[ficlet] i don't think you understand
pairing: sehun-centric (+ mystery pairings)
rating: R
word count: 729
genre: angst, melancholic word vomit
warnings: very brief alchohol + drug mentions, sehun being sad in general
summary: He'll never walk away.
a/n: what happens when you listen to the weeknd non stop for 2 days and write at 3am.
The air is heavy. Thick with smoke, dust, sweat, lust. Each inhaled breath is hot, damp, full of whispered fantasies and unfulfilled dreams, each dark glance a promise of something more. Bass-heavy music blares, thrumming deeply through Sehun’s body, his veins, behind his shuttered eyes and reddened lips. Under the lights his skin flashes purple, pink, indigo; colours catching on the angles of his collarbones, biceps, the sheen of sweat over his chest; refracting off of the glitter stuck to his bare skin with every move he makes.
His mind is hazy, skin burning up, limbs numb, heart craving. Yearning; his hips swaying with purpose, arms sliding up his torso, hands intertwining above his head. Pining; his head thrown back, dark hair curtaining his eyes and stuck to his forehead, sucking another breath in because he’s drowning in the warmth. Aching; because his heart is taking too much space in his chest, swelling, growing, searching for someone to take it. Someone to love.
Somewhere, in the back of his clouded thoughts, he knows he won’t find it here. What he finds here are writhing bodies, burning gazes, older men with too much money and too much free time, willing to spend both on Sehun. Run hands over his young, soft body. Tug at his hair. Bite marks into his skin that will only fade along with their memories of him. Spill words into his ears that he eagerly collects, because maybe he could fill the emptiness with them. Fill his chest with crude letters, foreign phrases and choked-off syllables.
Pretty. They always say he’s pretty, tells him how pretty he looks when he’s debauched, moaning under their touch, pressed up against a wall in a dark corner of the club. Always husky voices saying how they want to ruin him, make him theirs, make him forget his own name. Sometimes, he wishes he could.
So beautiful, you’re so, so beautiful, he gets told tonight - a short man, only a few years on Sehun, with small but firm hands and round, dilated eyes. Sehun doesn’t miss the tiredness in them, underlying, unforgiving. Such a gorgeous boy; pulls Sehun onto his lap in the taxi. So perfect, absolutely perfect like this; splays Sehun’s slender, long and oh so soft body across the sheets of the man’s bed, fucks him slow and deep, stroking a hand down his cheek that Sehun wishes meant so much more.
He never stays. Waits til they’ve inevitably fallen asleep or passed out, had their fill of him. All he leaves is the glitter in their sheets and an absence of cash in their wallet. In the darkness, secrecy, shame of night he goes to the place he calls home though it never is; never warm, welcoming, never embracing him in comforting arms, never telling him how he’s so important, so loved, so much more than just his body.
He did have those things, once. It seems like so long ago now; the memory faded round the edges, littered with scratches and tears, blistered where he’d tried to burn it away.
All the fond smiles, loving embraces, awe-filled eyes. Coffee shop dates, midnight kisses, hot skin on skin. One-sided promises, misplaced trust, late nights alone. Missed phonecalls, unanswered texts, hickeys on skin that Sehun didn’t leave there.
Now he tries to become the boy who broke his heart. Out of spite, maybe. He looks the boy in the mirror - smudged eyeliner, raw, bitten lips, cheeks glistening with sweat and tears -, shrugs off his clothes and takes the money out of his pockets. And that’s when it kicks in: the countless shots he’d downed by both himself and courtesy of his sultry eyes, the love-coloured pills given to him by a tall man with a smile too wide, too genuine for their surroundings, the inevitable burn in his chest from breaking his own heart too many times.
And he doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t remember or if he wants to remember when he wakes up from passing out the next day that makes him do it all again.
His mind tells him to straighten up and his heart tells him he’s stupid, hoarsely yells at him to stop ripping it apart so eagerly; but the dirty, slow motion lights and the muffled, deep purple voices keep calling his name and he’ll never walk away.