[team sonic] 花樣年華
Starting text from here.
Title from [Jimin and his tattoo]@syubitaetae_: jimin's tattoo "花樣年華" is a chinese metaphor for like a fleeting or withering youth; meaning his innocence from childhood is now going away.
Naked truths are the hardest to swallow.
Sitting there, on his narrow bed in his small room, Adam thinks about how he never had a childhood. He can't remember the first time-arm raised above your head, hovering in the air for a frozen moment of time before falling-it's strange, reading about the loss of innocence, as childhood withers to darker things.
How can it get any darker?
He understands the words but not the sentiment, looking at Gansey, golden boy, the man on a mission, at Ronan, who lived in a dream until he woke up. . .
I never had a chance to be asleep, he thinks, looking over the sentences of a critical essay about a book he doesn't understand. Not with his bones, the bruises so deep they're imbued in the very marrow. You can't lose something you never had to begin with.
But then he thinks about Ronan's lips meeting his, soft and warm and so unlike fists, the quiet gentleness at first sight uncharacteristic of someone who is only rage and edges and angles sharp enough to cut by merely looking. It's not about appearances, the Henrietta boy with the perfect grades and the secret nightmares, or the wild child who secretly goes and visits his sleeping mother.
Ronan's touch, contact that burns but also paints a story over his skin. Not bruises but soft shivers, a current running over the surface. Ronan is a dreamer and he dreams the youth back into him, touch by touch, mouth to mouth.
"Why did you do that?" Adam asked, Ronan pulling back after the first time. It wan't that he didn't know, but he wanted to know if Ronan knew it too.
"Because I wanted to," Ronan replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world; the simplicity of a child's right and wrong.
Sitting on his bed, breathing in the hot dusty air of a Henrietta summer, Adam runs fingertips over lips that aren't bruised by fists, the contact sending shivers down his spine.
If anyone can dream the innocence back into Adam, it's him. And maybe, just maybe, Adam can let it happen.
Title from [Jimin and his tattoo]@syubitaetae_: jimin's tattoo "花樣年華" is a chinese metaphor for like a fleeting or withering youth; meaning his innocence from childhood is now going away.
Naked truths are the hardest to swallow.
Sitting there, on his narrow bed in his small room, Adam thinks about how he never had a childhood. He can't remember the first time-arm raised above your head, hovering in the air for a frozen moment of time before falling-it's strange, reading about the loss of innocence, as childhood withers to darker things.
How can it get any darker?
He understands the words but not the sentiment, looking at Gansey, golden boy, the man on a mission, at Ronan, who lived in a dream until he woke up. . .
I never had a chance to be asleep, he thinks, looking over the sentences of a critical essay about a book he doesn't understand. Not with his bones, the bruises so deep they're imbued in the very marrow. You can't lose something you never had to begin with.
But then he thinks about Ronan's lips meeting his, soft and warm and so unlike fists, the quiet gentleness at first sight uncharacteristic of someone who is only rage and edges and angles sharp enough to cut by merely looking. It's not about appearances, the Henrietta boy with the perfect grades and the secret nightmares, or the wild child who secretly goes and visits his sleeping mother.
Ronan's touch, contact that burns but also paints a story over his skin. Not bruises but soft shivers, a current running over the surface. Ronan is a dreamer and he dreams the youth back into him, touch by touch, mouth to mouth.
"Why did you do that?" Adam asked, Ronan pulling back after the first time. It wan't that he didn't know, but he wanted to know if Ronan knew it too.
"Because I wanted to," Ronan replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world; the simplicity of a child's right and wrong.
Sitting on his bed, breathing in the hot dusty air of a Henrietta summer, Adam runs fingertips over lips that aren't bruised by fists, the contact sending shivers down his spine.
If anyone can dream the innocence back into Adam, it's him. And maybe, just maybe, Adam can let it happen.