(no subject)
█ ✫ TWO IF BY SEA ··· ( oneshot )
█ pairing: Jongkey
█ rating: PG-13 (WARNING: Implied Suicide)
█ genre: AU, Tragedy, Angst
█ summary:
Jonghyun makes one last request. Key will follow him anywhere.
✫ ··· author's note:
I was in a strange, strange mood when I wrote this. It doesn't entirely make sense, but it's out, bool, the end. This could be called a small, indirect nod to one of my favourite books, Lisey's Story, and the pool therein to which we call go down to drink. It's also a hell of a lot shorter than what I normally write; just over 1300 words. If you read it, let me know how you interpret it. Some conclusions are blatant; others will be yours, rather than mine.
Also, should you so wish it, the song Never Let Me Go by Florence + The Machine is excellent companion music for this story. I heard it much after I had actually written the story, but it fits so well I can't help but include it afterwards.
"Now we are two."
It's like wearing someone else's skin. It clings in all the wrong ways, for all the right reasons, and leaves him feeling grimy and exposed. There is nothing exceptional about it. A dusty denim jacket, too broad in the shoulder. His arms swim in the sleeves. Still, he feels warm again, and he wears it like he owns it. Like it was intended to be there all along. Like it was always meant to never really be his.
He considers the matchbook on the coffee table with far more severity than it requires. There is no logo silk-screened to the front, though there is a flower of something he prays is dried coffee across the plain white surface. Dubious, he brings it to his nose; all he smells is the wood of the sticks, the lingering char of the last struck head, marked in a sweeping diagonal across the rough tab in the back. Feeling foolish, he drops it back to the table, only to pick it up again and flip the sleeve up.
The words are faded, bloody and spidering across the fibre of the cardboard. He stares at them hard, not needing to read them to know what is written. They are committed to memory, trapped in the padded room in which he keeps nameless faces and broken promises - the things he wishes he could forget, that stay with him even when they are all he has.
Come and drink the stars with me.
He slips it into his pocket, and leaves without locking the door.
The bus leaves him too far from his destination, so he walks the remainder. There are no lights here, nothing to illuminate the steps he takes, but he knows where he is going. He hops the guardrail at the first turn, picking his way across boulders and gravel as he descends, until rock gives way to sand and surf. He toes his shoes off at the heel, sets them side by side at the border between worlds, and leaves them there.
It isn't summer, but he fades back, and then it is. Still night, but not so cold - not so much frost on the edges.
They sit together, toes facing the ocean. They talk about impossible things. There is a lightness to his voice that belittles the weight of the words, makes them cheap and brittle on the wind, but they buzz hot like neon in the moonlight. Key is drawn in, hypnotized by the flicker and the head-sick colour of them against his ears. Though he doesn't know it, he leaves a piece of himself behind on the beach - one he needs, that he comes to miss on nights where the sky is too loud to sleep through.
When they kiss, their mouths are both equally empty. After he mentions it, they laugh and kiss again, using tongues to fill the void. It's a paltry offering, so they fill themselves with one other instead, and that takes the edge off.
In the aftermath he watches the heartbeat of the cigarette when he takes a drag, flaring briefly, somehow strong enough to illuminate their faces. They speak of instant noodles, the impracticality of socks with sandals, and what it feels like to die. Jonghyun tells him about his relationship with the night sky; how sometimes he wishes he could drown in it, swallowing stars as he went. Key wonders what it would taste like to eat stardust; Jonghyun smiles at that, insists it would be molten, but sweet.
No matter how many words are exchanged between them, the one thing that isn't mentioned is time. He hates the concept, and Key hates it along with him, mostly because he does. Jonghyun wants simple things, like his old jean jacket and unfiltered cigarettes and plenty of ass. Though he longs for elsewhere he stays in the city, anchored, even though Key would follow him anywhere. He lives too deep in the now to spend his moments contemplating anything else, and that is why Key loves him.
They fall asleep with their feet facing the water. Key intertwines their fingers when he is certain Jonghyun is dead to the world - he will play at innocence in the morning if required. With his face to the sky he counts the stars above them. Licking his thumb and touching the brightest one, he brings it back to his lips and smiles. All he tastes is sea salt and the grit of sand. It's perfect.
Now in November, with frozen crusts of sand fragile and cracking underfoot like glass, he remembers waking up that morning to find Jonghyun gone, his jacket draped over Key's shoulders. He had assumed he had simply left, as he always did before Key woke - his coat a promise of his return - but this time he had no idea just how far he had gone.
They had pulled him from the water, bloated and bygone, five days later.
He had found the matchbook tucked in the front pocket of his jeans, the message scrawled in red ink. On that morning he had taken no notice of it, but right then it was all he could think of. He had been angry, too angry to cry, but once it had faded along with the letters the tears had come. They were scalding and bittersweet on his lips; they reminded him of asking about the flavour of the sky after sundown, how he'd said it was fire and water, and in that moment he figured this was as close to stardust as he'd ever get.
The waves are crested white, even in the darkness. Hung low in the sky, the moon is only a sliver of it's true self, but the knowing wink of the stars bounce off the tumulus surface, sparkling like fish scales. The lapping water claws at his toes, sharp and unforgivingly cold, and he stands at the shoreline and allows his feet to freeze. In his pocket, his hands turns the matchbook over and over in his fingers, and he mouths the note without sound, allowing the phrase to stick to his dry, split lips. Wind rolls in from the open sea, flicking his hair into his eyes, but he won't let himself blink. He grasps the booklet hard in his palm, wrinkles and folds it with the strength of his grip, and walks forward.
As the frigid water soaks through his pants, stinging and burning at his legs, he draws Jonghyun's jacket tight, folding his arms across his chest. His teeth clatter together, and it sounds like a gypsy's tambourine against the ringing of his ears. When the water reaches his bottom-most rib it is a struggle to move further, and every time a wave lifts him off his feet and tries to carry him inland he screams at the night, cussing for all that he is worth. Soon he is swimming rather than walking. He sputters and coughs each time seawater slaps against his face, invading his mouth and nose and pooling in his lungs, and soon each gasp of air is like striking a match against his throat.
The waves fight him less and less as he goes, and he in turn allows them to pull him down and out. The surface of the water reflects the sky, and he searches for the matchbook again, clutching hard to it's sodden, twisted remains. One last breath out. He levels his chin against the surface of the water, and picks one wobbling star out of the hundreds scattered around him like wedding rice. It is the brightest of all of them.
Jonghyun's jacket is heavy against his shoulders, a leaden weight. His body wants to cough, to expel the water from his throat, to fight against the icy current and struggle for the shore; the rest of him remembers Jonghyun's honey-sweet voice, and a nonsense song about catching the moon.
The birth of a wave carries his chosen star to his lips, and he swallows the offering greedily; all he tastes is sea salt and the grit of sand as he slips beneath the surface. He still thinks it's perfect.
█ pairing: Jongkey
█ rating: PG-13 (WARNING: Implied Suicide)
█ genre: AU, Tragedy, Angst
█ summary:
Jonghyun makes one last request. Key will follow him anywhere.
✫ ··· author's note:
I was in a strange, strange mood when I wrote this. It doesn't entirely make sense, but it's out, bool, the end. This could be called a small, indirect nod to one of my favourite books, Lisey's Story, and the pool therein to which we call go down to drink. It's also a hell of a lot shorter than what I normally write; just over 1300 words. If you read it, let me know how you interpret it. Some conclusions are blatant; others will be yours, rather than mine.
Also, should you so wish it, the song Never Let Me Go by Florence + The Machine is excellent companion music for this story. I heard it much after I had actually written the story, but it fits so well I can't help but include it afterwards.
"Now we are two."
It's like wearing someone else's skin. It clings in all the wrong ways, for all the right reasons, and leaves him feeling grimy and exposed. There is nothing exceptional about it. A dusty denim jacket, too broad in the shoulder. His arms swim in the sleeves. Still, he feels warm again, and he wears it like he owns it. Like it was intended to be there all along. Like it was always meant to never really be his.
He considers the matchbook on the coffee table with far more severity than it requires. There is no logo silk-screened to the front, though there is a flower of something he prays is dried coffee across the plain white surface. Dubious, he brings it to his nose; all he smells is the wood of the sticks, the lingering char of the last struck head, marked in a sweeping diagonal across the rough tab in the back. Feeling foolish, he drops it back to the table, only to pick it up again and flip the sleeve up.
The words are faded, bloody and spidering across the fibre of the cardboard. He stares at them hard, not needing to read them to know what is written. They are committed to memory, trapped in the padded room in which he keeps nameless faces and broken promises - the things he wishes he could forget, that stay with him even when they are all he has.
Come and drink the stars with me.
He slips it into his pocket, and leaves without locking the door.
The bus leaves him too far from his destination, so he walks the remainder. There are no lights here, nothing to illuminate the steps he takes, but he knows where he is going. He hops the guardrail at the first turn, picking his way across boulders and gravel as he descends, until rock gives way to sand and surf. He toes his shoes off at the heel, sets them side by side at the border between worlds, and leaves them there.
It isn't summer, but he fades back, and then it is. Still night, but not so cold - not so much frost on the edges.
They sit together, toes facing the ocean. They talk about impossible things. There is a lightness to his voice that belittles the weight of the words, makes them cheap and brittle on the wind, but they buzz hot like neon in the moonlight. Key is drawn in, hypnotized by the flicker and the head-sick colour of them against his ears. Though he doesn't know it, he leaves a piece of himself behind on the beach - one he needs, that he comes to miss on nights where the sky is too loud to sleep through.
When they kiss, their mouths are both equally empty. After he mentions it, they laugh and kiss again, using tongues to fill the void. It's a paltry offering, so they fill themselves with one other instead, and that takes the edge off.
In the aftermath he watches the heartbeat of the cigarette when he takes a drag, flaring briefly, somehow strong enough to illuminate their faces. They speak of instant noodles, the impracticality of socks with sandals, and what it feels like to die. Jonghyun tells him about his relationship with the night sky; how sometimes he wishes he could drown in it, swallowing stars as he went. Key wonders what it would taste like to eat stardust; Jonghyun smiles at that, insists it would be molten, but sweet.
No matter how many words are exchanged between them, the one thing that isn't mentioned is time. He hates the concept, and Key hates it along with him, mostly because he does. Jonghyun wants simple things, like his old jean jacket and unfiltered cigarettes and plenty of ass. Though he longs for elsewhere he stays in the city, anchored, even though Key would follow him anywhere. He lives too deep in the now to spend his moments contemplating anything else, and that is why Key loves him.
They fall asleep with their feet facing the water. Key intertwines their fingers when he is certain Jonghyun is dead to the world - he will play at innocence in the morning if required. With his face to the sky he counts the stars above them. Licking his thumb and touching the brightest one, he brings it back to his lips and smiles. All he tastes is sea salt and the grit of sand. It's perfect.
Now in November, with frozen crusts of sand fragile and cracking underfoot like glass, he remembers waking up that morning to find Jonghyun gone, his jacket draped over Key's shoulders. He had assumed he had simply left, as he always did before Key woke - his coat a promise of his return - but this time he had no idea just how far he had gone.
They had pulled him from the water, bloated and bygone, five days later.
He had found the matchbook tucked in the front pocket of his jeans, the message scrawled in red ink. On that morning he had taken no notice of it, but right then it was all he could think of. He had been angry, too angry to cry, but once it had faded along with the letters the tears had come. They were scalding and bittersweet on his lips; they reminded him of asking about the flavour of the sky after sundown, how he'd said it was fire and water, and in that moment he figured this was as close to stardust as he'd ever get.
The waves are crested white, even in the darkness. Hung low in the sky, the moon is only a sliver of it's true self, but the knowing wink of the stars bounce off the tumulus surface, sparkling like fish scales. The lapping water claws at his toes, sharp and unforgivingly cold, and he stands at the shoreline and allows his feet to freeze. In his pocket, his hands turns the matchbook over and over in his fingers, and he mouths the note without sound, allowing the phrase to stick to his dry, split lips. Wind rolls in from the open sea, flicking his hair into his eyes, but he won't let himself blink. He grasps the booklet hard in his palm, wrinkles and folds it with the strength of his grip, and walks forward.
As the frigid water soaks through his pants, stinging and burning at his legs, he draws Jonghyun's jacket tight, folding his arms across his chest. His teeth clatter together, and it sounds like a gypsy's tambourine against the ringing of his ears. When the water reaches his bottom-most rib it is a struggle to move further, and every time a wave lifts him off his feet and tries to carry him inland he screams at the night, cussing for all that he is worth. Soon he is swimming rather than walking. He sputters and coughs each time seawater slaps against his face, invading his mouth and nose and pooling in his lungs, and soon each gasp of air is like striking a match against his throat.
The waves fight him less and less as he goes, and he in turn allows them to pull him down and out. The surface of the water reflects the sky, and he searches for the matchbook again, clutching hard to it's sodden, twisted remains. One last breath out. He levels his chin against the surface of the water, and picks one wobbling star out of the hundreds scattered around him like wedding rice. It is the brightest of all of them.
Jonghyun's jacket is heavy against his shoulders, a leaden weight. His body wants to cough, to expel the water from his throat, to fight against the icy current and struggle for the shore; the rest of him remembers Jonghyun's honey-sweet voice, and a nonsense song about catching the moon.
The birth of a wave carries his chosen star to his lips, and he swallows the offering greedily; all he tastes is sea salt and the grit of sand as he slips beneath the surface. He still thinks it's perfect.