hiatus.

manic magic days ☆ dark depressing nights triggering content. oc. au. lit. 18+

[antipsychx-blog]

603k:

hold up, two, three - a first, one that’s bound to make it to the books when he finds himself drawing away. that, he’ll never confess but rather seal with half of a grin and a set of raised brows, eyes opening and welcoming the year that’s to come. the giddiness remains, faint in his chest, the rest of the high coursing through his limbs and face.

“i’m wearing this again,” he tells the other. the party hat’s snapped back onto his head, string awkwardly around his face before he grabs a stray party horn (probably used, definitely not cared for) and blows it enthusiastically. the other hand’s reaching for terry’s already, in case having had him pressed against himself for a good few seconds wasn’t enough. as was all the time before that, spending the hours shoulder to shoulder. in homes not within a home. another silent confession, in case mutuality’s wearing thin in ways he doesn’t know nor see.

they’re on their way out, this five-year-old and their not-so-sober suburban soccer mom. a mutual question at the door, possibly: whose house is this again? (christ, what the fuck. / me too.) “let’s watch some fucking fireworks!” kiel exclaims at the top of his lungs, throwing the union of their hands in the air before swinging it down just a bit too excitedly. it’s just the adrenaline, he’ll say if ever. gentle will exist the minute they’re back in the night. i promise.

his response is a mix between a scoff and suppressed laughter. regardless, he follows suit - not that he has much of a choice the moment their hands are clasped together. more instinct on terry’s end, to wrap lithe fingers around the other’s own, holding on tight, praying his fingertips don’t break off when the cold, night air hits. (warm only from the smoke and potential fire hazard.) his other hand’s exposed to the cold now, too,if only to grab the nearest, unopened can of beer on the way out. directly from the ice bucket. the irony. but, free booze is just that - free booze.

there’s amusement that lights up eyes hazy from the two cans and three tequila shots prior - or it could be the iridescence that continues to paint the dark canvas of the sky. the corner of his lips twitch upward as he watches the love of his life act like a child which, really, is a sight to see. however, not at all uncommon. the can is left to dangle at his side, arm hanging limp when he’s left mesmerized by the scene ahead or in his peripheral. (both, maybe. at the same time.)

he watches the fireworks reflected in kiel’s eyes instead of the distance, mania causing him to become hypersensitive enough to get a headache from the blast and lights. “you could get stds from that,” he says, nodding toward the horn, loud enough (hopefully) to pierce through  the chatter and cheers.”herpes.” or some shit like that. “you don’t know where that thing has been.”

[antipsychx-blog]

603k:

“yeah, yeah, yeah,” kiel says, lifting himself away from the wall and swinging on over right in front of mr. cute guy he found at a party. “color me stupid.” a last thing, a reminder. an invitation he brings right on over to 2018.

stupid could be red, purple, blue, maybe even his skin tone as it is now. flush or not. the shade of the practical hearts in his eyes when they’re not closed like they are now. well. one of them, anyway. both when he takes off his goddamned hat and draws terry in by the collar of his shirt.

he never has to ask again. (it’s nice to meet you, love)

it had just been a formality.

his phone is shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, both hands tucked away into the warmth as kicks himself off the wall. with the amount of people in this cramped space alone - drunk, high, or otherwise - there’s too much to ignore, and little to care about. no other scenes matter enough apart from the keg stand occurring in another corner of the room. the worst hangover of this dude’s life is in order.

it takes a few seconds - three, two, hold up - before terry’s tight-lipped smile presses against familiar lips. he’s not sure why people are desperate for a new year’s kiss, but he’s getting one. he remembers reading about it the other day, doesn’t remember much. a hand leaves the confines of his hoodie, so fingers can curl into the hem of the other’s shirt instead. not exactly pulling.

he’s tempted to pull away just to watch the fireworks, the flashing lights - a blur of color in a tipsy haze - reflected in and through the windows not enough to satisfy a pyromaniac. he doesn’t though - pull away. there are sparks between them that could light up the entire night sky.

[antipsychx-blog]

603k:

“tsk, mind your business.” kiel furrows his brows and sways away just a bit, feet still planted in the same place. he covers the side of his phone with one hand, tongue sticking out in thought.

( sms: cute guy i found at a party ) yes /sir/ ( sms ) anyway, great. my friend says he’s down ( sms ) i think he’s pretty hot ( sms ) hot enough for you to kiss and stuff

< drafted > ( sms ) ;)

some obscure countdown starts from sixty out in the near distance. he shoves his phone in his back pocket, rubs his hands together to keep them warm. the room’s a bit drafty, more than enough of an excuse to subconsciously inch closer as he fixes his bangs underneath his party hat. by the time he looks up, his gaze is set on the one who’s been beside him this whole time. a wink first, a smile last.

well. second to last.

( sms ➤ some asshole ) introduce me

back against the wall, terry’s more focused on the screen in hand than the actual party - or his companion. for now, anyway. he sends a quick greeting, half-assed, to the group chat he has with his siblings. better now than later, ready to pursue his plan of blacking out for the rest of january first.

he’s already halfway there.

familiar voices bounce off each corner of the house, combined with the countdown held in every surrounding house. fireworks resound much too early. terry would think they’re gunshots if he couldn’t see vivid, flashing lights through the window.

then again - could still be gunshots.

“you look like an idiot, you know?” is the last thing he leaves behind in 2017.

[kielarchived]

@antipsychx

( sms: terrence ) hey it’s 11:58 ( sms ) but more like 23:58… military? rotc time…. you get it ( sms ) what are you gonna do at midnight? 👀 hm? ( sms ) asking for a friend

[antipsychx-blog]

( sms ➤ some asshole ) looking for someone hot to kiss ( sms ➤ some asshole ) for luck in the coming year u kno ( sms ➤ some asshole ) is that my fucking name on ur phone ( sms ➤ some asshole ) change it

[kielarchived]

meet the mockers

[antipsychx-blog]

603k:

you know how bombs go, designated to be set off regardless of its type, build, frame, etc, etc? whatever, bullshit like that. point is, this is one. nothing like fire, however, but a rage nonetheless. no shrapnel, just a sudden fluidity that courses through and through. one that never quite seems to cease. his head’s the last to receive the flow, making him lean back and turn around to catch the other just by his side. to catch himself in his grasp, eyes squinted at the sight of him just inches away.

it’s not hard for him to come to a calm, usually. but how does that go when that’s the very first thing you encounter in an attack on you like this? does it grow? christ, does it just fester, become a battle of who dies first? you, that–

shut up, shut up. shut up.

“hello.” the corner of his mouth twitches, eye next when he turns back around and rests his elbows on the frame of the railing. kiel’s finally doing that slow inhale, bated exhale thing again when he focuses ahead, gaze blank, eyes watery. not because he’s crying, no. anything but that. it’s just cold and contrasting temperatures do that sometimes when they come in contact too soon. goosebumps are a weird phenomenon, while we’re at it. some bullshit like that (again).

he doesn’t wipe anything away, no semblance of solemnity or self-pity or anything remotely similar. he collects equally callused hands instead, one particular thought thrumming in his heart at the sight of their fingers intertwined.

i called her… that. his throat’s stuck, a foreign wetness trudging through to break it apart. just that. chocolate is to honey as black is to brown, the grasp falling into halves once he lets go. looks up. to nowhere. probably.

“can i stay over?” he asks once, hooking his finger around the loop of the other’s belthole mindlessly. simply a coping mechanism, something to bring the gap between them to a close. it’s just really, really cold outside.

don’t make me fucking beg.

“even if it’s just to help wash dishes.” compromise.

“anytime.”

he doesn’t miss a beat.

( in this house? there’s always room for one more. )

“let the kids wash the dishes.” 

terry hears shuffling from the inside, feels eyes on them - two pairs curiously peering from the foggy glass window until tanya guides them back to the kitchen. all remaining attendees of this wonderful winterland festivity are served both the fruitcake and chocolate cake. ty gags because consuming fruitcakes, without its necessity to be refrigerated, is essentially considered a capital punishment.

( ”is no one going to ask any fucking questions?” 

“save it, ron.” 

they already have, and have yet to find any answers.) 

terry presses their foreheads together, cold fingertips finding themselves gripping the other’s tie, gently pulling and fixing - pull, fix, pull, fix. he’s at a loss for words. “as long as i can unwrap my present,” is what comes out. teasing - an attempt to ease the tension.

what about your..?

he pulls away slightly, if only to give kiel a twice-over, brows furrowing as he lets his eyes scan and wander. he’s quiet for a good minute, curious and contemplative. despite his entire household’s lack of class on the daily - the holidays included - terry, in his worn-out jeans and oversized sweater, suddenly feels extremely underdressed. he blames it on the cold.

“what’s with the get up?”

[kielarchived]

meet the mockers

[antipsychx-blog]

603k:

“next week,” he reassures, lifting himself away gently from the other and sitting up straight. kiel raises his hand at the next question - a shock for anyone in the room who knows him well enough. “i’ll share chocolate cake with this guy right here.” his free hand reaches for one of terry’s, gives a light squeeze and stays in his grasp. the middle finger’s very much up in his mind in case lance has anything else to say; it’s surprising his throat’s not sore from shoving all that salt (in all sense of the word) down at every opportunity he’d gotten.

upon inhaling shakily, he shoots the other a look before locking their pinkies together, swinging them below in the gap between their chairs. “you say jump, i say where.” ankles are crossed, hair is still actually so great. he wouldn’t be surprised if he were to break out anytime soon due to all this stress that isn’t really for him, forehead enjoying the breeze while it’s still bare.

suddenly lynn stands up, utensils set carefully on the sides before she clasps her hands together over her stomach. “anyway, it… seems pretty busy from what i can tell.” a painstakingly obvious answer to her own question from fucking hours ago. her eyes dart to the clock on the wall, shoulders drooping down along with her arms at her sides when she sees what she sees. only an hour and a minute exactly has passed since they’ve left the house, a mix of bafflement and shame clear on her face when she looks down at all the food that’s most likely lukewarm at this rate. “but it would suck for all of this to go to waste, so.” she tucks her lip behind her teeth upon looking at shirley, runs a hand through her hair. “could i bring some home?”

lynn, holy shit.

panic,

systole,

“mom -”

his breath catches in his throat, any remaining words that could have possibly made it out of his mouth going right out the window instead. whatever flustered is, he wears it better than anyone else in the damn room. soon he’s up too, albeit more slowly than how she’d stood not too long ago. “you-” can’t just -

all the weight on his chest that he thought he’d be able to suppress this whole time comes crashing straight on his heart, fight or flight instinct kicking in the minute this is so. inhaling feels like a bullet shot right up his nose and into his brain, a sure sign of adrenaline that moves his feet before he can. down the hall, into the foyer, somewhere past this thing called a door. no further eye contact whatsoever.

“it’s a date.”

lance doesn’t bother hiding the look on his face. however, he does keep the inappropriate comments to himself this time around. in lieu of the festive spirit, he’d explain to terry later on.

terry’s jaw hangs slack when he sees kiel raise his hand, ready to say something until he sees amusement in the way tanya’s eyebrows rise, and the corner of her pursed lips quirking downward. “alright,” she says with a quick nod, harshly shoving ron out of the way to get the cake from the fridge. the bastard almost drops his beer. “the lovebirds get a slice.”

“no respect for me whatsoever,” he says, waving around the already half-empty can, as if any one of his offspring cares about whatever he has to say at this point. “you wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me, and your beautiful mother--”

“shut the fuck up, ron,” lance pipes up, popping the final piece of ham into his mouth, and handing his now-empty plate to ty. there’s another set of chatter and bustle while everyone gets ready to fill themselves with more calories. because extended, infuriating family dinners are part of the holiday spirit. there are plates clinking as julie re-sets the table, and as ty collects the used utensils to place into the sink.

“i have a lot of questions about--,” their father goes on, anyway, gesturing the beer in hand toward the hand-holding pair. “--this entire affair.”

“keep them to yourself, ron,” lance adds. “nobody gives a shit.”

it’s one half of the guest’s in question that has the entire room simmering down - more from curiosity than anything else. all eyes are on lynn, a sudden awkward pause caging the room. the ticking of the clock matches the pace of terry’s heartbeat. it’s shirley that breaks the silence, voice piercing through the thickness of the tension with an enthusiastic, “of course! of course!” she rummages through the cupboards for something to place the food in. “we made way too much--”

but the hand in terry’s grasp is gone too quickly before he could further react. he’s quick on his feet, however, his chair almost toppling over until ty catches it on time. “fuck,” is the first word the boy utters loud enough for the rest of the room to hear. no one berates him for it.

“kiel--”

terry’s strides are quick and long until his fingers manage to grab hold of the other’s wrist. “kiel, wait--” the cold air stings when it hits his face, denim jacket forgotten where he threw it onto the worn-out living room couch earlier in the night. he tugs lightly, urging the other to face him. “what’s going on?” don’t make me fucking beg.

[kielarchived]

meet the mockers

[antipsychx-blog]

603k:

“five years…” lynn mutters to herself, face growing paler for every addition there is to the ruckus at hand. kiel ignores her, tries to ignore just about everything going on as he stays still in his seat and keeps quiet. all he spares are a few blinks, waiting for the whole family(?) to calm down as he inhales through his nose, exhales the same way. by the time shirley’s said her piece, it’s only then when kiel’s ears perk up and cause him to finally look terry’s way, mouth parted slightly as to say something.

this was definitely a big something. were we not going to talk about it?

then again, he truly isn’t one to speak himself.

his hand’s out for the salt shaker once a few beats pass, lips pursed together as he swings his legs around to face the other. “here you go.”

“five years isn’t horrible,” the female guest says after a while. bites her tongue when she figures she’s said too much (re: said anything at all), soon wetting her mouth before she can say anything else. “it’s not a decade.”

this makes kiel chuckle quietly under his breath, hands settled on both thighs as he slightly leans forward. “fourteen years isn’t either, genius.” but go off, i guess. he leans in to whisper something in terry’s ear, lips barely grazing his skin as he cups his hand over. “who do you think wins the best mother of the year award?” a lighthearted joke, though in further context not exactly a way to make things any better if he’d said it any louder. he presses his chin against his shoulder, peers at lance from where he sits. deadpan is all he gets.

unless you count the cumulative years, then you’re not far off. 

tanya was god-knows-how-old then, but refuses to bring it up. shirley and lynn might as well ride off into the sunset together, and leave their children behind. the rest of the yoon siblings learned to stop looking for parental figures. tanya has always been enough. what about you? terry thinks. you’re family, too.

ron is by the fridge now, getting another can of beer from the case lance brought for the rest of the family - except for ron. son of a bitch. these sob stories don’t exactly make for the perfect holiday dinner. guilt trip each other until one of you dies, terry wants to say, bites his tongue. shirley is as much a stranger to them as lynn is at this point.

terry takes the salt from kiel, places it on the table beside his plate, no plans on using it anytime soon. lance reaches for it instead, dumps a fuckload on his inedible slice of meatloaf. terry’s place is relatively untouched, gravy now taking over half of his plate after he’d destroyed the mound of mashed potatoes he was looking forward to eating tonight.

he tilts his head to the side, just enough to gently bump his temple against kiel’s forehead. “so much for a nice, quiet dinner.” which, really, is the very definition of the entire situation, regardless. there’s an awkward pause after each question, not much for thought, but more for reluctance. the kids barely spoke a word which is surprising enough for ty. growing up, terry guesses, means you have to learn to read the atmosphere.

“alright!” tanya starts, putting her utensils down hard enough for them to clink loudly against her plate. “who wants dessert?” no one from the yoons get a chance to answer before she’s pushing herself up from her seat. “we’ve got fruitcake, and chocolate cake - care of terry’s recent paycheck.” shirley’s up as well after clearing her throat, following tanya to the fridge. julie and ty go for clean plates and forks.

“let’s just run away together,” he tells his other half, corner of his mouth twitching as he tries to suppress his laugh. “you ready to leave all these behind?” i’m not, an intrusive thought. but if we take on our mothers so much, it’ll be easier than we’d expected.

[kielarchived]

meet the mockers

[antipsychx-blog]

603k:

he raises both brows at this first question of the series, the corners of his mouth following suit when lance finishes it off in his own characteristic asshole brand. twice, because obviously half of one wasn’t enough. “does, uh, puck know what that is?” (shut your goddamn mouth) is all kiel has to offer at the end of it all, sneaking a glance right to his side at any bare skin the other might be showing. to his avail, nothing (thank god for clothes - right now, at least). he’ll pretend lynn’s not just as smart to catch on, minding the mashed potatoes completely by himself when they come his way. “and,” he continues, hooking his ankle around terry’s, “nothing much.” truly, even if it really wasn’t meant to be answered in the first place. “just got a little homesick.” punctuating this with a sure smile, he looks down at his plate with tired eyes and presses his fork into the pile of smushed whatever.

“i - we don’t celebrate any,” lynn answers immediately, almost defensively - actually? very. but that’s a secret that will stay the way it is. god, she hopes so more than her counterpart, lips pursed together just at the thought of him hitting her with a you fucked up, not me if ever something were to so occur to shatter their shared, inner turmoil. “but i mean. seeing the lights together on the way here should probably count for something, right?”

kiel looks up from his plate, visibly unbothered save for the attention he’s currently sparing. inside is something entirely different, a mess of its own waiting to spill in case he loses his patience sooner than he’d like. “i wasn’t paying attention.” who says we’re coming here together again? what the fuck. “they’ve been up for a while anyway, so.” he unhooks his ankle from below, opts for nudging his knee against the other’s instead. repetitively but slowly, it’s his only sure way of keeping his cool and finding comfort all at once. god forbid a mother do what she’s supposed to do.

“how about you guys?“ lynn asks soon after. her whole plate still has yet to be properly touched, but she helps herself to another serving of meatloaf to balance out the sides. “what’s it like being a full house with all eight of you running around?” several more questions have a way to go as her food and time goes by. 

this only makes kiel inhale sharply, pinch the bridge of his nose, and cover his mouth in its entirety, back settling against the chair hard enough to disturb any of the ones in close proximity, especially with all of them so tightly gathered. he almost stumbles back as a result, catching himself just in time from falling by grasping onto the frame of terry’s chair and sticking his heel into the floor. “fucking christ,” he mutters. his face appears red, teeth digging into his bottom lip once he’s settled back in place and staring into the center of the table. it’s really only to not laugh. his mouth quivers awkwardly, however, the inside of his cheek bitten to prevent any more inappropriate reactions (for this next round of five minutes). i’m so sorry, he wants to say then.

but where do i start?

“in this fucking house?” lance teases.

“language,” terry jabs back, elects to ignore the nudging he feels against his knee. he’d hold his hand if his fingers aren’t so busy tapping anxiously against his own thigh, and his other hand mindlessly playing with the disgusting meatloaf he’s told them all week he refuses to eat.

they also have fruitcake. hooray.

( fucking gross, that’s what it is. )

the question about the presently full house makes julie’s fork freeze before it touches her lips. she glances over to their ultimate lord and savior, dearest big sister for an answer. of course, tanya never disappoints, answers honestly, “actually, we haven’t seen shirley in, like, five years.”

“these ungrateful bastards,” ron interferes. “kicked me out of my own home.”

lance snorts, popping a piece of home into his mouth, answers with a muffled, “you always manage to find your way back in, though.”

“this is my house!”

“under my name,” tanya interjects.

terry rubs his forehead, sparing a glance at lynn, then at kiel, eyes lingering on the latter in both apology and frustration. welcome to the family, i guess. 

shirley sighs softly in defeat. “i’ll be back for good, though,” she promises, and empty one, offers a smile in terry’s direction. “after we come back from new york, right, terry?”

jesus christ, fuck me with a rake. he doesn’t miss a beat. “i’m not going.” from his peripheral, he sees lance shoving a spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, an attempt to choke on his own words before they slip out of his mouth. terry turns to kiel then, completely. “can you pass me the salt?” he doesn’t exactly need more of it.

[kielarchived]

meet the mockers

[antipsychx-blog]

603k:

“kiel, yeah!” he’s half-minded with the situation at hand thanks to the kiddo alone, almost forgetting that he’s already got a hand to hold and hence no free arms to pick him up and spin him around. a dramatic reunion (l o l), something there’s probably time for later. probably.

lynn and kiel both find themselves at the table sooner than they can confirm their identities, possibly change them in case anyone’s in too much of a haze to fully remember (’is ron even here?’ ‘i don’t know who that is, either’). the former’s only half apologetic, the latter still getting over how red his ears were for 1) deciding to show up like this and 2) deciding to show up. it’s only natural for him to even begin hoping terry can forgive him for any of it, but a reluctance exists merely in having to consume anything that’s on this table. nothing personal (his excuse), we could always just eat at home. it really is not a joke, this being enough for a damn community. underwhelming, simultaneously so.

he’s stunned into silence for the first five minutes when he assumes a seat next to the other half of this running gag of the night, watching his mother settle next to his and wondering if christmas miracles are actually (still) a thing. it’s been so long since he’s believed in anything, a particular potential one being fourteen fucking years late. too late? couldn’t hurt to find out in the second five minutes and more. he has that much faith. in myself, thanks.

“sorry, i guess surprises kinda. well, run in the family.” it’s lynn who makes this comment, loud enough for everyone to acknowledge the sound, quiet enough for any to feel free to ask her to repeat what she’d just said. she lets it pass, however, shrugs her coat off and places it on the back of her chair before shooting kiel a glance from across the table. tongue! in! cheek is just motif #290323 of whatever the hell they share (both in ignorance and in knowledge), lips pursed together as she cracks a small, bitter smile upon looking around at the rest of the crowd. “i don’t actually know anything about you guys, so.” she sounds genuinely concerned before she could ever sound sarcastic or anything else, hair too short for her to reasonably fix behind her ear. her fingers on either side of her face will have to do, the smile growing when her eyes land on puck. “you’ll have to help me catch up.”

you’re really something, lynn sang. 

they haven’t even gotten started.

kiel lets his jacket rest on his lap as casual as can be, nudges terry’s foot with his down below. not footsies (yet), just a hello (for now). “it’s clearly our extended family,” he says without hesitation, gelled-up hair and a closed button-up still not enough to mask the kiel that five out of the seven hosts know. love is debatable. “all you gotta say is, ‘long time, no see.’”

elbow on the table, a hand partially covering his mouth - terry is frozen in place, across from a twin long lost as it seems, mindlessly eyeing the food being passed around. his plate is empty, and it remains so for the next two minutes. lance takes the initiative to bump shoulders with the unmoving, and shoveling mashed potatoes from the bowl, and onto his brother’s plate.

family chaos is status quo.

wise words from the eldest herself. would have been believable, too, if only half of the family members start yelling at each other for something as mundane as getting the wrong flavor of cake - which would then, for some reason, lead to tanya threatening to kick ron out into the deadass cold, or lance punching their own father in the face, or julie whirling a baseball bat. the usual - a manageable situation that occurs any time they were all present in the same room.

they let another five minutes pass.

terry snaps out of this embarrassingly miserable trance when he feels something nudge his feet. he looks up from his plate of food - just a slice of ham, untouched, and gravy making a moat around the potatoes julie so diligently mashed. what, he mouths. kiel’s words have him pursing his lips in an attempt not to laugh (hollowly).

“speaking of which, kiel,” it’s tanya, of course, that decides to clear the air. “you’re not getting sick of terry, are you?”

it’s lance’s turn, a playful jab. “pretty sure i saw a hickey on him the other day--oof!” terry elbows him hard in the fucking ribs, he almost chokes on his meatloaf.

“you look great, by the way.” the sound of his own voice - terry doesn’t choke on his words this time; would rather choke on something else entirely - pierces through the growing chatter. “what’s the occasion?” he teases.

“kiel looks like a present ready to be unwrapped--oof!” lance swears he felt a rib crack.

“so!” shirley clears her throat, slowly putting her fork down. she turns to lynn, offers a smile, the familiar pair of honey gold curiously eyeing the two surprise guests. “any family holiday plans?”

stupid question, terry thinks. when has this family ever mattered?

[antipsychx-blog]

@seyoou replied to your post: i mean… i guess i’m back. i don’t follow many...

(( hello!

// HELLO I KINDA HAVE AN IDEA FOR A TWT THREAD DO YOU WANT ONE HERE AS WELL

[lhzthepoet]

How did we form constellations from our messy stars?

 Midnight Excerpts #36 // L.H.Z (via lhzthepoet)

[kielarchived]

meet the mockers

[antipsychx-blog]

603k:

it was supposed to be a joke. the tie, his hair. inviting himself and company, ears red when he realizes it’s a full house judging by how much stuffier the house feels from outside. steam literally comes through from the abode, proving his point.

i’m not imagining things - another unanimous thought, lynn’s eyes not quite sure where to settle here and now. kiel peers over the other’s shoulder, tongue in cheek as he spares a glance at the woman beside him. “is this a bad time?” he asks both parties, mumbled and hushed before he looks back up and pinches the bridge of his nose, gaze landing on the nearest nowhere.

lynn’s hands are at her side again now, eyes a shade deeper than the boy that stands before her. it’s a contemplative gaze at best, the tip of her nose just as red as her son’s ears (the one on your left) as she stares right into the stranger’s own. kiel lets her be, gives her a minute to absorb all that is here and now in, yes, reality. his reality, some semblance of a dream being nothing but old news.

she takes a series of breaths to check that she’s still around, sharp in, slow out. her words are none, nothing prepared at all after this freak show. nothing would have. figures as to why he’d let the air remain as stiff as it possibly should have every time she’d have the slightest bit of curiosity about what went on past those darned apartment doors. but anyway,

“uh, sorry,” he interrupts the speculation. “yeah, we would.” to be fair, he’s more concerned about the food than anything else at this rate; not because he’s hungry, but the heckton of others might as well be. that’s why we’re all here, right?

you - we - should have been invited,

“speaking of we,” kiel continues, clearing his throat as he ushers his company inside and closes the door behind, nodding to one of the boys in acknowledgement, waving his hand at another. “this is lynn.” he hasn’t looked at terry at all since he’d opened the door, the same shame from just an hour ago creeping back in as he shrugs off his jacket and holds it against his chest. exponentially increased. “a… cohabitant.” the resemblance between him and her in all aspects past physical is taunting even to those who aren’t so bright. “and this,” he exhales, impulse being nothing but an accomplice to his foolery as he suddenly switches on over to stand on the other’s side, “is terrence.” height aside, obviously - this resemblance jeers, too.

“a coincidence,” in more ways than one, “but i prefer the term ‘blessing’.” kiel doesn’t smile nor flinch when he links their arms together in a hesitant beat. the cringing exists in his head. excessively. possibly nonstop from here on out.

there’s one more thought to add in all their ever-growing synchronization: where do i fucking begin?

who the fuck is terrence?

( oh right. )

the words rest on the tip of his tongue, an ugly jumble of inquires, but he swallows them back. where do i fucking start? from the kitchen, he hears tanya’s distinctly sharp, “jesus christ,” spoken under her breath. explanations are unnecessary to five of seven family members present. not that he did much of that in the beginning. coincidence is a loose term, however. he would have teased kiel about the following comment if the tension isn’t so thick, even a butcher knife would lose that battle.

the silence is broken by the youngest of the yoons. puck immediately runs over to wrap his arms around the other’s waist in a wholesome greeting. “kiel!”

this reminds terry to breath. “nice to meet you.”

finally, i guess.

it’s puck who leads them into the kitchen, hand now within terry’s grasp, where the dining table is surrounded by food frozen midair. “this is shirley,” terry starts, nodding toward the woman with golden honey eyes carrying a tray of ham, and to the man sitting at the head of the table, bottle of beer in hand, “and our useless father, ron.” a hand slips into kiel’s own as he adds, “and this is kiel.” terry can tell it’s taking lance all of his will to keep his mouth shut.

save your questions, comments, suggestions, concerns, and violent reactions for when they leave. please.

“kiel!” puck echoes, and terry remembers to smile.

“and this is lynn,” he adds, in case the entire household didn’t already hear, gesturing toward the stranger with the uncanny resemblance. he shouldn’t be one to talk, though. “kiel’s--” mother. he cuts himself off. he’s sure everyone knows at this point.

ron fails them, as usual. “hey!” he starts, slowly getting up. “you look exactly like--” tanya forcefully pushes him back down so hard the chair almost topples over. a concussion suddenly seemed inviting. not that their asshole father is a stranger to the likes of it.

“welcome!” shirley finally puts down the tray in the middle of the table, wipes her hands on her apron to enthusiastically take lynn’s hands into her own. “we’re glad you could join us.” terry notices shirley subtly peering over at kiel, probably wondering if she forgot her queer, bipolar son had a twin brother she lost through the storm of her past affairs. “come. sit, sit.”

terry offers kiel a sheepish smile. “sorry,” he says softly. “i didn’t expect you to come.” tonight. a separate, safe dinner is planned for another time. this is fine, too, he guesses, figures, tells himself. he tugs gently. “come on. we have enough food for the entire neighborhood.” 

a table for ten?  terry feels his head spinning.

[antipsychx-blog]

i mean... i guess i’m back.

i don’t follow many people, but is anyone still alive ??

[kielarchived]

meet the mockers

when they sort of arrive, kiel requests the driver to stop just by the neighboring fence. “we’ll walk from here,” he tells the remainder of the crowd in the car. it earns him skepticism from both parties. maybe even contempt from [redacted] (relax dude, you get your goddamned money anyway).

lynn’s eager in seeking warmth the minute they’re out of the vehicle, hands tucked under both her armpits with her feet scrunched all weirdly against the pavement. she doesn’t flinch when she sees where they’re headed. kiel only bets, almost swears on his life that’s because she’s not looking at the right one. another fifteen seconds pass into finally going the direction they’re supposed to, and the only face she wears is plain old hers. hands closed into fists at her sides, quick to come up to her nose to revive anything that a proper blood flow might offer. it’s fucking great he doesn’t have spare change, for sure.

when they actually arrive, it’s all knock. knock, knock, knock. an arrhythmic pattern. something he swears his heart possesses just from seeing the glow through the windows. it’s not confident, neither the light nor the request to be inside. he hadn’t exactly given a heads up prior to showing up, but there’s some spark of hope in his withering chest that they’ll open up anytime now. not that it’s even new —

their shoulders knock together, accidentally. her hands are still clutched up to her face, right knee bobbing somehow in mid-air with her foot propped up by her toes like that. “they’re here, right?” she looks ridiculous, and it’s not making his stomach feel any better. that’s not even actually true anyway. the ridiculous part. alas, hurrah history! that’s what the h in hero stands for,

— sort of.

@antipsychx

[antipsychx-blog]

streamers line the interior of the household, a small christmas tree standing proud in the living room despite its height. outside, christmas lights twist and turn around the railing of their porch, obnoxiously multi-colored and blinking rapidly to the tune of an annoying christmas jingle they decide to mute.  the family willingly spends extra on electric bills if only to feel festive.

after all, it’s the most wonderful time of the year.

“julie, can you set the table, please?”

the aforementioned scurries into the kitchen, ready to grab the special plates and cutlery they otherwise wouldn’t use in the other three-hundred sixty-four days of the year. lance enters through the kitchen door, shrugs his jacket off, a plastic bag of food settling on the counter. all are store-bought, save for the christmas ham that shirley volunteered to cook herself - to make up for lost time. not that anyone cares at this point she’s here now, she said. an empty promise that their tight-knit of offspring pushed aside in hopes of having a normal, quiet family dinner for once.

there’s a rapping at the door, heard among the hustle and bustle of the always-busy house. “are we expecting visitors?” tanya asks, and all eyes are automatically set on him. terry freezes when he notices the simmering chatter and shuffling, spoon ready to secretly dig into the mashed potatoes. 

“what?”

“anyone coming over?”

“no...” he says slowly, eyebrows furrowing. regardless, spoon in hand, he reluctantly walks to their front door to prove that he, indeed, has not invited anyone to a family dinner - a complete one, for once. of course, as luck would have it, it’s an ever-familiar face that stands before him. he feels expectant eyes piercing the back of his head.

“hey,” he starts, voice soft and heavy with confusion. he easily takes notice of the stranger close by, brain still connecting puzzles in his head. the first thought is tanya’s invitation days prior: there’s food for more if he wants to join us.  “... you wanna come in?”

[haebxtna]

Your Smile Shines

“He was different. There was something about him that made him the one star to shine in a sky with a million that went unnoticed. It was the way he carried his heart in his eyes. And it sparkles; it shines brightly whenever paired with that smile. And he is the most beautiful when he does.”

BE HAPPY: From now own, we’ll share more smiles and laughter than tears.                     ( We’ll try. We’ll always try. )           « birthday playlist »  @antipsychx

        01 Two Less Lonely People – Air Supply

        02 Like You – Tatiana Manaois

        03 목요일 밤 -어반자카파

        04 I’ll be there -스피카

        05 Tired – Alan Walker

        06 I’m Your Angel – Celine Dion

        07 겨울아이 -수지

[spected-archive]

i love you! i love you, i love you (you know what that’s like, right?)

i’m sorry (it depends)

don’t leave me,

“for today.”

i have something to tell you.

time brings them to a standstill on the kitchen floor at 3 something in the morning - or a liestill? whatever, they’re together. their backs are on the grimy space, one guy with a robust head full of hair you could mistake for wheat if there weren’t hints of black from the roots. another with black, just plain black, mirroring that of the simple ways he’s chosen to stick to these days. it’s only been this way for a few months, maybe only even one -

but someone would always argue that no, it’s always been this way. the other - a background static. half out of exhaustion, another because it’s no use (inhale) -

they say nothing about their speculations. (exhale)

“i know i’m always ditching my workplace, but i’m here just for today.” as per usual. they say nothing about this, too.

one pair of chocolate, another pair of honey. both are fixated on the same old ceiling, someone because it’s a mindless antic, another because they’re not really there. there’s nothing to be said for the following minutes, someone bringing one eye to a close when they feel like zoning out for the same reason.

for what reason now?

i have something to tell

oh. right.

(inhale)

“i might as well be a nomad,” kiel continues when said minutes have passed. “you know?”

nothing. though maybe just static.

(exhale) he sits up in his spot and brings his knees to his chest, setting one hand flat on the surface beside the other. it’s the back of his hand, the way his wrist folds against the skin as opposed to the floor being a weird indication of mobility he hasn’t paid attention to in a while. he says nothing about this, again, shoulders drooping when his eyes do, too.

“sorry i don’t have cake.” just him, of course. it’s lonely here - am i allowed to admit that? is a fleeting thought, an absentminded hum replacing it all as kiel shifts his hand to card through that robust hair. it’s lonely because i miss you, even if you’re right here. “not because you know how it goes, but -” (inhale) “it’s three am.”

i have something

he doesn’t grimace this time at the thought of consuming sugar in any gram greater than zero, legs coming down and spreading on the floor, enough to fit a fist between his thighs. what his hand doesn’t do is fill in that space. it finds terry’s instead, slips into equally calloused fingers. like some kind of homecoming.

not that he’s ever really left.

“that being said though, i… guess we’re caught up now.” what time were you really born? a smile, this one mostly meant for himself. “the world’s largest gap between a pair of twins.” a slight look of discomfort, only to be disturbed by another smile - something that goes a little like bitter this time. “something like a hundred and twenty three days, no?” yeah. “closed now.”

(i don’t know why it took so long to fall for you,)

“so anyway, happy birthday.”

(but don’t catch me.)

i have

nothing (today)

not even static

someone.

he offers a squeeze in their handhold, generous and palpable, nowhere near apologetic and tentative any longer. they’re past that now. otherwise? this would be embarrassing as fuck.

“i’d wait five hundred years in the next life if i had to.”

never mind.

[antipsychx-blog]

happy birthday terry