(n. greek.) the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.
( 5 / ? )
‘tis almost morning. i would have gone thee.
and yet no further than a wanton’s bird,
that lets it hop a little from its hand.
( romeo & juliet, act ii, scene ii )
1. so close - jon mclaughlin
almost believing this one’s not pretend.
and now you’re beside me, and look how far we’ve come.
2. bloom - the paper kites
when the evening pulls the sun down, and the day is almost through,
oh, the whole world is it sleeping, but my whole world is you.
3. 5am - amber run
we’ve got work in the morning, but it’s nearly 5am.
is this really what we envisioned? we won’t be twenty-one again.
4. movie - katie davis
you don’t know what you’re taking
when you leave me in the morning.
5. i can’t fall asleep - priscilla ahn
when you go away, i can’t fall asleep.
baby, you can stay with me.
--
( good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow
that i shall say good night till it be morrow. )
hands clutch at the hem of a woven sweater, and it remains clutching. pushing down instead of pulling up. it's less rules, more guidelines. this is a stupid ass shirt, he wants to say, but never does. take it off. fingers idly twirl at loose threads instead. it keeps him distracted, resists the urge to switch positions to pin the other down just so his hands stop roaming.
kiel is his last thread of hope.
it's tempting to cut him loose.
( which is why he doesn't. )
that's all the self-control he has left after flushing pills down the toilet the first time he got them. hiding days - weeks - at a time because he started reaching for the blue flames that he sees from corner of his eyes. droplets of rain leave a burning sensation on his skin.
it's a reminder: the other's fingertips grazing his arm. terry pulls away, pretends he doesn't know, proves this with a tired smile. it's not a lie - the exhaustion.
it's not you.
( it's definitely you. )
i fucking want you.
( to stay. )
regret runs through his veins like adrenaline. he would rather tear himself open at the wrist, empty himself of anything that makes his heart pump faster --
-- and faster and faster and faster.
( god. faster. )
it doesn't work, though.
considering he's still alive.
ii.
pushing and pulling.
in all sorts of ways terry is used to - with words and hands and legs. he does too much of the former lately -- but only if ‘away’ punctuates the entirety of the phrase, and only when his heart begins its attempt to break free from its rightful confinement behind his rib cage.
the air kiel breathes into his own mouth is toxic, but terry's blood already holds enough poison to melt his bones. any more, and he'll be found dead in the bathtub, but they always seem to burst through the door on time --
( 'on time' - lacking the positive connotation )
-- around when his heartbeat starts fading into static and he's left gasping for breath.
there's a word name that hangs heavy on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill. it’s dragged out when his throat tightens, nails digging into skin and freshly-laundered sheets.
he's weak enough that it does.
it falls as a shaky breath between chapped lips stained garnet.
( gems - like each morning kiss. )
iii.
kiel is not a red flag.
( however, terry may be. )
kiel is a neon green sign, and terry's always loved liked city lights. like a moth to a flame, drawn to the first source of light after being shrouded in darkness.
a cliche -- touching sets his lungs ablaze, and terry doesn’t have it in him to pull away. it’s past the point of playing with matchboxes; he’d rather recklessly take his chances with a blowtorch.
better: a flamethrower.
an arsonist.
some people like to watch the world burn.
( i’d rather burn along with it. )
iv.
petals settle on terry's tongue in the form of foxgloves disguised as lavenders and roses. he kisses thorns, and scarlet drips from the crack on his lips. the taste easily spreads in his mouth -- bittersweet with longing and a desire he refuses to satisfy.
the toxicity doesn't reach his throat.
he'd rather spit than swallow.
( in the purest sense. )
a conundrum.
v.
it's not Lust.
maybe not even the alternative L word that refuses to slip past kiel's lips unless terry is sedated out of his fucking mind. but even then, it's subjected to its lower form. which terry gladly takes, anyway. maybe it’s desperation, unconsciously clawing behind the metal bars of his insides; denial keeps it caged behind an ivory prison cell.
he'll take what he can get.
( if only he isn’t so drugged up. )
he forgot what this feels like --
( this = anything and everything. )
-- until he’s reminded by hands and eyes and mouth and teeth and tongue and the familiar warmth of bare skin under cold fingertips. legs and thighs. hair, neck, shoulders.
(v.) continue or cause to continue in a specified condition, position, course, etc.
see also: (v.) stay - remain in the same place.
( 4 / ? )
o, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon,
that monthly changes in her circle orb,
lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
( romeo & juliet, act ii, scene ii )
1. stay - sara bareilles
i don’t care for sunlight. that only means it’s over,
and i’m in no mood for that. stay tonight.
don’t come morning, don’t come light.
2. my heart - paramore
i am finding out that maybe i was wrong,
that i’ve fallen down, and i can’t do this alone.
stay with me. this is what i need, please?
3. only love - pvris
before you came around i was lost and out of place.
you’re the only love i found, and i’m hoping that you’ll stay.
please stay.
4. stay - mayday parade
i’m not strong enough for the both of us.
what was i supposed to do? you know i love you.
5. find a way - safetysuit
hold on. what’s the rush, what’s the rush? we’re not done, are we?
‘cause i don’t need to change this atmosphere we made if
you can stay one more hour. can you stay one more hour?
he’s slumped against the seat, arms crossed over his cheat as a finger tap tap taps away on his forearm. eyelids serve as curtains to block out images reflective of a glass window matted with fingerprints. his mouth is as stitched up as his wrist.
“terre–”
“what day is it?”
( his stitches pop open, already have multiple times. )
“listen–”
“what,” he presses on, opening his eyes. the woman behind the desk, hair tied in a neat bun on top of her head, clad in a white coat, holds his gaze. terry remains unflinching. “day is it?”
( he can’t recognize his own voice, overpowered by the ones in his head. )
“it’s a saturday.”
“date.”
“june 3.”
“i need to go home.”
a sigh leaves her now. terry has been wondering for the last half hour of defiance how long before her porcelain skin starts cracking. doctors shouldn’t look so sleek. they should look like they fucking care. “i know you want to go home, but–”
“i need. to go home.”
( there’s a fucking difference. learn it. )
“please, terrence–”
“terry.” he raises his voice, shoots upright and on the edge of his seat. “it’s. terry.”
“terry,” she echoes, and the sound still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. it’s from all the pills they shove down his throat, he thinks. he can’t taste anything else save for the bile rising from his throat, and the distinct sourness of regret.
( fuck me. i’m a fucking idiot. )
she offers him a smile, teeth less like ivory and closer to vapid marigolds - a smoker. for a split second, terry misses the taste of nicotine. or is it something else? while she keeps her tone leveled, the obvious condescending lilt is present. “you know you have another week.” the corner of his lips twitch upward - to smile back or to snarl. “more if we think you need it.”
( the power struggle. )
“i don’t have that long.”
“why not?” finally, the folder opens: terrence oberon yoon. she browses through the files, licking a finger to flip through the pages. fucking disgusting.
“i need to make it to--” he takes in a deep breath. “it’s someone’s birthday.”
this immediately catches her interest, the first time in three days - and his previous stays - that terry has said anything outside of wanting to leave. “a family member?”
“i guess so.”
“whose birthday is it?”
it slips: “my boyfriend’s.” instinct blames constant sedation, the loss of brain cells. fists finally settle on his lap. cooperation is a step away from having his veins turn into power lines.
“well, tell me about your boyfriend.”
( for starters, he’s not really my boyfriend. )
“it’s his birthday.”
“what else?”
“i need to leave.”
“what’s his name?”
today’s fog needs more time to dissipate.
name: _____________.
birthday: june 3, 1995.
important details: eyes like moonstones, blind as a fucking bat; voice like church bells at the crack of dawn, only because i have no fucking clue what he’s on about half the time; otherwise, an ocean breeze, he sings like home; fingers like missing puzzle pieces; reminiscent of a sunrise - him, not his hair. when he told me he loved me, a rapier ripped through my chest; i like how he tastes.
(what does he taste like again?)
terry’s mouth hangs agape - no sound, just an intake of breath.
name: _____________.
i don’t... remember...
( shock therapy is unnecessary at this point. )
he’s met with another smile, more empathetic than patronizing now. “alright, we’ll get back to him later.” she flips to the next page - a wall of text, unreadable from where terry sits. “you’ve been here before. how many times have you done this, terry?”
the bandages feel tight around his wrist - paper skin and an urge to shred himself to pieces.
“i didn’t do anything.”
with a shake of her head, loose strands fall to frame her face elegantly. this is just unfair at this point. “records say there’s already a scar from last year.” an index finger works its way up the page, mocking. “jumping off the roof. pills--”
“i had a headache.”
( i have a headache. )
her lips form into a tight line. she closes the folder, intertwining her fingers on top of her desk, fingernails perfectly painted bright red, glistening under fluorescent lights. terry remembers thorns pricking his skin, rose petals filling a bathtub and littering white tiles.
( red is his favorite color. )
“maybe it’ll help if we talk about him. let’s do that tomorrow, okay?”
“i need to fucking go.”
“you’re not stable enough to go, terrence.”
he doesn’t correct her this time, tongue instead running along his upper molars, fighting back the urge to retaliate. he gets up from his seat, bones in his legs replaced by drying cement. a hand falls against the doorknob, and the static causes him to flinch. he can only imagine what it would feel like when electric currents pass through his brain.
as a literary device: a focus on one moment - in this case, a character; maybe? impressionistic - less detail, more colors. solely images. which is just as well.
terry can see: soft shapes. no sharpness.
there’s no setting.
just white walls and white floors and white clothes; pale hands and skin and lips, chapped and bleeding from when he yawned and tried to crack (it did; he did) a smile.
terry isn’t sure if he’s real.
( if he ever really was to begin with. )
terry can feel: nothing.
he has to squint slightly to get a better look - or maybe to block out the fluorescence that peers around the other’s form. or lack, thereof. his jaw is slack as he tries to focus, tongue heavy (with the apologies i collected while you were gone), chest tight as the bright blur gradually materializes into blonde but --
do i know you?
there’s warmth that brushes along his skin, drained from all its color. leaning into the touch is instinct, eyes fluttering close. it’s familiar - a sensation from far away and long ago. it feels like a century. no essence of time in this little space they’re forced to call home.
it’s not a home.
oh. oh, okay. i remember now.
you’re home.
his head hangs low, uneven bangs now useful, shielding his eyes from the light and the judgement - gaze glassy, vision hazy. keeping upright is tedious, almost painful. he could fall asleep like this, if only the other would catch let him.
( again. on with you. just like before you left.
you’re back. but i’m gone. and i’m so sorry. )
it’s a dire contrast from the dull gray and sterilized tiles the shade of ala-fucking-baster he’s compelled to recognize every morning. it serves as a bleak greeting he will never get used to, no matter how many times they throw him into this desolate hell.
you look feel like sunshine.
it’s different - i like it.
a finger twitches with the desire to reach out, but his body has lost its ability to cooperate - disconnected from his mind, as it always had been. instead, he flinches, hand moving away to curl fingers into a fist. nails dig deep into his palm, reminiscent of when shards penetrated skin, pale wrists torn from a desperate attempt to escape a life sentence.
you smell like freedom.
a response: a breathless chuckle (or, more like, a release of air). his gaze - lackluster silver instead of golden honey - raise to meet the other’s own before it lands on kiel’s lips, and terry merely blinks. ( kiel - that’s his name. ) at the fleeting thought, a corner of his mouth quirks upward in a pathetic attempt to smile. it’s barely there - much like himself.
i bet you taste like memories, too.
will you still kiss me?
( breathe life back into me. )
when he closes his eyes, there’s only crimson - rage staining porcelain, reflection shattered and taunting like the voices in his head. the loudest, his mother yelling: don’t let them fix you - and he won’t. it’s all temporary containment, like the color enclosed under his skin, like the thread that holds him together. a popped stitch stings and seeps scarlet through previously pristine bandages.
