(no subject)
cherish me to sleep
g-dragon/top, pg-13, 1050ⓦ
Note: Poem by T.S. Eliot. For Summer and whetstone; thank you.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.*
Everything tastes like ash: food, water, his mouth, Seunghyun's. It's caked under his fingernails, a thick grey film heavy on his tongue. He's slicing an apple with little finesse, working around the bruises with a paring knife and slotting the slices into his mouth, one by one, expecting a burst of sweetness that doesn't come each time. It's midday, and the sun is relentless, the cracked earth dry and flat; he's crouched in the shade of a rusty blue car, Seunghyun dozing off next to him.
Jiyong traces the lines in the ground aimlessly, spider-thin fissures and hairline fractures splitting into crevices. As if someone had wrapped their fingers around the world and squeezed, broken it as easily as one would an egg. He lines up the apple seeds along a wide crack, nudging them with a finger until they are evenly spaced.
If he tries, he can almost forget, push the knowledge that it's a matter of time, they're only waiting to die, into some untouched recess of his mind. Seunghyun is slumped against him in sleep, the two of them having drifted toward each other without quite realising. Seunghyun's fingers are curled loosely around Jiyong's wrist, his head a warm, familiar weight against Jiyong's collarbone; he shifts to lace their fingers together, every heartbeat defiant.
Survivors are expected to last no more than-, the broadcaster had said, voice crackling with interference, before Jiyong had stood up and flung the radio as far away as he could, out of sight. "What the fuck, Jiyong," Seunghyun had burst out, eyes wide, staggering to his feet, and Jiyong's hands were shaking as he pressed them into his eyes, feeling himself sway, unsteady. His knees had knocked into each other as he sat back down clumsily, breathing one two three four five, and when he looked back up, Seunghyun was gone.
He'd bitten his lip almost raw, digging his heel into the ground, remembering every time Seunghyun had confessed, "There are times when I just want to run away." Earlier, Seunghyun had slid Jiyong's rings off, one by one, slipping them onto his own fingers, toying with them, pushing them into a pile before leaving them finally in a line, perfectly straight. The silver glinted in the dying sunlight and he'd thought, a little delirious, but I'm Kwon Jiyong.
Seunghyun hadn't returned until it was already dark, and Jiyong had jumped when Seunghyun had crouched down beside him. Seunghyun's mouth had twitched a little, like he'd been itching to say boo! but had settled for waiting for Jiyong's startled curse. His hands were empty. "I decided I didn't want to know the future," he said, quietly, later, his head in Jiyong's lap and Jiyong's fingers running through his hair.
When he wakes up, Seunghyun is smoking, stamping out the flecks of red-orange that alight with the heel of his boot. Black cigarette ash is peppered among the powder-grey. Jiyong laughs quietly, voice still rough with sleep and congestion. "Inviting the apocalypse now, huh?"
Seunghyun looks over, opening up his palm wordlessly when Jiyong reaches for the cigarette. "Might as well," he says, smiling like it's a private joke. Jiyong can feel his gaze, settling like dust on the fingers he wraps around the cigarette. The smoke blooms in his lungs, burning its way through his body like gunpowder.
"God," Jiyong chokes out, as Seunghyun slides fingers under Jiyong's to take the cigarette back, laughing a little. He kisses Jiyong once they're calm again, precise and careful, metering out each precious breath of air. Jiyong's lungs burn anyway; he presses forward, wanting Seunghyun to take, and he does, tugging Jiyong blindly into the backseat of the car.
He closes his eyes, and walks.
In the distance, there is a single shoe, fallen on its side. It is too far away to see, but Jiyong imagines it could be a woman's coral pink kitten heel, or a jogger's lucky left shoe, or a child's velcro-strapped sneaker, a name that could even be his written on the tongue with permanent marker.
He's nudging the shoe with the toe of his Louboutins when the snake slides out, like grain spilling out of a bag. It's small, dark scales a stark contrast against the grey, winding around his heel. In an instant Jiyong sees the snake headless, body twisting. His grip on the paring knife is slick, the taste of copper filling his mouth.
His neck, still craned, is beginning to hurt; he massages it with a hand, and his fingers come away dark with blood. He looks back down. The snake is gone; the shoe is his.
He gasps awake, like a drowning man breaching air. His vision whirls at the same time his head does, his fingers catching on the stiff olive-coloured fabric of Seunghyun's jacket and dragging it down toward him, just to have something solid under his skin.
"Jesus, Ji," Seunghyun breathes, mouth open over his. His eyes are wide, looking straight into Jiyong's, searching. There's a dusty grey smudge on Seunghyun's cheek, traced taut along his cheekbones, that ends at Jiyong's thumb. Seunghyun's heartbeat is like a butterfly, pinned under his shaking fingers. "I'm not going anywhere." His mouth pulls a little, embarrassed and worried and helplessly earnest, all at once.
"Good," Jiyong mumbles, face pressed into Seunghyun's chest so fiercely he can barely breathe. Slowly, Seunghyun reaches an arm around Jiyong, fingers curling around the back of Jiyong's shirt, and whispers it to him again, there's nowhere to go except to you curling into the warm shell of his ear.
He'd always imagined the world ending in the same way as ink in water: explosive, tendrils of black consuming everything in sight. He's lost track of the days now, time blurring into irregular cycles of sleep and wakefulness, barely-there hunger and Seunghyun, laughing at his own jokes or dragging a finger through the ash to write words and watch them disappear.
"Hey, Rip van Winkle," Jiyong says, reaching over to brush ash out of Seunghyun's hair. Seunghyun's eyes flutter closed, docile, and Jiyong considers Seunghyun's face for a moment, young and peaceful, at odds with everything else. You're every love song, Jiyong thinks, and Seunghyun opens his eyes and smiles as if he'd said it aloud.
g-dragon/top, pg-13, 1050ⓦ
Note: Poem by T.S. Eliot. For Summer and whetstone; thank you.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.*
Everything tastes like ash: food, water, his mouth, Seunghyun's. It's caked under his fingernails, a thick grey film heavy on his tongue. He's slicing an apple with little finesse, working around the bruises with a paring knife and slotting the slices into his mouth, one by one, expecting a burst of sweetness that doesn't come each time. It's midday, and the sun is relentless, the cracked earth dry and flat; he's crouched in the shade of a rusty blue car, Seunghyun dozing off next to him.
Jiyong traces the lines in the ground aimlessly, spider-thin fissures and hairline fractures splitting into crevices. As if someone had wrapped their fingers around the world and squeezed, broken it as easily as one would an egg. He lines up the apple seeds along a wide crack, nudging them with a finger until they are evenly spaced.
If he tries, he can almost forget, push the knowledge that it's a matter of time, they're only waiting to die, into some untouched recess of his mind. Seunghyun is slumped against him in sleep, the two of them having drifted toward each other without quite realising. Seunghyun's fingers are curled loosely around Jiyong's wrist, his head a warm, familiar weight against Jiyong's collarbone; he shifts to lace their fingers together, every heartbeat defiant.
Survivors are expected to last no more than-, the broadcaster had said, voice crackling with interference, before Jiyong had stood up and flung the radio as far away as he could, out of sight. "What the fuck, Jiyong," Seunghyun had burst out, eyes wide, staggering to his feet, and Jiyong's hands were shaking as he pressed them into his eyes, feeling himself sway, unsteady. His knees had knocked into each other as he sat back down clumsily, breathing one two three four five, and when he looked back up, Seunghyun was gone.
He'd bitten his lip almost raw, digging his heel into the ground, remembering every time Seunghyun had confessed, "There are times when I just want to run away." Earlier, Seunghyun had slid Jiyong's rings off, one by one, slipping them onto his own fingers, toying with them, pushing them into a pile before leaving them finally in a line, perfectly straight. The silver glinted in the dying sunlight and he'd thought, a little delirious, but I'm Kwon Jiyong.
Seunghyun hadn't returned until it was already dark, and Jiyong had jumped when Seunghyun had crouched down beside him. Seunghyun's mouth had twitched a little, like he'd been itching to say boo! but had settled for waiting for Jiyong's startled curse. His hands were empty. "I decided I didn't want to know the future," he said, quietly, later, his head in Jiyong's lap and Jiyong's fingers running through his hair.
When he wakes up, Seunghyun is smoking, stamping out the flecks of red-orange that alight with the heel of his boot. Black cigarette ash is peppered among the powder-grey. Jiyong laughs quietly, voice still rough with sleep and congestion. "Inviting the apocalypse now, huh?"
Seunghyun looks over, opening up his palm wordlessly when Jiyong reaches for the cigarette. "Might as well," he says, smiling like it's a private joke. Jiyong can feel his gaze, settling like dust on the fingers he wraps around the cigarette. The smoke blooms in his lungs, burning its way through his body like gunpowder.
"God," Jiyong chokes out, as Seunghyun slides fingers under Jiyong's to take the cigarette back, laughing a little. He kisses Jiyong once they're calm again, precise and careful, metering out each precious breath of air. Jiyong's lungs burn anyway; he presses forward, wanting Seunghyun to take, and he does, tugging Jiyong blindly into the backseat of the car.
He closes his eyes, and walks.
In the distance, there is a single shoe, fallen on its side. It is too far away to see, but Jiyong imagines it could be a woman's coral pink kitten heel, or a jogger's lucky left shoe, or a child's velcro-strapped sneaker, a name that could even be his written on the tongue with permanent marker.
He's nudging the shoe with the toe of his Louboutins when the snake slides out, like grain spilling out of a bag. It's small, dark scales a stark contrast against the grey, winding around his heel. In an instant Jiyong sees the snake headless, body twisting. His grip on the paring knife is slick, the taste of copper filling his mouth.
His neck, still craned, is beginning to hurt; he massages it with a hand, and his fingers come away dark with blood. He looks back down. The snake is gone; the shoe is his.
He gasps awake, like a drowning man breaching air. His vision whirls at the same time his head does, his fingers catching on the stiff olive-coloured fabric of Seunghyun's jacket and dragging it down toward him, just to have something solid under his skin.
"Jesus, Ji," Seunghyun breathes, mouth open over his. His eyes are wide, looking straight into Jiyong's, searching. There's a dusty grey smudge on Seunghyun's cheek, traced taut along his cheekbones, that ends at Jiyong's thumb. Seunghyun's heartbeat is like a butterfly, pinned under his shaking fingers. "I'm not going anywhere." His mouth pulls a little, embarrassed and worried and helplessly earnest, all at once.
"Good," Jiyong mumbles, face pressed into Seunghyun's chest so fiercely he can barely breathe. Slowly, Seunghyun reaches an arm around Jiyong, fingers curling around the back of Jiyong's shirt, and whispers it to him again, there's nowhere to go except to you curling into the warm shell of his ear.
He'd always imagined the world ending in the same way as ink in water: explosive, tendrils of black consuming everything in sight. He's lost track of the days now, time blurring into irregular cycles of sleep and wakefulness, barely-there hunger and Seunghyun, laughing at his own jokes or dragging a finger through the ash to write words and watch them disappear.
"Hey, Rip van Winkle," Jiyong says, reaching over to brush ash out of Seunghyun's hair. Seunghyun's eyes flutter closed, docile, and Jiyong considers Seunghyun's face for a moment, young and peaceful, at odds with everything else. You're every love song, Jiyong thinks, and Seunghyun opens his eyes and smiles as if he'd said it aloud.