M'enterre dans le creux de tes pensées, dans l'air que tu respires
Everybody is looking for a place to die (so won't you lend me your heart) - one; PG-13
note: same universe as my SSS 2012 fic, but much, much earlier. the idea, before it found its universe, began in physics class and as original fiction. but since it pleases me for this to be read as onho, it is now a fic of onho (in their past lives...or something).
Bury me in the hollow of your thoughts, in the air that you breathe;
Hm-hmm hm hm hm-mmmm...
The melody reverberates between the walls of his chest.
It floats up through his windpipe, over his tongue, and maybe because he's biting too hard with his chattering teeth, it snaps here and there, between the notes that have haunted his bones. It drags its feet in places and races ahead of the beat in others, tripping over all the little sighs and tremors, even though inside his mind it plays out beautifully, weightlessly.
Hm hm-mm-hmm hm-hmm hm hmmm...
The cold wind blows over the rugged crumbling planes of his face, over the crevices and rivulets carved into his sun-browned skin, like ocean waves rolling to shore. The tufts of gray at his temples brush back over his ears, white spray rising into the salty air.
And he runs his hand over the ivory box resting in his lap.
Again and again, until his callused fingertips have worn red.
Levi 413.
That's what it says on the lid. But to him, it's a bright unaging face, a man who lived on another continuum of eternal youth. His salvation, in some sense that even he couldn't quite understand.
He used to think that he knew how it would end.
That he would grow up, grow old, grow gnarled and miserable and ugly and unlovable. That he would become too frail to climb to the top of these cliffs, become a prisoner in his own bed. That one day Jinki would return to this place and think he stood him up because he wouldn't be here. So the other man would have to figure out his address from all the clues that he'd left him in their years of conversation-it's just that he wouldn't be there either. He would've already been left behind, in the dust, in the soil.
And until yesterday, that was how time unfolded. He has grown up, grown old. But when the knocking came, he was-is-still here, and Jinki-
His nails dig into the slight gap underneath the lid.
The man he found on his doorstep had a large angry scar that ran up the side of his face and into his long locks of flaxen hair. It was difficult not to stare. He stood ramrod straight, a snow-dusted crimson coat and golden aiguilettes draped over his charcoal tunic. With his peaked cap tucked under his left arm, the stranger brought his gloved right hand up in a salute. And the words that poured from those colorless lips went unheard because the pair of golden halberd heads that adorned his otherwise bare epaulettes glared under the sunlight.
With trembling hands, he received the box.
Welcome home.
The wind gusts harder and swings around.
He inches forward, forward, until he is able to put his legs over the edge, over the remnants of the outcrop of rock that he had found Jinki on during their very first encounter, a lifetime ago.
Fistful after fistful, he sends him into the bone white sky, into the sea of black shattered glass.
Into the soundless void.
(At the bottom of the ivory box lies a single white braid. Hanging from the end of the braid is a hiltless sword the length of Minho's palm that sheathes itself in a cluster of flowers. The petals, in the likeness of unfurling wings, hold themselves just shy of full bloom.)
(He has never seen them before, but he knows.)
(In Byen av Engler, each year, they sweep over the rolling hillocks as the snow retreats. And they sing of the heroes who sleep beneath their roots.)
note: same universe as my SSS 2012 fic, but much, much earlier. the idea, before it found its universe, began in physics class and as original fiction. but since it pleases me for this to be read as onho, it is now a fic of onho (in their past lives...or something).
Bury me in the hollow of your thoughts, in the air that you breathe;
Hm-hmm hm hm hm-mmmm...
The melody reverberates between the walls of his chest.
It floats up through his windpipe, over his tongue, and maybe because he's biting too hard with his chattering teeth, it snaps here and there, between the notes that have haunted his bones. It drags its feet in places and races ahead of the beat in others, tripping over all the little sighs and tremors, even though inside his mind it plays out beautifully, weightlessly.
Hm hm-mm-hmm hm-hmm hm hmmm...
The cold wind blows over the rugged crumbling planes of his face, over the crevices and rivulets carved into his sun-browned skin, like ocean waves rolling to shore. The tufts of gray at his temples brush back over his ears, white spray rising into the salty air.
And he runs his hand over the ivory box resting in his lap.
Again and again, until his callused fingertips have worn red.
Levi 413.
That's what it says on the lid. But to him, it's a bright unaging face, a man who lived on another continuum of eternal youth. His salvation, in some sense that even he couldn't quite understand.
He used to think that he knew how it would end.
That he would grow up, grow old, grow gnarled and miserable and ugly and unlovable. That he would become too frail to climb to the top of these cliffs, become a prisoner in his own bed. That one day Jinki would return to this place and think he stood him up because he wouldn't be here. So the other man would have to figure out his address from all the clues that he'd left him in their years of conversation-it's just that he wouldn't be there either. He would've already been left behind, in the dust, in the soil.
And until yesterday, that was how time unfolded. He has grown up, grown old. But when the knocking came, he was-is-still here, and Jinki-
His nails dig into the slight gap underneath the lid.
The man he found on his doorstep had a large angry scar that ran up the side of his face and into his long locks of flaxen hair. It was difficult not to stare. He stood ramrod straight, a snow-dusted crimson coat and golden aiguilettes draped over his charcoal tunic. With his peaked cap tucked under his left arm, the stranger brought his gloved right hand up in a salute. And the words that poured from those colorless lips went unheard because the pair of golden halberd heads that adorned his otherwise bare epaulettes glared under the sunlight.
With trembling hands, he received the box.
Welcome home.
The wind gusts harder and swings around.
He inches forward, forward, until he is able to put his legs over the edge, over the remnants of the outcrop of rock that he had found Jinki on during their very first encounter, a lifetime ago.
Fistful after fistful, he sends him into the bone white sky, into the sea of black shattered glass.
Into the soundless void.
(At the bottom of the ivory box lies a single white braid. Hanging from the end of the braid is a hiltless sword the length of Minho's palm that sheathes itself in a cluster of flowers. The petals, in the likeness of unfurling wings, hold themselves just shy of full bloom.)
(He has never seen them before, but he knows.)
(In Byen av Engler, each year, they sweep over the rolling hillocks as the snow retreats. And they sing of the heroes who sleep beneath their roots.)