fic: wither
Title: wither
Pairing: mild Sunye/Sunmi, hinted Seungri/Sunmi
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Sunmi, and the prices she pays. First WG fic, from Sunmi's perspective. um. idk, really. this is, um. strange, to say the least. Very angsty.
You are the wind-up doll with curls in your hair, stars in your eyes and a hole where your heart should be. You wear rouge on your cheeks and cotton-candy pink on your lips; a mask for the masses. How do I look, you ask. Perfect, Sunye tells you, and you smile with your teeth.
They devour you with their eyes and flashes, drink you in like water. You are small, pale, washed out; larger than life. You revel in the warmth of spotlights, thrive in the heat, the glare, the burn; bloom like a hothouse flower. Sunmi, they clamour, microphones held out like offerings, Sunmi, Sunmi. They take and you give and you grow, bigger brighter emptier (blanker than landscapes of snow, dust; faces of the moon).
You trade yourself to be made immortal.
Seungri catches you backstage after the show. He smiles at you self-consciously, tugs absently at his shirt. You like the way he looks at you (looks into you). You were great, he says, and means it. There is danger here, snares hidden in the depths of his eyes. Thank you, you reply, politely, formally. Seungri looks confused. Wait-
You wear the role of nymphet like a second skin. At night you dream and wake up flushed, gasping, heart beating triple time in your ears (too much too loud too fast). Seungri picks up on the second ring. Seungri, your voice a half-moan, breathless, Seungri Seungri Seungri-
Sunmi? He sounds worried, and you laugh. Is everything okay?
You lie. Yes. Never mind, Seungri.
Wait-
You hang up, crawl back into bed, and avoid Seungri’s gaze the next day.
Everyone loves Sohee. You love her loathe her (want to break her). You are sisters, rivals, links of the same chain. You’ll never tell. Sohee’s fingers find yours before your first performance. I’m so scared, she breathes. Her cheek is powdery cool under your lips. Everyone will love us, you say. Love you, you mean, the words hidden behind the bars of your smile. You hate her love her (wish you knew which). Thanks, Sohee’s arms are tight about you, and you want to laugh, cry; claw out her heart.
You are rough, unfinished, almost perfect. A work of art in progress. When you are whole you will be exquisite. Some days you almost fade into the mirror. Other days you wish you could. You run, and dance, and examine the jut of your cheekbones, the bones of your wrists. You like the clean, spare lines of your frame, the way you fit into corners. You think of saplings, reed-thin, whiplash straight; the way they grow towards the light (up up up until they reach the sun).
You dream of being hunted across vast plains, of being caught. You dream of being eaten alive.
I’m okay, you say, when Sunye corners you, lips pressed in a thin line. Okay, you insist, until Sunye finds you sitting fully clothed in the shower with the water running, gaze unfocused, hair plastered to your skull. You don’t know why you’re even there. Sunye takes you with her, and you stand pliable as she undresses you, as she counts the knobs of your spine with her fingers. You feel nothing. Sunye starts crying. Sunmi, she says, lips to your bare shoulder, oh god. You kiss her to stop her tears. It’s okay, you tell her. Really. Sunye’s answer is writ large in her eyes. You think she no longer believes you.
You are the jack-in-the-box with the broken spring, the clockwork soldier with the missing key. You are the ex-superhero, fallen from grace, trapped in a pitifully mortal shell. There are ribbons in your hair, glitter on your skin, and a chasm where your soul (you you you you you) should be.
Perfect, the mirror tells you, and you agree.
Pairing: mild Sunye/Sunmi, hinted Seungri/Sunmi
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Sunmi, and the prices she pays. First WG fic, from Sunmi's perspective. um. idk, really. this is, um. strange, to say the least. Very angsty.
You are the wind-up doll with curls in your hair, stars in your eyes and a hole where your heart should be. You wear rouge on your cheeks and cotton-candy pink on your lips; a mask for the masses. How do I look, you ask. Perfect, Sunye tells you, and you smile with your teeth.
They devour you with their eyes and flashes, drink you in like water. You are small, pale, washed out; larger than life. You revel in the warmth of spotlights, thrive in the heat, the glare, the burn; bloom like a hothouse flower. Sunmi, they clamour, microphones held out like offerings, Sunmi, Sunmi. They take and you give and you grow, bigger brighter emptier (blanker than landscapes of snow, dust; faces of the moon).
You trade yourself to be made immortal.
Seungri catches you backstage after the show. He smiles at you self-consciously, tugs absently at his shirt. You like the way he looks at you (looks into you). You were great, he says, and means it. There is danger here, snares hidden in the depths of his eyes. Thank you, you reply, politely, formally. Seungri looks confused. Wait-
You wear the role of nymphet like a second skin. At night you dream and wake up flushed, gasping, heart beating triple time in your ears (too much too loud too fast). Seungri picks up on the second ring. Seungri, your voice a half-moan, breathless, Seungri Seungri Seungri-
Sunmi? He sounds worried, and you laugh. Is everything okay?
You lie. Yes. Never mind, Seungri.
Wait-
You hang up, crawl back into bed, and avoid Seungri’s gaze the next day.
Everyone loves Sohee. You love her loathe her (want to break her). You are sisters, rivals, links of the same chain. You’ll never tell. Sohee’s fingers find yours before your first performance. I’m so scared, she breathes. Her cheek is powdery cool under your lips. Everyone will love us, you say. Love you, you mean, the words hidden behind the bars of your smile. You hate her love her (wish you knew which). Thanks, Sohee’s arms are tight about you, and you want to laugh, cry; claw out her heart.
You are rough, unfinished, almost perfect. A work of art in progress. When you are whole you will be exquisite. Some days you almost fade into the mirror. Other days you wish you could. You run, and dance, and examine the jut of your cheekbones, the bones of your wrists. You like the clean, spare lines of your frame, the way you fit into corners. You think of saplings, reed-thin, whiplash straight; the way they grow towards the light (up up up until they reach the sun).
You dream of being hunted across vast plains, of being caught. You dream of being eaten alive.
I’m okay, you say, when Sunye corners you, lips pressed in a thin line. Okay, you insist, until Sunye finds you sitting fully clothed in the shower with the water running, gaze unfocused, hair plastered to your skull. You don’t know why you’re even there. Sunye takes you with her, and you stand pliable as she undresses you, as she counts the knobs of your spine with her fingers. You feel nothing. Sunye starts crying. Sunmi, she says, lips to your bare shoulder, oh god. You kiss her to stop her tears. It’s okay, you tell her. Really. Sunye’s answer is writ large in her eyes. You think she no longer believes you.
You are the jack-in-the-box with the broken spring, the clockwork soldier with the missing key. You are the ex-superhero, fallen from grace, trapped in a pitifully mortal shell. There are ribbons in your hair, glitter on your skin, and a chasm where your soul (you you you you you) should be.
Perfect, the mirror tells you, and you agree.