SYS.

byun yohan, 25. technopath. "the hermit"

[arcyohan-blog]

everytime

+ @arcyeon

emotion hangs between them like a low moon.

his thoughts pool and the gentle pull of gravity cuts ridges into them, carves waves and smooths their edges, stretches them out. their silence spills into a another tune -- the murmur of oceans, the quiet ballad of crashing waves. at her design, borders fall apart, seams become undone; where his thoughts begin and end no longer matters; they bloat and swell and he's submerged in their song. his bones seem to chase her voice, almost ache as they sit still and ready. his feet point in her direction and, when emotion finally washes over him, his toes curl.

she provides the feeling, but it's yohan that gives it shape.

light and dark line up in a blue horizon; his mother emerges, her silhouette flimsy, indefinite; her arms stretch and his feet awaken, take him to her. but she never grows near, he never advances -- he falls into an endless prance. laughter arrives and sails across his memory, splatters between them like spilled paint; the color is bright, its hue exaggerated. balloons come together in a clumsy clump behind her; another kid squeals. his mother speaks but he can't hear anything past the tone and texture of her voice, so real that it feels tangible and heavy; it has weight and he reaches forward, tries to hold it in his hands.

but his fingers grasp at air, fold into his palm, reel him back to the room he's sitting in. his knees are bent at neat angles, his neck is stretched; his adam's apple juts out at his throat; it rises and falls as he swallows the music of his daydream before his chest picks at its shape and finds words hidden in the woodwork.

"i see my mother," he declares, though his voice is too soft; it doesn't fly straight, but leaps and dives, curls in the air -- a kite whipping in the wind. "she looks so much younger. i'm much younger -- a child.

"she has a red ribbon in her hair and it's getting stuck in the wind. she has hair in her face. i'm running to her -- her arms are open. i don't know where we are, but there are other kids. there are balloons behind her. the sky is blue, no clouds. my father isn't there."

and he wonders if she can see the same -- if their ventures into their terrain of memories coincide. if they step on the same branches, hear the same break, or if they chase the same falling leaves. he wonders if she holds the same taste of cotton candy on her tongue, and if it fills her mouth like sugared water; stains the velvet with honeyed violets. but his questions line his throat, never to be spoken, only wondered -- always the wonder. a smile lays on his lips, languid and lazy, and his eyes creak open before they close again.

they flit open when the bass drums in his chest and he sees a dim room and a herd of bodies bumping into one another, as though searching for their missing piece -- that perfect fit. his eyes search and find her gaze. time slows, the seconds drip, and gayeon's eyes look more golden than they should. 

they sway -- sink into the state of unrest -- but he can't look away from her gaze; he expects too much, though he recognizes it's nothing more than their usual routine. even the song, lost in its own volume, is familiar, almost nostalgic.

he doesn't speak, rather mouths his words: ready?

[arcyeon-deactivated20181023]

･ﾟ ̣  contrivance   ›

[arcyohan-blog]

arcyeon:

.  .  .  .

there was someone coming. 

she braced herself for an attack, thinking it was one of the assailants from previous times, but as she prepped to counter— it’s a familiar face. “  oh.  ” it was all she could say as she calmed down and tucked her weapon away, which was nothing but a measly knife. “  nice to see you.  ” there’s barely a smile on her lips as she’s relieved to have some company that doesn’t require a fight, but she can’t say she’s particularly happy to see him. though, it was rather fitting to have ran into yohan. she attempts to assess if he had any injuries, but instead she takes note of his extra gear. “  what is that? did you find it or build it?  ”

the sound of his steps stretches into a thin, hollow strand: it stains the corridor with its quiet stream and soaks the lining of his skin with an incessant beat he can’t shake, a beat he learns to swallows instead. he uses it to track his time – it takes sixty-three steps for him to grow used to the clink of metal against his frame and the heaviness of weapons; it takes eighty-four to numb his thoughts, to pull them apart so the noise can bury itself in the space between; it takes ninety-eight for him to grow nervous, ninety-nine for him to panic.

it’s a relatively new emotion – fear usually lacks the potency to last beyond a few flickers. his life is so balanced and striated, so carefully measured and poured and built that most hindrances can’t pry their way in, but the endless hall inspires something inside of him to tear wounds that allow a cool fright to spill in; and they aren’t alone and they aren’t pure, they’re seeds and they nurture and tend to each other. they gather in twisted clumps and sprout in violent patches, eat at his calm until his heart drums and his lungs empty –  yohan thinks to gasp, his fingers curl as though to predict loss.

but his steps, ever so constant, like a lighthouse at sea, reel him back in; even if emotion rages like a storm, even if his own frame is a boat of rotten wood and torn sails, he finds his way back to the calm murmur of stillness. finds his way to the deep waters of the pond that always make him stagnant – a precarious performance of balance.

and he continues this way: footsteps punctuate each passing minute and sudden turns rearrange his path. two hundred eighty-eight, two hundred eighty-nine, two hundred ninety. it takes a hundred more for him to find someone else – he hears her breathing before he drinks in the sight of her frame, small and battered, innocently weak against the tall lines of the wall.

her question patters between them and he almost hears it as a cry.

“a little of both,” he returns, his own voice firm; its edges are hoarse from lack of use – though, by now, he figures she’s used to it. that she knows the way his words are always too neat and practiced; the way syllables stray from one another, as if afraid to bleed into the next – the way ink runs when wet.

she must be used to his silence, too, or so he hopes as his voice wanes in his throat. his paused feet offer no comfort.

yet, where his words are incomplete, his body bridges the static. it moves by instinct: slow fingers press against metal and the outline becomes uneasy, breaks a second later. something whirls, another piece heaves out a dying sound; from the opposite side, a wisp of smoke slips free and the rest of his contraption trembles.

metal twists and shapes itself around his fingers – digits orchestrate and the machinery dances, as if aiming to dazzle him and her and whatever audience observes them. it remains mostly complete – dominates the right side of his figure, finds footing on his shoulder; hangs, almost like decor, across his chest; it wraps around his arm like a bloated snake – but from it he extracts a slim gun, mismatched but useful. he offers it to gayeon like he would an offering; a kind of treaty.

“here,” he pauses, breathes; his steps echo in his ears, “you look like you could use this. for whatever’s next.”

a beat later he adds, “we should keep going. together.”

[tummynho-deactivated20170615]

cmh for andew