in the distance.
It's when you're sitting in the closet, shrine face down on the floor, that you finally reach the bottom and the stomach acid eats you alive.
And you hate that it doesn't burn enough to stop you from cradling your phone, holding the only evidence that you'd even seen him at all.