HER SHUDDERING SIGH SHOULD hint to the answer of his pressing question, and the lacking visits of her midnight gaze melting into his should definitely clear the tense air, but he remains, still and stubborn, and she shifts uncomfortably, trying to cling to a sense of normalcy no longer there. It’s heavy, his low toned voice, like grains of coffee beans, shades of mocha, and they linger in the air, seconds drawing on, a heartfelt presence nearer than before, comfort close, but with hesitance keeping it miles away. She’s always been difficult, words are an uneasy feat Yeona has yet to stumble across, so she sticks to the tightening fists resting across her chest in desperate attempts to keep all emotions at bay. One glance, and it’ll come shattering, a whirlwind of feelings and fate getting caught in his mix of calming and organized auras. She couldn’t refuse his company, she should’ve, though, Yeo knows that at this point, he would’ve made home here anyways.
He’s born of chrysanthemums, and she’s got the bite of thorns to her lips, painted red, the essence of blood, or perhaps, a stinging betrayal. A rose, truly, her favourite kind, blush toned, fluttery and fine, quivering in this monstrosity, a mess, certainley. It’s outdone itself. Yeona is speechless, or breathless, maybe both.
It comes to her suddenly. “Uhm, I’m fine, yeah, it’s just been really hectic, you know,” she mutters, gaze dashing across his shoulders, moving to the side, trying to stay still, but she cannot resist the tears that make her blink furiously in rejection. Her fingers press into her arms, tight, like a metallic cuff but definitely more stiff and more harsh as she can feel the knowing sting of her nails digging in. “I called Minhee first, yeah, she was — she was very mad. I —” a pause, a breath, a jerk of her neck to quickly stare at the floor. Oh gosh, it’s getting worse, it’s getting so much worse. “I’m fine, really — It’s just — It’s the process, it’s tough, and God, these performances are really getting so tiresome now,” Yeona rambles, voice shifting heavier and heavier, the bass strings of a cello, cracked, torn like paper and sewn together in pathetic attempts to salvage an image not worth saving to someone who sees right through it.
She hates this, hates the crystals that fall from her eyes, a crimson sorrow painted across her features that she continues to attempt at rescuing with the sudden dip of her head. He’s seen it though, he knows weakness, knows it in the manner of which she despises it, though, he still remains, pulled together by their astonishing similarities. “This — This idol life is just such a drag—” and the act ends. Velveteen curtains plunge to oak, a careful cry crawls past the constricted lining of her throat and her trembling pink lips. Her heart tremors, her shoulders cave in, and the desperate grips clung to her arms crumble apart. It’s over.
Jinyoung’s hands take to Yeona’s chin and hike it up, back towards his gaze, his parted lips, and the slow rise and fall of his chest. The salt in her tears, slowly grazing her cheeks is just as raw as his ragged breaths. It’s obvious now, in the moment’s denature, its denouement, that he’d ran here. He’d truthfully jumped a fence to get to Yeona with his mask cradled against his chest and coat pressed to his form by the steady falling rain outside. His hair upon further examination is damp and clings to his forehead, pressed flat and blocking the earliest reaches of his vision.
Yet all he sees is the rose, unfurling at the petals nestled closely to the heart, and he sets to pluck its thorns instead. He won’t press at the tenderest parts just yet. It’s not his place to examine overgrowth or holes tattered in the edges. It’s not.
A chrysanthemum—yellow in this one case—is not one lonesome bulb, but rather a cluster of heads, medicinal but aching with neglected love and a sort of sorrow. The edges rust and fold in on themselves in calculated pleats, like and yet unlike a rose, and beg the question of the worth of taking in the rain. Is there any? There is no worth to the salt on her cheeks, no worth to the gentle quiver of her lip or the rocking of her shoulders. There is no worth protecting a rose from the rain it needs to grow, but there is no value in leaving the chrysanthemum to die in its canopy or drown alone in the rain. There is no value here. No integer is tailored to their fit, to the body they’ve build nor the house of ribs they shelter their lonely hearts in and sprinkle with her salt.
In the most rolling of storms, those with bruised clouds, crawling animals seek moist, they seek the warm, and plants and vines welcome the humidity just as eagerly. Jinyoung and Yeona, whether flowers or beings, don’t have a place there. He steels her sweating lips, wields her starving hips, but he won’t have her in the eye of a hurricane. He won’t take these emotions on for himself but rather offer solutions, and his punishing, yet warm gaze, sea salt and caramel, calls otherwise.
“If it’s a drag, why do we stay then? Why is this worth it? Was this ever a dream of yours? Because you’re sure as hell suffering from it. You can’t even look me in the eyes properly, Yeona. Is this really worth living? What exactly is...happening?” He asks of her, though not too much. He’s not seeking answers. Just her eyes.
What could the industry and rain have in common? Just as much as they do? What does it call for that plucks the long grass from investors and shucks their veinless, flowering skin for the worst? The succumb of their very natures to the economy that grows them to monstrous roses without cover from acid rain?
There is no value here, he’s sure of it.
