( SET ADRIFT )
planecurves:
It’d become another habit at this point, to be given the cold shoulder, one more to accept it without protest. So when he gets a response at all, the surprised look—subtle as it may be—is warranted. A second glance only justifies what he’s gathered from the minute details: grounded, unwavering. An innate sort of dominance sewn into the straight of his spine, even if he’s simply standing, staring off into the distance, past the dark water, like many a man has done in their place.
Absently, he digs into the pockets of his shorts, pulling out the handful of sea shells that had dried out below the sun. In the flat of his palm, he holds them, smoothing over the texture of each with the swipe of his thumb. “Well, it’s definitely not for skipping these.” It follows by a short, dry laugh, bubbling out of the hitch of his throat, then dissipates into the sea air. His hand drops. Back into the sand they go.
“I don’t know, actually.”
His transparency takes very little to decipher. A single once over, and the full picture could have never been more obvious: that behind all the smoke and mirrors, the blame game begins and ends at his feet. The sole perpetrator of his own miserable destiny, the kind that’s been built on and surrounded by trouble, as though it’s been God-willed, saint-blessed. Such realizations are endured over a fortnight’s worth of his vacation, sunk in between him and the company of his reflection. The front of the antique mirror. The bottom of the bottle. The belly of the beast.
There’s no running away from the things that you hold the closest. Surely, it’s this toxic sort of dependency that’ll do him under, that he’ll keep holding onto till his very last breath.
A confession: it’s never been about getting better. It’s learning to live with how it won’t.
The sky begins to deepen into a dark, inky violet, the warm glow of the sun falling into a drowsy, golden haze. For a second the world seems to stop, quiet down, bated breath and soft white noise. For a second, he allows himself to be fully convinced of the mythology that’s buried deep into the cliffs, and thrives from within. How tender, how profound.
Doojoon meets his gaze again. “Maybe it’s because of what you’ve said—I’ve seen pictures, but never one of this. Especially not from my Seoul apartment.” A beat, then: “Not a first time for you here, is it?”
There was a strange possessiveness that Ryu felt towards the shore. Strange - perhaps not strange. Ryu had his possessive ways. What was his, was his.
Period. Full stop. Slam the gavel.
It wasn’t like he had a sibling to fight over anything, yet that nature showed itself. Often with women, slightly in competition. The shore, the ocean, the very wind rustling his locks, it all felt like his.
Perhaps because she lived there so freely.
Her features formed in the waves, bringing her smile back then disappearing in short moments that dug well too deep. Time loosened its reigns, allowing her to return with her pride. In majesty her features rose, lifting until her figure stood there, gown tossing around her petite frame. The colors of day’s surrender painted the fabric as she loved it, vibrant and elegant.
The darkening sky, night’s assertion of its dominance, inverted her colors. Oh la Reyna, even night cannot rob you of your glory. What can stop a queen from being a queen?
The wind whispers the answer. It burns with spite and she is gone.
SEOUL. Ryu turns to the male again. Seoul. Korean indeed.
“The sun looses this battle every day”, he began in Korean. That’s how she said to him, that’s how it lived in him. “Yet though it’s radiance folds away to the dark night, the spectacle is beautiful to behold. You will see it nowhere,” he paused. A sigh escaping his lips before continuing softly, “like here.”
Hearing his own voice, that tinge of what should not be, that remnant of what could not be, he turned back to the water, eyes closing, then opening, his expression hardening. “No, not a first time”, he began in English. “It has been some time though, since I last stood here.” Even his voice changed. That remnant suppressed.
“I haven’t seen another Korean. The sun can be a bitch here, be warned. This time of the day is a wonder. The shore changes-you will see what I mean. How long of a trip?” he asked taking a better look at the male. He was close in age with Ryu, he gauged.
“What was it, one too many exams?” he asked wondering what brought the male to Malaga. And he was alone. Alone on the beaches of the Spanish shore.
Alone and staring into the dark waters with eyes Ryu understood but couldn’t say he did.
It shouldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
