Timeless [fic]
Title: Timeless
Character: Ling Tong, Gan Ning (mentioned)
Rating: Safe for the whole family
Summary: Alone on New Year's Eve, Ling Tong thinks back on his relationship with Gan Ning.
Word count: 1001
Timeless
Eleven-fifteen.
It was New Year’s Eve. Auld Lang Syne tinkled out from the old TV set, while outside, the streets were empty, holding only dead leaves and streetlights.
He watched as the screen panned to show the crowds massed in Times Square. Eyes fixed to the flowing river of people, he readjusted his plush bathrobe and sank into his armchair, one hand wrapped around a glass of brandy.
Ling Tong knew that he should have been partying or paying visits, eating out in an expensive restaurant, or knocking back drinks at swanky bars. Anything but staying home alone, watching TV. But he just didn’t feel like going out. It just wasn’t anything fun or exciting to him anymore- just necessary chores to run, like taking out the trash. Whirling about the city lights and kicking it up with crowds of people had lost its appeal to him, ever since Gan Ning had gone.
Gan Ning had died eleven years ago. Next year, he would have been dead for exactly as long as they had been together- Ling Tong found that a depressing thought and quickly banished it. He didn’t want it to be so long.
Yet it had been that long anyways, and time had passed without his consent. He was getting older. He had missed his colorist’s appointment last week, and as a result some of his hairs were growing in silver, while on his face, fine, thin wrinkles had begun their tireless crawl. Yet he was, or at least he was told, that he was still beautiful, although the euphemistic ‘handsome’ had began to sneak in with increasing frequency. Still, he hoped dearly that he was, what was that word? Timeless. An article in some magazine had recently called him that- timeless. Timeless. He liked the feel of the word- smooth and glimmering, reassuring. And he wanted to be timeless- to not let the years pass so docilely, so that he wouldn’t have been alone for so long. If he could just know that it hadn’t been so much time since Gan Ning had gone, he would feel less lonely- wasn’t it better to have lost Gan Ning for only a month instead of a decade?
Admittedly, the initial period of the loss had been the worst. He shivered upon thinking back, remembering the pain, the constant feeling of being gutted over and over again, the coarse grains of grief collecting inside his abdomen like so many stones. Coming home to an empty house, the kettle silent and the radio off, opening the door and knowing full well that there’d never be Gan Ning there ever again, sliding into bed -their bed- because the memory was less painful than trying to forget on a new bed- no. No. No more. He tore his mind away. Back then, the loss, the pain, was unbearable, and even from the comfort of hindsight, he could feel the memory of it creeping onto him again. But he had learned to live with it, to tolerate it, until he was more of a heavy ache than a wrenching hand. He had gotten used to it by now- time at least, had let him heal slowly.
And now… Eleven years. That was more than a decade. It still hurt, but now he let it, embracing the loss so that it fell softly on him instead of crashing over him like the waves of high tide.
Eleven-thirty.
The math was subconscious. Twelve years with Gan Ning, eleven years without. The latter category was catching up fast.
You really need to get out, they had told him, years ago. You’re only in your thirties- that’s considered still young. Gan Ning’s gone- go find someone new. Are you just going to let time pass until you’re an old spinster?
No. He didn’t want time to pass. He wanted it to freeze, so that he wouldn’t lose so much.
Eleven-forty. Ling Tong got up again to retrieve a bottle of champagne from the fridge and set it on his coffee table. Then, he returned to the kitchen and with great delicacy, took down a wooden box and opened it. Nestled in their velvet mold were two fine champagne flutes, long and thin and glistening in the light.
Their tenth anniversary set. His lips slowly lifted in a smile as he remembered Gan Ning filling them back then. In the dim candlelight, the glass flutes had seemed to be all shine, all magic- just like the man pouring them full of champagne. They had held hands as they waited for clock to point to eight thirty-six (the time when Gan Ning had proposed), but had missed it when a hybrid arm-wrestling tickle match was more fun than staring at the clock.
Now Ling Tong lifted the flutes out of the box tenderly and carried them over to where he had been sitting and musing in front of the TV. He could still remember how they looked to be made of starlight. But now they just seemed like glass.
Eleven-forty five.
Ling Tong sat back down, making himself comfortable as he finished off his brandy. He watched idly as the reporter interviewed a newlywed couple. As he listened to their dedications of eternal love, he found that he wasn’t happy for them, but he didn’t wish them ill either.
Eleven-fifty. He got up and poured champagne into the flutes, and then picked one of them up.
The countdown had begun. Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight… He yawned. After this, it would be nice to just brush his teeth and go to bed, without any party to worry about.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two one.
On TV, confetti exploded over the city square, as the sound of horns and Auld Lang Syne followed by milliseconds afterwards. The crushed snow glimmered dully on the ground as dancing feet paraded across the square,
“Happy New Year, Ning,” he said quietly, clinking his champagne flute against the other one. “Happy New Year.”
Character: Ling Tong, Gan Ning (mentioned)
Rating: Safe for the whole family
Summary: Alone on New Year's Eve, Ling Tong thinks back on his relationship with Gan Ning.
Word count: 1001
Timeless
Eleven-fifteen.
It was New Year’s Eve. Auld Lang Syne tinkled out from the old TV set, while outside, the streets were empty, holding only dead leaves and streetlights.
He watched as the screen panned to show the crowds massed in Times Square. Eyes fixed to the flowing river of people, he readjusted his plush bathrobe and sank into his armchair, one hand wrapped around a glass of brandy.
Ling Tong knew that he should have been partying or paying visits, eating out in an expensive restaurant, or knocking back drinks at swanky bars. Anything but staying home alone, watching TV. But he just didn’t feel like going out. It just wasn’t anything fun or exciting to him anymore- just necessary chores to run, like taking out the trash. Whirling about the city lights and kicking it up with crowds of people had lost its appeal to him, ever since Gan Ning had gone.
Gan Ning had died eleven years ago. Next year, he would have been dead for exactly as long as they had been together- Ling Tong found that a depressing thought and quickly banished it. He didn’t want it to be so long.
Yet it had been that long anyways, and time had passed without his consent. He was getting older. He had missed his colorist’s appointment last week, and as a result some of his hairs were growing in silver, while on his face, fine, thin wrinkles had begun their tireless crawl. Yet he was, or at least he was told, that he was still beautiful, although the euphemistic ‘handsome’ had began to sneak in with increasing frequency. Still, he hoped dearly that he was, what was that word? Timeless. An article in some magazine had recently called him that- timeless. Timeless. He liked the feel of the word- smooth and glimmering, reassuring. And he wanted to be timeless- to not let the years pass so docilely, so that he wouldn’t have been alone for so long. If he could just know that it hadn’t been so much time since Gan Ning had gone, he would feel less lonely- wasn’t it better to have lost Gan Ning for only a month instead of a decade?
Admittedly, the initial period of the loss had been the worst. He shivered upon thinking back, remembering the pain, the constant feeling of being gutted over and over again, the coarse grains of grief collecting inside his abdomen like so many stones. Coming home to an empty house, the kettle silent and the radio off, opening the door and knowing full well that there’d never be Gan Ning there ever again, sliding into bed -their bed- because the memory was less painful than trying to forget on a new bed- no. No. No more. He tore his mind away. Back then, the loss, the pain, was unbearable, and even from the comfort of hindsight, he could feel the memory of it creeping onto him again. But he had learned to live with it, to tolerate it, until he was more of a heavy ache than a wrenching hand. He had gotten used to it by now- time at least, had let him heal slowly.
And now… Eleven years. That was more than a decade. It still hurt, but now he let it, embracing the loss so that it fell softly on him instead of crashing over him like the waves of high tide.
Eleven-thirty.
The math was subconscious. Twelve years with Gan Ning, eleven years without. The latter category was catching up fast.
You really need to get out, they had told him, years ago. You’re only in your thirties- that’s considered still young. Gan Ning’s gone- go find someone new. Are you just going to let time pass until you’re an old spinster?
No. He didn’t want time to pass. He wanted it to freeze, so that he wouldn’t lose so much.
Eleven-forty. Ling Tong got up again to retrieve a bottle of champagne from the fridge and set it on his coffee table. Then, he returned to the kitchen and with great delicacy, took down a wooden box and opened it. Nestled in their velvet mold were two fine champagne flutes, long and thin and glistening in the light.
Their tenth anniversary set. His lips slowly lifted in a smile as he remembered Gan Ning filling them back then. In the dim candlelight, the glass flutes had seemed to be all shine, all magic- just like the man pouring them full of champagne. They had held hands as they waited for clock to point to eight thirty-six (the time when Gan Ning had proposed), but had missed it when a hybrid arm-wrestling tickle match was more fun than staring at the clock.
Now Ling Tong lifted the flutes out of the box tenderly and carried them over to where he had been sitting and musing in front of the TV. He could still remember how they looked to be made of starlight. But now they just seemed like glass.
Eleven-forty five.
Ling Tong sat back down, making himself comfortable as he finished off his brandy. He watched idly as the reporter interviewed a newlywed couple. As he listened to their dedications of eternal love, he found that he wasn’t happy for them, but he didn’t wish them ill either.
Eleven-fifty. He got up and poured champagne into the flutes, and then picked one of them up.
The countdown had begun. Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight… He yawned. After this, it would be nice to just brush his teeth and go to bed, without any party to worry about.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two one.
On TV, confetti exploded over the city square, as the sound of horns and Auld Lang Syne followed by milliseconds afterwards. The crushed snow glimmered dully on the ground as dancing feet paraded across the square,
“Happy New Year, Ning,” he said quietly, clinking his champagne flute against the other one. “Happy New Year.”