your eyes are painted all sinatra blue
a/n: dedicated to the ever-amazing uljima and harues, who got me on this ship. happy birthday to both of you! ♥ (this is late and a fail, i'm sorry ;;)
your eyes are painted all sinatra blue
1,141w; pg-13 (myungsoo/suzy)
they do not dare dream.
She believes the water will save her. The Rhine, the Danube, the Elbe - the current washing above her head as she holds her breathe below. Imagines it clearly, submerging beyond the banks, one with the sunken top soil, cleansing her blackened soul. Stay still, down - like patience has always been her thing. Wait, wait, wait, wait.
Then it will be over.
He loses her somewhere in the midst of things - in between the borders of France, Germany, and Austria - the days, the weeks, the hours, the years driving schisms and cracks and fissures between them, whatever that is.
Wherever that is.
She tiptoes on the balcony of their apartment in Copenhagen. Late night traffic blares below, lights and people and pollution seasoning the air they breathe in. He watches her, hands in pockets, metal frame of cracked sliding glass doors cooling the skin on his cheek once warmed by a shower. Tells her it is time for bed. Wait a minute, she replies, so he does.
Her feet are tiny, long arms straight out on both sides - delicately arched like they would save her if she fell. But he knows she won’t (accidents don’t happen with suzy, after all). Her skirt twirls as she turns, intimately concentrated for wired distraction.
No. Everything about Suzy is intentional.
His shirt stains with watery eye makeup, smudges at the corners. She vaguely remembers telling him to stop wearing white shirts to sleep as she gets up to go to the bathroom.
But he is a man of habit. Picks up her eye pencil, shading in six AM shadows onto his pale skin. Wakes up before she can start with the gold. (as always) He is a man of habit, and dangerously so.
She tells him she’ll love him like the Little Mermaid as they board the train to Amsterdam. Down to the sea foam of my being, and the sea it’ll dissolve into.
But no one can love like the sea. She ignores this statement by resolute logic, neglecting the suitcases he is forced to stow away by himself as she finds their seats.
(It’s like we’re on death row, she mutters to him discretely as the train slows down, screeching against steel rails. He almost misses the words in the cacophony.
No one else hears them. (and that’s how she likes it) He leans back in his seat, lips near her ear, a half-whisper, half-shout. I swear we’re halfway there.
They hold back muffled laughter as everyone exits out the opening doors.)
Suzy is the kind of crazy that leaves water stains. Some days she cries and won’t know why - reasonless, cause-and-effect void actions - no logic or anything. It is the silent sobbing, the way her face contorts in pain, turmoil, greed, and selfishness, that inflates the lungs like plastic sandwich bags, bloated as they run down the river. Horrible, she tells him, full of shame and disgust. The feeling’s horrible.
No way to ebb it, though. He thinks this is worse.
But she still feels something. Even if it floods, saturates, drains - too quick to understand.
She still feels something.
It takes him two Wednesdays to remember the correct apartment number, the street they live on, and which bus lines get them where. He does not like it here, is the complaint with all the right frustrated italics and emphasis. (you didn’t like copenhagen, either, she reminds him as he tries to board the wrong bus for the fifth time)
You didn’t like Copenhagen, either.
They don’t move to Paris until winter comes.
He is the kind of crazy that can be satiated, suppressed. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend it doesn’t exist, never existed. But he (it) exists with water-stained Suzy, goddess of bloated sandwich bags running down rivers and lungs ready to implode. So he (it) runs wild.
You smell like the Rhine, she says one afternoon as they watch the streetcars wander Vienna. They lean warily close to a fresh wad of gum stuck to the right end of the back rest.
What do you mean? Streetcars pass. (so does the moment) Suzy doesn’t repeat it.
(but i love the rhine - the way the afternoons come and go, the peach clouds of an orange sky as sunset passes and the way the water reflects that - red like a leather glove, burnt like diluted lava, too thin to turn to obsidian.)
Why don’t you understand? Stains his shirt with watery eye makeup, smudges at the corners. Tiny feet, arms pulled to protect her, fists like he hurts her, like she hurts herself. Her words gurgle and glug and flow and stop like she cannot control them, silent, contorted tears filling in all the empty spaces. The water stains his fingers as he holds onto her hands, wiping profusely at her face. Stains her mind - she could jump off the balcony, hit her head on the bathtub, run with a streetcar on a busy road - but there would be no way to ebb it.
He thinks this is worse.
(he read her the numbers off the streetcars that passed them by. eleven, twenty-nine, nineteen thirty-seven. she found tracing the thousands of cells pressed onto the skin of his hands more interesting.
and it occurred to him then - she loved the rhine.)
He loses her somewhere in the midst of things - in between the borders of France, Germany, and Austria - the days, the weeks, the hours, the years driving schisms and cracks and fissures between them, whatever that is.
And he learns in Switzerland, in his solitude, in his monotony, in the pretense of never-existed, that Suzy - flooded, saturated, drained, bloated sandwich bags running down rivers Suzy - always loved him, will always love him, like the Little Mermaid, down to the sea foam of her being, and the sea it’ll dissolve into.
She still -
She holds her breath and counts until eleven, twenty-nine, halfway to nineteen thirty-seven. The current thundering above her head trickles beneath the water, the sun turning her blue-green and brown, cleansing her blackened soul. Stay still, down - like patience has always been her thing (it will be better he told her, he told her, he told her, but never understood her, with all the right frustrated italics and emphasis). Wait, wait, wait - to be one with the sunken top soil, the place beyond the banks, rooted, rooted and rotted and dead and feeling even there - in that place where water fills her lungs, her last breath -
Then it will be (is) all over.
(she settled for the north sea. feet take her up, up, up, arms delicately arched like they would save her if she fell. floats with the current, sea foam skin and body bloated like sandwich bags running down rivers.
she loved the rhine. she loved the rhine.
maybe, someday, someone will find her there.)
your eyes are painted all sinatra blue
1,141w; pg-13 (myungsoo/suzy)
they do not dare dream.
She believes the water will save her. The Rhine, the Danube, the Elbe - the current washing above her head as she holds her breathe below. Imagines it clearly, submerging beyond the banks, one with the sunken top soil, cleansing her blackened soul. Stay still, down - like patience has always been her thing. Wait, wait, wait, wait.
Then it will be over.
He loses her somewhere in the midst of things - in between the borders of France, Germany, and Austria - the days, the weeks, the hours, the years driving schisms and cracks and fissures between them, whatever that is.
Wherever that is.
She tiptoes on the balcony of their apartment in Copenhagen. Late night traffic blares below, lights and people and pollution seasoning the air they breathe in. He watches her, hands in pockets, metal frame of cracked sliding glass doors cooling the skin on his cheek once warmed by a shower. Tells her it is time for bed. Wait a minute, she replies, so he does.
Her feet are tiny, long arms straight out on both sides - delicately arched like they would save her if she fell. But he knows she won’t (accidents don’t happen with suzy, after all). Her skirt twirls as she turns, intimately concentrated for wired distraction.
No. Everything about Suzy is intentional.
His shirt stains with watery eye makeup, smudges at the corners. She vaguely remembers telling him to stop wearing white shirts to sleep as she gets up to go to the bathroom.
But he is a man of habit. Picks up her eye pencil, shading in six AM shadows onto his pale skin. Wakes up before she can start with the gold. (as always) He is a man of habit, and dangerously so.
She tells him she’ll love him like the Little Mermaid as they board the train to Amsterdam. Down to the sea foam of my being, and the sea it’ll dissolve into.
But no one can love like the sea. She ignores this statement by resolute logic, neglecting the suitcases he is forced to stow away by himself as she finds their seats.
(It’s like we’re on death row, she mutters to him discretely as the train slows down, screeching against steel rails. He almost misses the words in the cacophony.
No one else hears them. (and that’s how she likes it) He leans back in his seat, lips near her ear, a half-whisper, half-shout. I swear we’re halfway there.
They hold back muffled laughter as everyone exits out the opening doors.)
Suzy is the kind of crazy that leaves water stains. Some days she cries and won’t know why - reasonless, cause-and-effect void actions - no logic or anything. It is the silent sobbing, the way her face contorts in pain, turmoil, greed, and selfishness, that inflates the lungs like plastic sandwich bags, bloated as they run down the river. Horrible, she tells him, full of shame and disgust. The feeling’s horrible.
No way to ebb it, though. He thinks this is worse.
But she still feels something. Even if it floods, saturates, drains - too quick to understand.
She still feels something.
It takes him two Wednesdays to remember the correct apartment number, the street they live on, and which bus lines get them where. He does not like it here, is the complaint with all the right frustrated italics and emphasis. (you didn’t like copenhagen, either, she reminds him as he tries to board the wrong bus for the fifth time)
You didn’t like Copenhagen, either.
They don’t move to Paris until winter comes.
He is the kind of crazy that can be satiated, suppressed. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend it doesn’t exist, never existed. But he (it) exists with water-stained Suzy, goddess of bloated sandwich bags running down rivers and lungs ready to implode. So he (it) runs wild.
You smell like the Rhine, she says one afternoon as they watch the streetcars wander Vienna. They lean warily close to a fresh wad of gum stuck to the right end of the back rest.
What do you mean? Streetcars pass. (so does the moment) Suzy doesn’t repeat it.
(but i love the rhine - the way the afternoons come and go, the peach clouds of an orange sky as sunset passes and the way the water reflects that - red like a leather glove, burnt like diluted lava, too thin to turn to obsidian.)
Why don’t you understand? Stains his shirt with watery eye makeup, smudges at the corners. Tiny feet, arms pulled to protect her, fists like he hurts her, like she hurts herself. Her words gurgle and glug and flow and stop like she cannot control them, silent, contorted tears filling in all the empty spaces. The water stains his fingers as he holds onto her hands, wiping profusely at her face. Stains her mind - she could jump off the balcony, hit her head on the bathtub, run with a streetcar on a busy road - but there would be no way to ebb it.
He thinks this is worse.
(he read her the numbers off the streetcars that passed them by. eleven, twenty-nine, nineteen thirty-seven. she found tracing the thousands of cells pressed onto the skin of his hands more interesting.
and it occurred to him then - she loved the rhine.)
He loses her somewhere in the midst of things - in between the borders of France, Germany, and Austria - the days, the weeks, the hours, the years driving schisms and cracks and fissures between them, whatever that is.
And he learns in Switzerland, in his solitude, in his monotony, in the pretense of never-existed, that Suzy - flooded, saturated, drained, bloated sandwich bags running down rivers Suzy - always loved him, will always love him, like the Little Mermaid, down to the sea foam of her being, and the sea it’ll dissolve into.
She still -
She holds her breath and counts until eleven, twenty-nine, halfway to nineteen thirty-seven. The current thundering above her head trickles beneath the water, the sun turning her blue-green and brown, cleansing her blackened soul. Stay still, down - like patience has always been her thing (it will be better he told her, he told her, he told her, but never understood her, with all the right frustrated italics and emphasis). Wait, wait, wait - to be one with the sunken top soil, the place beyond the banks, rooted, rooted and rotted and dead and feeling even there - in that place where water fills her lungs, her last breath -
Then it will be (is) all over.
(she settled for the north sea. feet take her up, up, up, arms delicately arched like they would save her if she fell. floats with the current, sea foam skin and body bloated like sandwich bags running down rivers.
she loved the rhine. she loved the rhine.
maybe, someday, someone will find her there.)