𝐚𝐮. not really specified.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. han jisung / reader (gender neutral.)
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. this is honestly the most confusing thing ever,,, i literally hammered it out bc i got tired of watching kubzscouts & had some pent up anger from summer prep courses SDFJS
𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 | 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 (?) | 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝.
When the minute hand is exactly twenty-two and three ticks past twelve and you’re spinning from your jaded fingers yet another application, three taps–knock, knock, knock–make themselves sonorous against the old mahogany of your door. They are faint, very much so; perhaps you would not have even heard them if not for a sudden quiet which plagues your dorm. Impregnable, its one you’ve come to both relish in and despise, for what it spares is a moment of silence; not your wallet nor time. The ac–the rambunctious one which has a tendency to cry steel whilst it worked against the sticky summer–has finally hit its limits and breaks, again. Just in time, too, to leak intrusion into your ear buds.
You glance right and upwards where hangs a clock with thick scarlet running through the crevices of its wood and press, sternly, pearly whites into your lip. 12:25 am sharp; the second hand ticks perfectly into the inked groove of twelve just as your full moon eyes make landing. Who the hell is knocking at your door?
For a moment, you wish, with your entire being, that it is Him because, god help your damned heart, but without the tears and lies, he doesn’t taste quite as sinful as one might suggest. (It’s a truth which you’ve come to return to far too often in the silence of your thoughts; one with memories dripping down your tongue in blue. and another one–the fact that your life has literally been going on a spiral down, down, down ever since he lost his love and you didn’t. Or perhaps your luck just decided to take a turn for the worse, but it helps ease the frustration if you blame it on someone else. People are like that.) And then you don’t–because he’s really all of those things with an extra taste of heartbreak smeared onto vibrant cheeks.
So, who you wish to be at the door instead is preferably death, who’ll strike you down in one blow and banish your vexations with the waking stars. Anything–any fate, any experience–is better than another job application; another nagging complaint from your mother: decorated in vowels of shame, her words are almost a memory. look at your friends. they’re all well off and maintaining a stable job. what of you? your studies aren’t even sustainable.
And lest demise now comes in the shape of a boy with hair belonging to the auriferous stars and roses blooming on both porcelain cheeks, no wish was granted in your favor.
It takes one glance–one flick of full moon eyes–to glimpse his entire tenor; flesh out his heart and blood for you to read. He’s no older and no younger, a dash of honey in meteor shower irises that reflect golden upon the snowy night. On his cheek bone, rests a vague outline, just barely, of his home. A star, violet in hue; akin of wishes and dreams that rest on the tip of your tongue. How peculiar.
The star boy seems to be in a rush. Against time, he is huffing and puffing and red in the cheeks as he turns to reach inside his messenger bag–a homely brown–and rummages to find a scroll of delicate paper. His fingers shift tenderly against the aged parchment, gliding over the occasional tear and rip, and you catch a glimpse, during his fumble, of swirling ink and ebony belonging to a language so ancient, your eyes fail to even perceive it. “Ahem.. hi, I’m Jisung, and I’m here for a delivery for (Last Name) (Name)?”
He peeks at you from behind the paper, starry eyes–a night canvas with a thousand and one wishes sailing past like little boats of gold–reaching to meet yours. And from under those honey fringes, you read a prayer of felicity sunken so deep into his blood; his skin, his sole purpose is written on its very fingers.
“I didn’t order anything.” Star boy–ah.. Jisung–is stuffing the scroll back into his bag as you announce this, and when he turns back, pearly whites are just barely digging into his lip; a particularly bright ship passes in his eyes. It makes you feel strangely warm how he reminds you of honey and dreams, of something you’ve long lost somewhere in the stumbles of your youth and now ache oh-so desperately for. And.. he reminds you of Him before the pain and the heartbreak.
He smiles brighter, and your expired heart is pumping once again of hope and–dare you say it–feeling. “Of course you didn’t! No one orders from the stars anymore,” You should be caught off-guard by this, you truly should. What sane person wouldn’t? Some random guy who shows up at your door step in the middle of the night with a claim to have a delivery from “the stars” definitely isn’t normal. But it’s not like you haven’t already suspected something peculiar of him. Nobody should belong this much to the constellations. There is moondust in his lungs and galaxies in his blood; he isn’t of this world. “But we deliver anyways to the ones who need it.”
Then–oh god–then, he does something so, so peculiar, that you do not object and simply watches as he lifts his fingers and kisses cosmos onto the slender tips. there is life dancing upon his hand. A fervored will so strong, your heart is an ardent muse to it and sings along. Dreams of auric dust swirls at his beck and call and soon, there is a tinge of violet, of azure, of argent twirling between its arms.
He presses it to your chest, touch surprisingly cool against your overflowing heart. Yet, paradoxically, there is fire at the tips, seeping past your clothes, past your flesh, and into the veins pumping forgotten wanderlust from under ashen dreams. It’s so warm: so much warmer than you’ve ever felt before, and consumes you. However, you do not struggle. It’s comforting, almost. The flames are raging, gnawing at the decays of a sunken hope, a desolate dream, and breathing life into another–one far stronger than the previous; and it’s burning Him. Drinking his voice, his touch, his words still stuck in the fissures of your heart away, and suddenly, you’re happy. You’re bursting with ardor, a star reborn gloriously once more into its sky. There’s stardust beneath your flesh and in your blood; you belong to the universe.. (and so does Jisung.)
(When your eyes flutter open, a galaxy inside full moon hues, the boy of stars is gone from your doorstep. Perhaps, if your heart was not screaming with life, you would’ve dubbed him but a figment of your imagination. Nothing but silly dreams and make-believe. It’s so simple to do, after all, for what remains is only a kiss of the winter night and a warmth inside your chest. He has breathed the cosmos into your soul–a wish from the stars [him]–and will never ever tell.)
