Fic: Until the End of Time
Title: Until the End of Time
Band: B.A.P
Pairing: Banghim
Rating: R
Warning: Implied drug use, character death
Summary: Himchan is an artist.
Notes: I had to research artists of the 60s, and this happened. Also, Lana Del Rey's Blue Jeans.
Creativity, Himchan thinks, is a double edged sword.
Its early October, and the world is cold. He stares out his window through the glare of the late afternoon sun, and thinks that maybe, he's falling off the face of the earth.
It's been three months since he painted anything. He's virtually disappeared.
He's not sure he minds.
Jongup is, for lack of a better adjective, enthusiastic. He comes over every day, yellow sunshine and pink cheeks buried in a flurry of graceful movement and winding mazes of colour. The boy is a dream, smooth and hard lines blending in perfect harmony.
He's encouraging, helping out where he can and doing anything and all that is asked of him.
Himchan can only sigh. His studio is dead. Stark, blank canvases stare back at him, mockingly.
And Himchan knows there must be something wrong because when he watches Jongup make soup out of the last can on his shelf, all he can imagine is broken skin and filigree flowers.
The snows of November are harsh. The wind seeks out the broken stitching in his clothing and seeps into the cracks in his soul. Late nights, bright stars and quiet. The nights were once his muse, his citadel where everything was shiny and new. Fireworks exploded and his heart would beat a race against his ribs as his emotion came as a flood across the planes he called home. Now all he stares at is black barren canvas and white streaks across the coffee table.
The colours are radical, this year. Himchan stares in December as they wind around the crowd of people, all their faces phantom green in the light of the projections. His eyes dilate, and he laughs when Youngjae latches onto his arm. Sweet Youngjae. Pale peach and bright fuschia pink. He asks something about so and sos work, and where he's been. "The sky," Himchan replies, a giddy smile on his lips he doesn't really feel. "Where have you been?”
It’s still December when he walks in.
Dark jeans, white shirt. Fire in his eyes but so much more soul.
Blue, black, red, orange. Midnight and burnt umber.
The hues and emotions surge through him so fast he almost falls to his knees.
He nearly sobs when the man steadies him.
"Let me help you-"
No.
Grasping at the explosion of flesh, life, colour - Himchan stumbles over his feet. "Come with me. Please."
His apartment is a mess, but that is irrelevant. He doesn't give his guest the time to even take off his boots, pulling him through the clutter and shaded living room to his studio.
Himchan points to the chair and rips his coat off, hands reaching blindly for his old friends. They shriek and scream in glee and moan with desire as he lays them down across the cobwebs and flat landscape of his old, dusty territory.
Later, consumed by passionate reds and blues staining his face and hands, Himchan lays Yongguk down, too.
February is warm, despite the forecast. Himchan smiles as he adjusts his sunglasses. The water sparkles like a million tiny jewels and a thousand or more diamonds as they drip and cascade over Yongguk's sun kissed skin.
California is gorgeous. Every day is pervaded by shocking sparks of colour, of ideas that ruin his mind and keep him occupied though the stretches of time when Yongguk isn’t there.
But white is still his favourite shade of destruction.
It’s kind of inevitable really.
“I can’t do this anymore, Himchan.”
He pauses mid stroke, a furrow in his brow as he hums. Concentration. “What do you mean?”
Yongguk sighs. Quiet, exhausted. A lot, lately. “There’s a place down in Los Angeles that’s looking for a few workers.”
It takes a moment, but then it’s a full stop.
Himchan doesn’t turn around, staring unblinkingly at the way the red melds against the purple.
“So what are you saying..?”
Yongguk’s sigh is grating like the green as it disintegrates into brown rusty red.
“I’ll be back on Monday, alright?”
“We can make this work, you know.”
He says it to an empty room, and suddenly the shadows are his canvases again, barren and dead.
The clock ticks, his fingers itch. He taps against his thighs, the window sill, his eyes.
The middle of the night has never seemed so long.
The days pass, a month turns to two - late summer nights of auburn and tan and thick, inky black give way to gray, to white, to cold, cold blue.
The colours are simple, this year.
Purest white becomes deepest black.
Himchan imagines his story will be a short one.
He hears the red and blue screaming in the distance.
But it’s already too late.
I will love you until the end of time..
Band: B.A.P
Pairing: Banghim
Rating: R
Warning: Implied drug use, character death
Summary: Himchan is an artist.
Notes: I had to research artists of the 60s, and this happened. Also, Lana Del Rey's Blue Jeans.
Creativity, Himchan thinks, is a double edged sword.
Its early October, and the world is cold. He stares out his window through the glare of the late afternoon sun, and thinks that maybe, he's falling off the face of the earth.
It's been three months since he painted anything. He's virtually disappeared.
He's not sure he minds.
Jongup is, for lack of a better adjective, enthusiastic. He comes over every day, yellow sunshine and pink cheeks buried in a flurry of graceful movement and winding mazes of colour. The boy is a dream, smooth and hard lines blending in perfect harmony.
He's encouraging, helping out where he can and doing anything and all that is asked of him.
Himchan can only sigh. His studio is dead. Stark, blank canvases stare back at him, mockingly.
And Himchan knows there must be something wrong because when he watches Jongup make soup out of the last can on his shelf, all he can imagine is broken skin and filigree flowers.
The snows of November are harsh. The wind seeks out the broken stitching in his clothing and seeps into the cracks in his soul. Late nights, bright stars and quiet. The nights were once his muse, his citadel where everything was shiny and new. Fireworks exploded and his heart would beat a race against his ribs as his emotion came as a flood across the planes he called home. Now all he stares at is black barren canvas and white streaks across the coffee table.
The colours are radical, this year. Himchan stares in December as they wind around the crowd of people, all their faces phantom green in the light of the projections. His eyes dilate, and he laughs when Youngjae latches onto his arm. Sweet Youngjae. Pale peach and bright fuschia pink. He asks something about so and sos work, and where he's been. "The sky," Himchan replies, a giddy smile on his lips he doesn't really feel. "Where have you been?”
It’s still December when he walks in.
Dark jeans, white shirt. Fire in his eyes but so much more soul.
Blue, black, red, orange. Midnight and burnt umber.
The hues and emotions surge through him so fast he almost falls to his knees.
He nearly sobs when the man steadies him.
"Let me help you-"
No.
Grasping at the explosion of flesh, life, colour - Himchan stumbles over his feet. "Come with me. Please."
His apartment is a mess, but that is irrelevant. He doesn't give his guest the time to even take off his boots, pulling him through the clutter and shaded living room to his studio.
Himchan points to the chair and rips his coat off, hands reaching blindly for his old friends. They shriek and scream in glee and moan with desire as he lays them down across the cobwebs and flat landscape of his old, dusty territory.
Later, consumed by passionate reds and blues staining his face and hands, Himchan lays Yongguk down, too.
February is warm, despite the forecast. Himchan smiles as he adjusts his sunglasses. The water sparkles like a million tiny jewels and a thousand or more diamonds as they drip and cascade over Yongguk's sun kissed skin.
California is gorgeous. Every day is pervaded by shocking sparks of colour, of ideas that ruin his mind and keep him occupied though the stretches of time when Yongguk isn’t there.
But white is still his favourite shade of destruction.
It’s kind of inevitable really.
“I can’t do this anymore, Himchan.”
He pauses mid stroke, a furrow in his brow as he hums. Concentration. “What do you mean?”
Yongguk sighs. Quiet, exhausted. A lot, lately. “There’s a place down in Los Angeles that’s looking for a few workers.”
It takes a moment, but then it’s a full stop.
Himchan doesn’t turn around, staring unblinkingly at the way the red melds against the purple.
“So what are you saying..?”
Yongguk’s sigh is grating like the green as it disintegrates into brown rusty red.
“I’ll be back on Monday, alright?”
“We can make this work, you know.”
He says it to an empty room, and suddenly the shadows are his canvases again, barren and dead.
The clock ticks, his fingers itch. He taps against his thighs, the window sill, his eyes.
The middle of the night has never seemed so long.
The days pass, a month turns to two - late summer nights of auburn and tan and thick, inky black give way to gray, to white, to cold, cold blue.
The colours are simple, this year.
Purest white becomes deepest black.
Himchan imagines his story will be a short one.
He hears the red and blue screaming in the distance.
But it’s already too late.
I will love you until the end of time..