@igot-thatdoginme - Tumblr Blog

𝜗𝜚 burying his heart after death has never seemed a plausible metaphor, however mildly poetic, to Megumi Fushiguro. What about his lungs? (angst)

more like this

ೃ࿔*:･

When some people talk about death, Megumi thinks they like to decorate the inevitability with ornaments like a mantelpiece in a stately home- fringes of vocabulary, frills of peace. It reminds him of an antique store or a failing museum, the scent of stillness and the absence of real light; just dust particles circulating endlessly in tiny convection currents.

Sometimes people like to talk about where they’d be buried, or they joke about having their body split into pieces like an Egyptian pharaoh and sent to different tombs. Megumi thinks that’s a stupid idea, one that obviously fell out of favour for a logical reason.

The most frequent phrase, often the most poetic- he begrudgingly admits to himself- is burying your heart somewhere secret. He ponders that location sometimes- what would it be for him, if he died?

Maybe under the floorboards in the room he kissed you for the first time, to let his organs decay under footsteps he wishes were yours forever, let the ghosting footfalls above be the lost beat to his chest. To let the particles of dust the steps kick up to float prettily around the room and glint in sunlight, let people waft their hands through them the way he used to watch you do.

Maybe buried beneath the patio you stood on during his birthday. Late December and you still came with him, still stood outside in the freezing snow and watched the stars, palms melting frost under your fingertips. Megumi thinks about that memory more than he wants to, the way your cheeks blossomed with cold and you still stayed.

He thinks about you staying- about seeing the parts of him he prefers to keep mottled with inky shadows, nestled deep in his chest along with nostalgia he rarely lets himself feel when he pictures his own tiny socked feet on the playground, shoved into shoes with velcro straps because he was too little to tie his own laces yet.

The more Megumi thinks about it, the more he feels as though his heart wouldn’t be the best suited part of him to represent how he feels about you, even after death, even if it’s entirely symbolic. He decides against it; it’s too cliche, and it reminds him of romance novels buried away in the centuries forgotten to bookshelves.

Maybe his brain, containing all the thoughts he was too scared to say out loud to you until recently, about how he’s been in love with you for a long time and the feeling is so much it makes him dizzy. You’d smiled and kissed his cheek lightly- he’d like to hold onto that forever, to the blossoming he felt across his skin.

But it still doesn’t feel fitting enough; perhaps the sinews of his hands, muscle corded around the bones of his fingers, impossibly biological perfection that permitted him to trace the lines of your waist when you kiss, to hold your cheeks when you cry, to thumb away the tears that physically hurt him to see fall. He didn’t mind when your mascara smeared across his fingers.

Megumi deliberates on this for a while, blankly staring off into the distant texture of his ceiling.

His lungs, maybe. Why not?

They’ve held repressed laughs, tensed around bated breath as he waited for you to speak after an argument, helped him gently breathe out apologies and reassurance after you calmed down and held him softly.

And he loved them for it.

They’ve been witness to the smell of your perfume, the way it lingers on his pillow longer than he feels it has a right to, and the way it stays with him for even longer. They know the shape of your name falling in reverent syllables from his mouth, confessions crawling unbidden up through his bronchi and oesophagus until every alveoli is punctured with thoughts of you, you, you.

And now he hates them for it.

Most of all, they hold onto things he wishes they wouldn’t. Tiny, glittering bursts of sunlit laughter that feels like hope, the way your name feels travelling around his entire body and diffusing into his bloodstream and deoxygenated breaths.

The thing Megumi hates most of all is the way they remember the way it felt to cry until he couldn’t anymore, until his lungs stretched to bursting with wretched sobs, every gasping inhale a cruel reminder of the very thing you won’t ever be able to do again.

Of the way your breathing will never create blooming synchronicities with his again, of the way he watched as you expelled the last gasp he’ll ever hear, as crimson spilled like viscous waves across his shaky palms.

If only his lungs had more capacity, if only he’d ran faster because of it, if only, if only if only if only- Megumi replays these possibilities in his head more than he thinks he realises. Definitely not his lungs, then. But if not those, then what? His endocrine system? Every nerve impulse that helped him hold you, every instinctual movement conducted by invisible sparks beneath the skin you traced with careful attention.

His whole body, it has to be- an amalgamation of all of those parts, only in separate places, because how else is he supposed to express how all-encompassing his love was, and still is? Even as the flowers you arranged wilt sadly on his windowsill, Megumi can’t bring himself to throw them away; the crinkling of the petals reminds him too much of you, somehow.

His mind falls back on the hypothetical.

If he was to bury his heart, it’d definitely be under the floorboards, where the panels above would creak in a shiny, makeshift heartbeat.

His brain would stay somewhere else, begging to hear you speak the way you did in the memories he can’t get rid of.

If he was to bury his hands, it’d be near the doorway he tied your scarf in, where he held your face gently, where he gripped the beam so hard it felt like it’d crack when he had to finally give in and come home to an empty room.

If he was to bury his lungs, maybe he’d keep them under your pillow in a futile effort to keep breathing in the fading smell of your shampoo even after he dies.

The bed he lies in feels empty, sunshine spilling something clementine and pretty across the sheets you picked out. But it feels like nothing.

Because you aren’t here.

But he is.

And his body is just his to keep torturing himself with.

ೃ࿔*:･

masterlist

a/n: first time writing angst kinda nervy

tags (open):

@yvannaille @f33bs @loverofladybugs @p3stop3sta @arabellasolstice @dreamcastgirl99 @what-the-jams @likstars @elenathriel @gyusheadphones @savagecatsuga @sxpernova @wqsrs @kakuthefish @megssleepygirl @olegirldowntheblock @sugerfilled @mershyjershy @1cckedheart @mimicosmos8 @destenyyyyy @icebearcucumber @satoru2716 @mebodys @megumisrighttoe @toesy3 @orangethecarrotcolouredpaperred @ivankinnieclatter @v4mp1r3b4tzz

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs