and then something strawberry filled up the sky
AND THEN SOMETHING STRAWBERRY FILLED UP THE SKY
drabble-ish, 948 words, PG-13
romance/fluff, myungzy
A/N: this was my prompt - see if you can find all the song references in there! :)
my nicotine, my blue drink
there's a million names for your kind of chronic
Sugar, CnH2nOn, a combination of carbohydrates, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, glucose - monosaccharide in a chemical combustion, exploding in sheer pink flavors that are possibly what love tastes like (he wouldn’t know, or would’ve, or could’ve). Strawberry bubblegum pink, hues like Skittles, pricklishly bittersweet (in invented words) just as you think you're done with them. Its toothpaste after-taste remains, minty, sometimes cherry-flavored, sometimes peppermint, and you breathe deeply just to feel its sharp coolness tugging at your tongue.
He hates it - sugar, that is.
Suzy, first syllable starting where his name ends, hair in childish (innocent) waves, lips twenty different shades of viole(n)t, is hard candy - not in a (and in every) Vladimir Nabokov way. Can’t bite her without losing half your teeth, she’ll cut the insides of your mouth, she is fast to make you choke (on words, on air, on thighs, on hair, it rhymes, it surely does), not on purpose, though, never on purpose. Sugary girl, thirty-seven suitors, genetically-favored, clean, she’s clean, she smells good, it’s disturbing. Myungsoo, last syllable ending where her name starts, feeds on those thoughts daily, and he writes songs about her (in his head), songs about hating her so, and they all rhyme, they sure do.
“It’s like you’re obsessed with her,” the other six all say, he ignores. He’s not, he’s not, he’s not.
“I’m not.”
(He’s obsessed - thoroughly, absurdly, ridiculously -
more adverbs than his vocabulary can handle -
he is, he is, he is.)
Myungsoo, stage name L, just goes along quietly, barely there, not really there at all, good looks, never enough talent to survive on his own. Suzy, real name Sue Ji, box office record, probably cries honey tears, million dollar deals on her doorstep, suit and tie parties every weekend or so -- and sometimes they cross paths backstage (if he’s lucky enough), and even her boney shoulder feels good, he walks out of line just on purpose, apologies traded, his hollow, hers sweet (what else).
Syrup, lollipop sweet, makes him want to puke - and he goes home, and write songs about her, while she goes home, her home, not his (he would’ve liked that, or wouldn’t, wouldn’t, would’ve, would’ve), not ever, not now.
Once or twice -
(or thrice, or a million times)
he had seen her on stage, and the yellow lights seem to hit her, turning her body into liquid gold, making his clothes suddenly too tight, the air too sticky, and he clenched his microphone a little harder, and he swallowed dry spit that didn’t taste at all like strawberries (or love, but it did, it does), and he stared (in italics, in bold, underlined stare, capital letters, too obvious, too obvious).
Myungsoo, bitter, is known for his obsessions, his vast collection of romanticized dreams, and he’s made of black and white, his world is black and white; Suzy, saccharine, is made of every shade of every color, Pantone filtered soul, glimmer like diamond, pure, spotless - and she smells good, too.
He wants to take the colors away, but he can’t.
He has come to like it.
Yes, he has, he has.
She’s on stage again, liquid gold body, charming, his bloodshot eyes follow, red, she sees him (or not), he sees her (always), why not, he’s sitting there, and she’s in black this time, and they’re mirror images in his head - the unsullied dreams go to waste, who cares about romance anyway, he’s intoxicated.
He gets his chance, Myungsoo, Kim, on a television show, a stupid one like they all are, and she’s there, Suzy, Bae, because she’s everywhere, like it’s supposed to be. They’re introduced formally, first time, she’s sweet, likeable, interesting, I’m a big fan!, and he wonders if she sees the shackles she’s put around his wrists and ankles unknowingly -
they’re heavy, they hurt, they feel unnecessarily good.
(He pretends not to watch her hips when she walks away, he pretends, he pretends, he pretends, it’s all very tiring.)
Before she leaves, Suzy, teenage dream, scribbles a phone number on the back of his hand, and it happens much like old 90s movies, the cheesy ones, like his dreams, boy likes girl, girl doesn’t seem to know, until she does. Myungsoo, teenage dreamer, tastes strawberry bubblegum on his tongue, love, no butterflies, just sugar.
(And yet they aren’t teenagers at all.)
Backstage, Suzy, bossy, likes to push him around corners, against corners, every other surface, and there’s about a thousand scandals going on tabloids, and Myungsoo, meek, just goes along, he let her be, his hard candy, and he’s high on sugar, it’s all up his bloodstream, making his head lighter, making the sky turn red every time, he doesn’t even know what’s going on, he knows what she knows, he feels whatever she feels, up until the point they can’t move anymore, their bodies flooded with sugar water, so sweet it pains him.
“You’re sugar.”
Suzy, everybody’s first love, laughs.
(Even her laughter is pretty -
and sweet, of course it is, it is, it is.)
“And what am I to you?”
“You’re Myungsoo.”
“Just Myungsoo?”
“Suzy’s first love.”
He wants to write her a symphony all of a sudden, one that even rhymes, filled with ghost words, filled with sugar, filled with Suzy, monochromes giving way to pastels.
They don’t tell anyone, but everyone knows, it’s their secret, but it’s not, they don’t mean it, but they do -
they’re not anything,
but they’re everything.
drabble-ish, 948 words, PG-13
romance/fluff, myungzy
A/N: this was my prompt - see if you can find all the song references in there! :)
my nicotine, my blue drink
there's a million names for your kind of chronic
Sugar, CnH2nOn, a combination of carbohydrates, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, glucose - monosaccharide in a chemical combustion, exploding in sheer pink flavors that are possibly what love tastes like (he wouldn’t know, or would’ve, or could’ve). Strawberry bubblegum pink, hues like Skittles, pricklishly bittersweet (in invented words) just as you think you're done with them. Its toothpaste after-taste remains, minty, sometimes cherry-flavored, sometimes peppermint, and you breathe deeply just to feel its sharp coolness tugging at your tongue.
He hates it - sugar, that is.
Suzy, first syllable starting where his name ends, hair in childish (innocent) waves, lips twenty different shades of viole(n)t, is hard candy - not in a (and in every) Vladimir Nabokov way. Can’t bite her without losing half your teeth, she’ll cut the insides of your mouth, she is fast to make you choke (on words, on air, on thighs, on hair, it rhymes, it surely does), not on purpose, though, never on purpose. Sugary girl, thirty-seven suitors, genetically-favored, clean, she’s clean, she smells good, it’s disturbing. Myungsoo, last syllable ending where her name starts, feeds on those thoughts daily, and he writes songs about her (in his head), songs about hating her so, and they all rhyme, they sure do.
“It’s like you’re obsessed with her,” the other six all say, he ignores. He’s not, he’s not, he’s not.
“I’m not.”
(He’s obsessed - thoroughly, absurdly, ridiculously -
more adverbs than his vocabulary can handle -
he is, he is, he is.)
Myungsoo, stage name L, just goes along quietly, barely there, not really there at all, good looks, never enough talent to survive on his own. Suzy, real name Sue Ji, box office record, probably cries honey tears, million dollar deals on her doorstep, suit and tie parties every weekend or so -- and sometimes they cross paths backstage (if he’s lucky enough), and even her boney shoulder feels good, he walks out of line just on purpose, apologies traded, his hollow, hers sweet (what else).
Syrup, lollipop sweet, makes him want to puke - and he goes home, and write songs about her, while she goes home, her home, not his (he would’ve liked that, or wouldn’t, wouldn’t, would’ve, would’ve), not ever, not now.
Once or twice -
(or thrice, or a million times)
he had seen her on stage, and the yellow lights seem to hit her, turning her body into liquid gold, making his clothes suddenly too tight, the air too sticky, and he clenched his microphone a little harder, and he swallowed dry spit that didn’t taste at all like strawberries (or love, but it did, it does), and he stared (in italics, in bold, underlined stare, capital letters, too obvious, too obvious).
Myungsoo, bitter, is known for his obsessions, his vast collection of romanticized dreams, and he’s made of black and white, his world is black and white; Suzy, saccharine, is made of every shade of every color, Pantone filtered soul, glimmer like diamond, pure, spotless - and she smells good, too.
He wants to take the colors away, but he can’t.
He has come to like it.
Yes, he has, he has.
She’s on stage again, liquid gold body, charming, his bloodshot eyes follow, red, she sees him (or not), he sees her (always), why not, he’s sitting there, and she’s in black this time, and they’re mirror images in his head - the unsullied dreams go to waste, who cares about romance anyway, he’s intoxicated.
He gets his chance, Myungsoo, Kim, on a television show, a stupid one like they all are, and she’s there, Suzy, Bae, because she’s everywhere, like it’s supposed to be. They’re introduced formally, first time, she’s sweet, likeable, interesting, I’m a big fan!, and he wonders if she sees the shackles she’s put around his wrists and ankles unknowingly -
they’re heavy, they hurt, they feel unnecessarily good.
(He pretends not to watch her hips when she walks away, he pretends, he pretends, he pretends, it’s all very tiring.)
Before she leaves, Suzy, teenage dream, scribbles a phone number on the back of his hand, and it happens much like old 90s movies, the cheesy ones, like his dreams, boy likes girl, girl doesn’t seem to know, until she does. Myungsoo, teenage dreamer, tastes strawberry bubblegum on his tongue, love, no butterflies, just sugar.
(And yet they aren’t teenagers at all.)
Backstage, Suzy, bossy, likes to push him around corners, against corners, every other surface, and there’s about a thousand scandals going on tabloids, and Myungsoo, meek, just goes along, he let her be, his hard candy, and he’s high on sugar, it’s all up his bloodstream, making his head lighter, making the sky turn red every time, he doesn’t even know what’s going on, he knows what she knows, he feels whatever she feels, up until the point they can’t move anymore, their bodies flooded with sugar water, so sweet it pains him.
“You’re sugar.”
Suzy, everybody’s first love, laughs.
(Even her laughter is pretty -
and sweet, of course it is, it is, it is.)
“And what am I to you?”
“You’re Myungsoo.”
“Just Myungsoo?”
“Suzy’s first love.”
He wants to write her a symphony all of a sudden, one that even rhymes, filled with ghost words, filled with sugar, filled with Suzy, monochromes giving way to pastels.
They don’t tell anyone, but everyone knows, it’s their secret, but it’s not, they don’t mean it, but they do -
they’re not anything,
but they’re everything.