the art of falling

lee hongbin. 24. amezaiku artist. ❝ Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we'll never get used to it. ❞

[hongbeanbong]

Incheon Fansign 151126 cr. Starry Deer // Do not edit!

[hakyeonspx-blog]

Safe and sound | & Hongbin

[hakyeonspx-blog]

It’s a minute into your eyes focusing on the bundle of dried leaves that come to life within the teapot before you, pink blossoms unfolding and turning the water similar hues, bleeding out in tendrils of denser color much like smoke would unfurl into the air from the end of your dying cigarettes. You don’t think he knows you have that nasty habit yet, because it was one you acquired long after he left the picture. But that’s not true is it? Hongbin wasn’t in the picture as much as he was the picture, in every detailed line that you’ve created, there was a bit of the both of them influencing your hand to move. Influencing you to push forward no matter how hard your feet would try to stay in the same place so they could catch up to you or maybe look over their shoulders to find you waiting for them at nine years old, swaying slowly on the swing-set, at the park you frequented near your houses when time never passed you by and days were measured in intervals of when you were together and when you were apart. No hours or emptied minutes. You had no concept of time back then just as you cant seem to find it now, but the feeling is different and you can’t ignore that much longer, how uncomfortable you never thought you would be finding him again; imagining it, there was always a little part of you that was blind and that was the part where you tried to fill him in with ghosts, with the child you remembered, as if the years apart never existed but in reality they do. You knew they did and still you tried to be ignorant and now he’s sitting on your couch, as real as ever and there’s no laughter and no tremendous inner peace that you’ve been searching for and you’re coming up empty in so many ways that you never thought you could or would.

This is another one of those incidences, you think, that you’ve romanticized so much that you can’t handle the real thing in your hands. Kind of like love, in general. Kind of like all of the fragile hearts you’ve held and dropped and repeated thinking you wouldn’t break it this time, but in retrospect you do. Then you look back at the couch and you see, clear as day: your heart dancing precariously on the edges of your fingertips and your hands quivering as you walk back two full cups of tea, ushering one into his palms hitherto retreating to the other side of your sofa, too conscious of yourself to actually get comfortable. You catch the edges of his smile and it’s not something you recognize because you’ve been so good, up until now, reading in between the lines, but his lips curve in other languages you can hardly read; it’s all warmth, heavy in the center of your chest. It’s the hours that have made Hongbin a stranger to you in the simplest of ways and the people who have shaped him, the incidents you were absent from that would make his gestures like a cheap game of charades. The details are the hardest to conform to. From the moment you looked back into his eyes for the first time in years, you could see the little boy that made you his sun and maybe that was the worst part of it all. Maybe rediscovering destroys the facade that he is the same person, but neither are you. “Oh uh, sure” you reply, a bit flustered at first because you forgot that the movie was laying out so blatantly, but in your defense, you weren’t expecting company. You weren’t expecting him to stay. You weren’t expecting how your throat tightens up when you take it out of his hands to slip it a bit disjointedly into the player. 

Even as the screen lights up and you flip through options before beginning the actual film, you can feel an unavoidable presence between the two of you like time itself suspended from the moment you reconnected, and the chances you will be paying any attention to something else other than how it pushes you further into the cushions turn slim. A tentative sip of your drink, liquid lukewarm from the minutes of neglect as it runs down your throat. You cant bring yourself to look at him again, nerves accumulating at the thought that when you turn your head, he’ll be there to meet you and the floodgates would open to a world where silences become tangible and the two of you are lost beyond words, where you raise your voice and tell him to leave because your heart is breaking and you can’t tell him why because you don’t know and maybe he doesn’t know either and you’re both sitting here, years later on a sofa in a familiar situation, but everything is different even if it’s the same. Adulthood has taken you both by the throats, made you hollow and selfish and Hongbin the sculpture of what could destroy you, change you ( back to who plummeted into love with his eyes closed because he knew the hands who would catch him ) but now you’re thinking about how many fingers have laced into Hongbin’s like he’s as precious as life itself, wondering if the voices and the smiles and the shadows of the individuals after you have held the same importance because you sit with these years on your back, crushing you under their weight. All screaming how you made yourself into a monument of them, of all the memories and promises that they’ve lost somewhere in the distance they’ve created. How your pathetic heart has yet to move on from the day he left you.

[spxhongbin-blog]

The flicker of lights across the screen, controller fluttering through options but none of that registers: eyes focused on the tendrils that waft from the mug, delicate like this temporary arrangement of you sitting here and watching a movie. As much as you wish for reconciliation ( of some sort, of any sort because these years have been nothing short of miserable and ), you don’t know where to begin. Conversation has been casual, skirting around important issues, neither of them asking about the missing years as if afraid that the exposure would bring to light the differences that now eclipse similarities — no amount of love or golden childhood memories can keep this alive. You’ve stopped listening. Rambled about your day instead, leaving out the parts pertaining to clumsy mouths and a defiled body, ending it at the part where you close up shop ( and meet him again. and come full circle )

I didn’t finish high school maybe you should start there but the same stubborness that started this cascade is the same stubborness that keeps you silent, pretending to sip at a cup long finished, watching him from the corner of your eye. You wonder about the thoughts filtering through is mind at this point in time, then remind yourself you are no longer privy to them. A right forfeited the moment you pushed both of them away.

Once upon a time, when your world revolved around dramas with grandmother and dinners with family and knees tucked under tables and smiles that adorned faces, you internalized every word they said thinking that it would make them happy. It would make you happy. That happiness was some sort of rule book you followed and could obtain. So you internalized the that’s not normal, the that’s disgusting, and stitched the labels to your heart.

( if i stop. if i stop now. you don’t. you can’t. )

You may be degenerate but they aren’t. So maybe you wanted to be a martyr because you would never be a saint to match them.  What are you doing here?

How many times have you dreamed of meeting them again and the circumstances of the reunion? A few years down the line and a world swathed in golden hues, where you’ve spent more of your life living without them  than you did with, one where you no longer shared a bed with loneliness. In that world you set up shop during summer festivals, sculpting figurines without a touch of creativity, conforming to popular demand with a smile that can only be defined as pretty. Then, there’s a child with stubby hands with grabby gestures and you laugh at the impatience, the memories that you were like this once. There’s an apology so familiar you still, sculpture still pinched between fingertips, and when you brave a look there are arms around the child, hoisting him up to settle on shoulders and a lovely woman beside him, smiling as she digs around her purse to pay. 

The happiest dream and the worst nightmare. Shortened snippets, an exchange of slight bows, an empty promise to keep in contact. ( what if they were already happy, without you? )

There’s so much space between you two. All you have to do is reach out and bridge it.

You think about all the people he has loved in your stead, the unknown elements, the people who have stained you in more ways than one. Realize that maybe this is inconsolable. That you’ve damaged more than you’ve healed and that maybe this isn’t a two way street. Maybe he doesn’t want you to be here and this is all a selfish insistence. So close yet so far. 

The movie will remain unwatched.

His side profile: so familiar, yet so foreign as if the ages apart have taken their toll and you are clinging to mere memories, trying to look for something no longer there. Eyes so distant you wonder if it is shame — of what you’ve become, of how you’ve fallen, of how the young boy he used to know is barely here anymore. ( yet some things remain the same: this heart, this feeling he instills, the one where a heart is about to burst from the weight of affections and secrets and ) So you leap on a whim. A soft “hyung” slips from parched lips, followed by a barely audible “please” say something, anything.

“Look at me.”

[hakyeonspx-blog]

Five More Minutes | JTW & LHB

[hakyeonspx-blog]

Propped up on his elbow, Hakyeon watches the way both Hongbin and Taekwoon curl into the morning, slow and gentle and fighting the way it will inevitably separate them from the warmth of this simple luxury. He meets eyes that are half-lidded under the swathe of tender sunlight, the room standing still around them. A wall clock ticking in the backdrop of their syncopated breathing, hushing as the air leaves his lungs and he’s left with the residual glow that Taekwoon kindles in his abdomen. Then the reminder; a gentle churn before him, dragging the sheets and dipping the mattress. He looks down and feels his chest swell, a nose bumping into his own while fingertips graze his cheek. Lips too gracious to collide ,but artful, as Hongbin normally is to mimic the tides they would visit as children. The ocean gives way to euphoria, vignetted with the haze of mornings. Hakyeon presses into the cashmere, his knuckles untangling from the lock that both he and Taekwoon created sometime throughout the night, to find a place on the youngest’s shoulder where he applies pressure, maneuvers him onto his back in harmony to the tug of a bottom lip betwixt his own. He pauses to nurture the action, supplementing two or three presses to Hongbin’s cheeks before he finds himself looking up again, searching the eyes that graced his own only seconds prior as if to say that there is an opportunity to be taken here, as if to say that he would never neglect a request. And it’s then the smile blooms, small as it is humble, with one hand still tracing Hongbin’s shoulder. 

[tkominseok]

Taekwoon is a patient observer. He has been known to sit back and take in everything around him before acting, rather than moving solely on impulse. Most of these instance are to better understand social situations or to take in how he should respond accordingly. But this, this is entire different. There is a low fire burning in his stomach, his heart is racing and he’ll admit to anyone that he likes the sight before him. The sight of the two people he’s been in love with since a child splayed out before him on his bed.

The small exchange of lovers passion between them coils a bit of pride and hunger in his chest and Taekwoon closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. They look good entangled together in his bedsheets and it takes Taekwoon a moment to realize that their attention has shifted to him instead. Leaning forward slightly, Taekwoon finds himself meeting gazes with Hakyeon. A smile curves to the edges of his lips as he finishes leaning foward and slotting his mouth gently against the slightly older male. Although his skin is thrumming with feeling, the kiss is gentle and softer than he anticipates. Pulling back, he resists the urge to push Hakyeon down until he lays beside Hongbin. Biting his bottom lip, he instead busies himself with brushing a few stray bedhead strands from Hongbin’s face.

[spxhongbin-blog]

This is the part where nerve endings are set ablaze, synapses touched, where Hongbin almost comes apart. The grip on the shoulder feels more like safety more than anything else. He counts the gentle press of lips against his cheek like stars, like capturing fireflies and watching them regain their freedom. The same warmth continues to spread across his chest, creeping upon suffocation. It’s not a bad way to go; he smiles.

Then he watches: the same exchange. A mere bystander but the halcyon heart still swells, half tempted to reach out but afraid of ruining a magical moment. Instead, his eyes crinkle at the corners. Only to deepen as fingers brush away loose strands. 

Desire whispers into ears, half tempting him to listen, half tempted to bury his face in his hands and have them pry it off for him.  He’ll listen next time. For now, he uses his elbows for elevation, pressing a kiss into both of his hyungs cheeks. Smiling against skin before laying another option on the table: “breakfast?”

[kongsook]

embarrassed cutie (⊃‿⊂)

[spxhongbin-blog]

landlocked blues » youngjae

Wanderlust is a muted urge, visiting during lulls or contact with foreign photographs; it is the desire to be swallowed whole, lost, where no one knows where you’ve been or who you are. It is compelling, so Hongbin takes a stroll. 

Then it becomes habit: visiting random establishments to blend in to the crowd, to experience something new. The coffee shop around the corner that he’s failed to notice for years until he slows down and looks. It is human to cycle out information with no relevance but Hongbin can’t help but wonder what else he’s overlooked in the years.

He remembers rain, humans taking shelter in cafés and other nearby vendors, people packed into small spaces and purchasing a cup of warmth. He follows, allowing his body to be pushed through the line — just another nameless one waiting for the sky to let up. A mocha, he thinks, is probably what he purchased as he scans the area for open seats. There’s one at a table with an individual who looks preoccupied with the task at hand. “May I?” becomes the first question for an unwarranted conversation as Hongbin tries to waste time, waiting for heaven’s tears to stop. He thinks maybe next time he’ll get a smoothie. Maybe next time he’ll stay long past a clear sky again.

So he does, intermittently between matcha frapps and strawberry smoothies, revolving around what are you working on this time? and silent watching before eyes wander elsewhere. The patrons of the shop change, some familiar and some never to be seen again. He looks towards the window as if waiting for something or someone. Smiles when gazes cross. It never reaches the eye.

And then it does.

But this part never goes away. The one where he locks up the shop earlier than usual and walks to the same café. Maybe this time he gets a cake or the special of the season or a drink he’s never sampled before. He finds the same individual, slides into the seat across from him, and begins the conversation with: “hello again.”

[hakyeonspx-blog]

Five More Minutes | JTW & LHB

[hakyeonspx-blog]

This is where he keeps his eyes open and watches the world unfold to life that is both his own and entirely out of his possession, leaving him a bystander, a stranger to the beauty it withholds in the simplest of actions; hair over pillow cases, strewn about in ways that only sleep can produce so effortlessly, soft skin washed in eggshell light. Church bell voices steal his attention, one proceeding the other and falling back into comfortable silence, and he takes it as a subtle warning before he’s pulled closer–closer than he dared to bring himself because he is a man that thinks far too much before he speaks, even more so before he acts. The life he’s lived in solitude has conditioned him to look for signs that may never come, but they need not to when he’s secured by their decisions. Relief eases in thereafter, subtle but substantial all the same, a quiet reverie of no obligations pricked with the curiosity of if he were alone in this freedom, which wouldn’t be considerably appealing. Hakyeon hardly stomachs the thought of being reacquainted with loneliness when he’s been cured of it, pacified by the steady exhalations that have long since fallen in time with his own, and the thrum of hearts answering the one behind his ribcage. “Taekwoon,” he manages to breathe out, soft and brittle along the youngest’s hair, “ do you have a shift today?”

[tkominseok]

Taekwoon’s eyes fluttered slowly open and closed as sleep threatened to wrap tendrils around him again and drag him back under. Exhaustion was always written into every hidden his expanse his body boasted. When his life was a haunting echo of loneliness and hurried behavior, he had no qualms about running on three or sometimes four hours of sleep a night. 12 to 13 hour shifts were welcomed and he dedicated his entire being to counting steps spread between hospital wards in weary hours of twilight before the sun had even risen over the horizon. But now he routinely turned down extra hours in favor of exploring the warmth his bed offered with two other bodies splayed in it. Feeling strong arms maneuvering him from his warm position, Taekwoon didn’t hesitate to rest his head comfortable on Hongbin’s and to tighten his fingers on Hakyeon’s own grip. He could fall right back into sleep and relaxation this way but things were at hand that were more pressing.

It’s Hakyeon’s words that break through the permeated silence of his bedroom and Taekwoon resisted the urge to not answer. It was too much of a bad habit that he had often found himself struggling to fix. “No.” His voice was still dripping with sleep, hoarse and a bit lower than normal. Pulling back slightly, he lifted his head to stare at both of his lovers, comfortable and sleep ruffled. Biting his bottom lip in a thoughtless habit, he let it go in favor of a small curved smile that plucked at the corners of his lips. Thin and pale fingers found their way to the bottom of Hongbin’s jaw before sliding to rest just under his chin. Tipping his head back was easy enough, almost as easy enough as leaning forward and capturing Hongbin’s own lips in a light and preciously innocent kiss in good morning semblance. Releasing his youngest lover after a few moments, Taekwoon’s eyes flickered up to stare at Hakyeon, a small bit of want reflecting in his eyes.

[spxhongbin-blog]

He listens — eavesdrops perhaps — to the short exchange, eyes still shut in prayer that reality can wait an eternity if need be. If one could suspend time or rewind it so the same moments are lived again and again... Hongbin wonders what he’s willing to sacrifice to obtain such an ability. Extended moments, seconds that last minutes and minutes that last hours, a pipe dream at most but a sweet thought nonetheless. How contrived his thoughts are becoming as haziness no longer becomes an excuse to laze in bed. Breaking the spell is never worth it; there are perks to being spoiled in circumstances like these.

A simple answer to a simple question and content begins to settle back into bones, almost satiated by the response itself. He wonders if he should ask the eldest, return the question, ensure that none of them have obligations beyond these four walls. But it slips, evaporating like morning mist at the sensation of fingertips against his chin. Eyes flutter open and a smile tugs at lips; a dimple etched into a cheek. There’s probably a bit of morning breath and hints of a stubble but Hongbin is too in love to notice.

This is the part where he could catch one of the fingers holding his chin hostage and taste it. This is the part where he can obtain what he wants before the day even truly begins. It’s tempting but this is a trinity. If Hakyeon can’t voice what he wants then Hongbin will spell it out for him.

There’s a muttered apology caught in his throat as he lifts a hand to place over Taekwoon’s, drawing circles into his skin for forgiveness, for momentary neglect — a promise of return. Hongbin turns, apologetic at the way the bed shifts under his weight. Plaint are fingers against the cheekbone, tracing the arch before he leans in. There it is: that scent of shampoo he’s familiarized himself with over time. Two heartbeats before he transmits to Hakyeon what Taekwoon had given him moments earlier.

[spxhongbin-blog]

hello everyone!! i just realized i never properly introduced myself (or replied to inbox messages bc i am the worst person ever). hopefully tumblr’s new messaging system will make things easier or make me more accountable. i direly am in need of plots so please like this (if you are ok with the new system) and i’ll send you a message. or if you would prefer to plot with my other dimpled child yixing i would be more than happy to do so.

replies and whatnot probably will have to wait a bit because it is finals week and i’m trying not to die. who do i commission to help me write an essay

[aseaofquotes]

Edwidge Danticat, Breath, Eyes, Memory

[hongbeanbong]

[spxhongbin-blog]

#HAPPYKONGDAY 150929 cr. 눈꽃❄ // Do not edit!

[spxhongbin-blog]

《 dream fever 》

      you had a dream the other day: one where you were transported back to the same beach but the skies grayer than you remembered like the perpetual sadness you drown in. the sands beneath your bare feet as you contemplate letting the waves lap at your toes but the wind has picked up and you were never prepared for this sea side excursion. there are rules you abide to, ones that keep your string of one night lovers a catalogue of mistakes, of you losing out to primal urges and the delusion that the one embracing you actually means something.

don’t ever stay the night.

it ends at midnight. or sometime after both individuals are sated and role playing has come to an end. this is the part where you dress yourself once more and never look back again. except this time you’ve fucked up, allowed a stranger to sweep you away while you were inebriated, forced to stay the night because there was no other way home.

you still slipped out. left him with a rapidly cooling towel as you trodded along his private strip of the beach, barefoot. there’s a borrowed towel over your shoulders, barely covering past your briefs. you think it probably looks obscene even with a t-shirt too large for your frame but you no longer have the capacity to care. you fucked up and now you have to face the consequences come morning: the one where you sit down for breakfast and attempt at a decent conversation while you try to choke down the reminders that he isn’t your hyung.

it’s cold. you pull the corners of the towel closer and then with trembling fingers you light a cigarette. in the orange glow, you wonder how long would it take for someone to notice your absence or for you to die from hypothermia. you pushed away everyone who used to care; who is to blame now for your own mistakes?

dawn is coming. the image shifts to reeds and vermillion and three boys watching the lazy tide. you feel like crying. this is all wrong: the entire sequence has been flipped upon itself. color bleeds back into the world, illuminating the sky, placing you in the spotlight of your own mistakes. it’s blinding; drowning feels like salvation compared to this.

there’s a kind voice that inquires if you are okay; a stranger that offers to take you home. it is odd. the one night stands become a faceless continuous stream yet this individual is set apart from the rest. you never managed to properly thank the stranger, for waiting as you collected your items, for the hours of awkward silence as the car sped towards seoul, for saving you from a mistake with a face and a name. but that is, after all, another story to tell.

     you had a dream the other day: the one where you allowed your knees to get bruised and jaw to grow sore. the one where your lips got swollen and teeth marks were scattered along your back, where you were caught between your favorite individuals and didn’t mind if they dug a bit too hard into your hip or yanked, with more force than necessary, on your hair. the part where your head falls back and lips part as a tongue outlines your adam’s apple, drawing out sounds as another smiles against the nape of your neck.

this is the part where you bend to their will and submit to their desires — it is, after all, one and the same.

this is the part where you yearn to touch synapses, where their hands leave wildfires burning in their wake, where you learn rib by rib to find the heart concealed within. this is the moment where nails dip into skin and taste the angle of the jaw or the length of the clavicle. you listen to the words of love whispered into ears, between hitched breaths, poured over abdomens. 

    you can no longer tell if your body is betraying your heart or if your heart is betraying your skin.

[asianbeautybias]

Visit Original Link

VIXX   -   “  HOT ENOUGH  “

[hakyeonspx-blog]

Five More Minutes | JTW & LHB

His eyes open, then close, then open to soft sunlight and vision blurring together at the very edges, clarity seeping in slow and lethargic to the imagery of sheer curtains that stir as the ventilation system creaks on. The instinctive desire to stretch is subdued with the knowledge that there’s a back fit firmly against his chest, noted when he inhales and warm pressure pushes the breath from his lungs. The scent of shampoo fills his nose, sweet and heavy as if it had permeated the room itself in their slumber. A brief smile settles on morning lips, turning up at the edges once he sees whom is peacefully positioned across from him, a rather gratuitous book end who’s hand he had intertwined fingers with long before coherence brought attention to it, perched conclusively and lackadaisically on the waist of the body between them. Spine form fit to his torso as it had before, like a page from a diary that had gone missing and although the shoulders were broad they hadn’t jarred him awake nor proved themselves to be deterring throughout the night. Possibly, he thinks with a thoughtful glance down, they had only represented how the youngest could carry the weight of two worlds and in appreciation, too vast to not be acknowledged, he presses his lips to what skin is exposed, only hoping he doesn’t draw the other from sleep prematurely, and still without much realization, his thumb sweeps across knuckles in tandem. A soft squeeze absentmindedly to follow.   

[tkominseok]

Warm, he’s so warm. its the first thing he registers as the god of slumber begins to pull back the veil of slumber that had clouded his mind only seconds before. His eyes flutter once, twice as he begins to take stock of haphazard limbs and memories of the previous night. Taekwoon was cocooned in more comfortable surroundings than the hospital break room couch could ever offer. His arms were splayed without room for rhyme or reason. Surrounded by the scent of paper and spun sugar, he could feel the phantom echoes of heartbeats against his chest matching in tandem. But it was all the whispering tendrils of sleep that tried to tantalize him back into slipping under and down into the slumber once again. But the slight graze of skin on skin contact pulled him back to awareness until his eyes were finally fluttering open to reveal the innocent and relaxed face of the youngest occupant of their rather large bed. The continued movement of a gentle finger brushing against the top of his hand confirmed the location of his eldest lover. Making soft noises under his breath, Taekwoon couldn’t resist shuffling closer to them both, bringing his nest of blankets with him as he claimed what little space of the bed that was left.

[spxhongbin-blog]

It is warm, but not uncomfortable the way he is nestled between two other individuals, almost as if protected on both sides. It induces memories, just shortly out of reach, something like déjà vu but imprinted into his soul. The first thing he notices is the contact: the part where there’s skin against his own legs or the texture of silk, where his arms are placed, where the edge of the scapula presses against his shirt, where the chest of the other fits against his spine, where entanglement is a form of fondness embodied in a physical sense. The dreamer in him wants to document it in some abstract sculpture; the lover in him wants this to become a ritual. He refuses to open his eyes, screws them shut when lips touch the nape of his neck, allowing a low whine to slip from his lips as he burrows his face in the other direction. A stronger whiff of last night’s shampoo and the hints of body soap mingled in. Hongbin rests his forehead against the bare skin of Taekwoon’s shoulder, the arm already settled around his waist drawing him closer as if he was just one giant teddy bear. He is, to some extent. Both of them are. So he inches back, taking the other along with him until he meets a solid mass, allowing the spine to relax, wondering how long he could get away with postponing reality.

It is warm, but to Hongbin, this is the temperature of love.

[hugbin]

[spxhongbin-blog]

tinker & twinkle » _____

Holiday season marks the beginning of people scrambling to decorate houses and the front of shops in some bright display of we have something to help with your gift checklist. It means setting aside projects in order to sell out to capitalism instead of endorsing the arts and creativity of individuals. It means something generic and red and white and cute enough for parents to want for their kids or lovers for their partner. It marks the end of freedom and experimentation unless one is willing to sacrifice sleep to find ways to slip in individuality into projects.

Hongbin sighs as he files away his sketches, the ones that emulate the summer sky and dragonflies, the ones that seem to have flowers encapsulated in sugar, and the ones that derive elements from festivals. Two months and hopefully it’ll be over. He ends up staring at a lump of sugar, falling into the habit of clipping and pulling to form a rabbit, wondering if he should add a colored red lump for a Santa hat. He does, trying to find ways to add in festivity to the original creations the owner has created long before Hongbin set foot into this shop.

He adds the finishing touch when the bell above the door tinkles. Relieved of a distraction, he looks up with a smile: “how may I help you today?”

[wnq-writers]

the rain & i speak in the same tongue, we both understand the art of falling

dontecollinsthepoet (via ecouri)

[hakyeonspx-blog]

Safe and sound | & Hongbin

“So,” you start with the intentions of sounding more flattering than you do, voice ornamented with a drabness as its escaping the cusp of your teeth, and you’ve never thought you would sound this grey or get the opportunity to. All of the exchanges that have left your lips so far are nothing compared to what’s in your chest and the feeling is beginning to grow teeth. Incessant gnawing. Something like a force pushing you in no particular direction. Something like waiting for a cliff to appear and for yourself to plunge into darkness. Any second now, you tell yourself. The season robs you of the control it takes to not shiver in front of him like you’re hollow, like you’re aching for something to cement your feet to the ground and have been for quite some time. “This is my place.” You say while pressing enter on the pin pad next to your door, one hand already fastened around the knob as you mull over the idea that if it were unappealing to him in any way then nothing would be stopping you from shutting it just as quickly. But then you open it and the thought hits you like a freight train. 

Shutting doors is what got you both here, a little intoxicated and brokenhearted and so you force yourself to welcome him in and only shut the door if you both were conclusively standing on the same side. You look around stupidly at first when it’s just you and Hongbin and the quiet hum of traffic through your fifth-floor windows, mapping out your own apartment in the lamplight, almost as if you hadn’t lived in it for the past few years; the dining table is gathering dust and one side of your couch dips in from all of the nights you’ve spent mistaking it for a bed. Or maybe it’s not a mistake, but you convince yourself momentarily that it is and that your bed has never felt lonely. Of course, the moment is short-lived and you digress for the sake of not being poor company, which is a weird feeling because you wonder if he would think you to be that, if he could after all of these years. It’s plausible that separation paints larger pictures and what you’ve shared has become a detail not nearly as important as others; the way he looked at you like you were invincible is a painful reminder that you are anything but. “It’s not much, really, but I don’t have a desire for physical possessions unless I absolutely need them.” A pause where you send him a quick glance, nothing that lingers too long because you wouldn’t want him to inquire why you’re staring, so you refrain. “And since it’s just me, I don’t require a lot.” 

Habitual courtesy drives you towards your kitchen before you pause and wonder aloud if it’s still proper to offer a beverage at this time of night. Between call and response there’s incubation time for you to wonder if he remembers the way you would roll up your sleeves when you made tea or how you would ghost over his hands when he would pour a cup, extra careful to make sure that he never experienced what it was like to spill hot liquid all over his fingers or onto his lap and a piece of you waits for it, paused mid-step when you relive them yourself, a bit selfishly so, as if he would wind up like some ancient device coming back to life from the power of a single memory. Maybe you’ve counted on this one too many times tonight, on trivial things, hopes pressed into the nooks of everyday occurrences because they were special once but you’ve yet to teach yourself that so were first steps and words and you have yet to feel the need to honor them. Especially now, when it feels like you’ve walked so far away and that your tongue can no longer form a language that Hongbin will understand.

[spxhongbin-blog]

“It’s nice,” you offer and you mean it, you really do. But you don’t dare look at him to confirm if he believes your words, if it is more than small talk and trying to buy your way back into his life. If only things were that simple; if only years could be spliced together in some coherent narrative and the missing ones could be excised from memory. Life is never so simple, especially when it is a seed you’ve sown yourself.

You look around the place, a few steps away from the door, feeling like the elephant itself. You don’t mean to inspect but curiosity is a driving force as you attempt to derive clues about his life from the apartment. Useless. You wouldn’t be here if you were more perceptive to begin with, if you were better at reading in between the lines as a child. And assumptions — wasn’t it assumptions that led you here in the first place?

( your eyes linger at the form of his retreating back. it’s been too long. you force yourself to turn away. )

You wonder if it is impolite to seat yourself or explore the scenery the windows provide, see what Hakyeon has been gazing upon all these years. Deliberate as you watch him busy himself in the kitchen. Old habits die hard. You can’t help but wonder if this is mere gesture of a good host. You smile. You no longer have a right to question.

You feel the couch dip under your weight as you seat yourself, half hoping for a shawl so that you could present yourself as a character from one of those melodramas: a soft gaze towards the expanse of a city, poise as you turn with a soft ‘oh’ when the beverage is presented to you, grateful hands that receive and a staged silence that is less awkward and more comforting. 

It is impossible of course. Fiction does not become reality by sheer will alone.

You curl your lips into a semblance of a smile and then come to the realization that it is the same expression worn when your bed becomes too empty so you seek for someone else’s. It falls and you pray he doesn’t catch it. A nod, a murmur of thanks, and then you praise whatever kind divine being has kept your hands steady as you received the cup. It must be the steam pricking at your eyes.

You wonder if he retains, with the same fondness you hold, memories of crisscrossed legs and tea cupped in small hands and plots that unravel through the screen. About the way you would blow into your cup, lips flirting with the edge of the porcelain cup until you braved a sip. His laugh that caused you to flush and swell with warmth at the same time. The way you sometimes had to ask him to elaborate on the plot or repeat what the characters had just mentioned because you lost focus while watching him. It is always the little things that seem to matter most.

There are words caught, stuck to your palette and refusing to be dislodged ever since he waited for you to close up shop. The lighting under street lamps and road side stalls that beckons you to speak but you’ve built the dam well enough over the years. There’s a pause between moments and you want to ask do you remember... ? but the timing never seems right or you become too afraid of the answer. A coward you once were; a coward you shall always be. 

Yet still unwilling to part, to call this a day, to bid the other goodnight as if you’ll see him again.

The index finger traces the rim of the cup as you nurse the tea like the coffee you had hours ago. You’ve fallen so short. Another look around the apartment as if you are trying to imprint this into memory, familiarize yourself with the years you let slip through your fingers like sand.

There’s a DVD half tucked away. Suddenly half tempted to tell him about the time your mother caught you crying over the happy ending of an animated movie and how you didn’t bother to explain to her that this was the favorite to watch with Hakyeon hyung and that it feels empty without his voice to narrate or his laughter or his hand bumping into yours while fishing for popcorn in the bowl. You retrieve I’m a Cyborg, But That’s Okay and shatter both the silence and any attempts at filler conversations. “Do you mind if we watch this?” Habitual the way you fold your knees and bring them closer to yourself, hoping that this provides an excuse to continue to skirt around the elephant in the room, the questions that have yet to be addressed.

You wonder if he can see through you, the insecurities almost transparent — making you out to be as fragile as your sugar sculptures — afraid that once you leave, the wrong clip or pull leaves a misshapen lump of sugar in the palm of your hands. You still can’t say a word. You barely know where to begin. Do you mind if I stay?

[nenrinya]

Uchiwa candy lollipops by Shinri Tezuka