#eyeslye

[self-1ess]

brother oh brother. / Sam Jang & Seth Jang Park / a timeline visual. ( @eyeslye )

[self-1ess]

@eyeslye side profile go crazy. hair go crazy. posture go crazy. somethin somethin abt them being so much like each other as they grew up even if being a part for a decade.

[puncia]

kissing your lover lazily first thing in the morning.　⌖　@eyeslye.

You’re not one to wake up so late.　By your estimate　⸻　and judging by the weak flaxen hue of the light lazily streaming through your windows　⸻　it’s seven A.M.,　maybe a few moments past.　You,　typically,　find yourself at attention and ready to taken on the day by no later than five.　The sun and moon,　in each of their transient forms,　all play out like delicate cinema throughout your lengthy days.　Drifting across the sky,　caressing the clouds they each passed over,　the portraiture something to dream of.　You do not dream,　full stop.　Your empty head is full of fables　(fables that,　by design,　you do not recognize as such)　shoved unceremonious out of the way as soon as action befalls you.　A necessity.　Here you are,　still,　rousing two hours past your limit,　ensnared in Park’s hold,　slender limbs twisted in a bear trap.

Even worse,　you are usually much better at this.　You do not need to blink once,　twice,　three times,　steadily slotting into cognizance as though it is not inherent to you.　All you know is competence,　rising easily and without restraint,　ready to act and think and execute tender planning at a second’s notice.　So here you are,　entirely losing yourself,　peering up to him through the shroud of your blonde-tipped lashes.　What is his plan with this,　really?　You will find out,　once way or another.　Your lowered-guard is only a short walk from aposematism,　an unpalatable chemical,　prickles,　thorns.　He won’t know what’s coming.　Tried and true.

Your head shifts,　supported by cushioning of his chest:　his torso is bared,　and yours is not,　swathed in fabric that is his,　familiar scent that is his,　trepidation that certainly,　without a doubt,　has to be his.　A specter of affection,　if one could call it that.　Said chest rises and falls,　stable and sure.　You will never stop trying to figure him out,　and you can only pray　(should there illogically be some deity out there willing to hear you out;　every wise overseer has turned their back on you,　and you see no reason for it to change now)　that he feels the same way.　Porcelain crown of yours,　what does it house?　

A dreary sense of relaxation,　now.　So long as you are free of obligation to pry SSG 08 from its sturdy travel case and carry out the commands wired mercilessly into your competence,　you are free to soak up these feelings,　whatever they are.　You absolutely will not file them away,　and this is born of a fear that they will start to mean something to moment you stop pretending.　You are a darling fail-safe,　but the IRG slacked heavily in your exposure to the mundanities.　You should have been better,　stronger,　more impenetrable to a little bit of positive attention.　You aren’t.　A dog sinks its teeth into the unwitting:　do you blame the beast or the incompetent trainer still haplessly tugging at the leash?

Maybe there is no leash.　Maybe your collar has come free long ago.　Maybe they are phantom pains.

By now,　You would have gone for a run.　Capital Y,　their perfect and unfeeling assassin.　You would practice your speed against the adversary of yourself,　tightly lace your boots and dash off into the brisk morning air.　You want to stay here.　That makes you a bad asset,　presumably,　and you know how badly that damned look of dissatisfaction lashes at your few remaining vulnerable wounds.　To Hell with it,　though.　Anyone would grow tired of their inadequacy constantly projected back toward them.　Even you,　you who creeps unsteadily to personhood and humanity.　It is a human behavior to reach out,　to touch,　to gently stroke at plane of skin,　to take in the rhythm of his heartbeat in all of its melodic resonance.　You were raised to shoot between heartbeats.　It was trial and error to relax yourself enough to drag it down,　and in doing so,　you’ve entirely acclimated to the demands of shooting betwixt beats at an elevated rate.　One twenty or above,　holding no prisoners.　You can do it.　For now,　it is lower,　a classier sixty,　unperturbed by any hazard that could come.　

Except for one.　Like that,　the pulsing makes itself known to you,　steady rumbling in your chest.　Syncing with his,　maybe,　just as your breathing has done.　This is syrupy sweet,　excessively saccharine,　quelling teeth to rot where they are lodged in your gums.　Everything about this is so unlike You.　But you,　in her stead,　are almost growing fond of it.　Just like that,　your frame shifts　⸻　whether or not it is voluntary is no longer a matter of discussion:　you carry out actions,　you are a drone,　and yet,　just this once,　as delusional as you may be,　there is intent　⸻　and you climb on top of him,　legs astride as you peer to him laid beneath you.　He looks handsome like this.　Compulsion flashes like a twitch at your palms to strangle him.　How silly that would be.　Old habits die hard,　old training regimens.　You know you wouldn’t be able to,　anyways,　and gradually that fact comes to disturb you less and less.　This is not a quantifiable field that the average person assesses.　The only danger comes from the chokehold mercilessly squeezing your heart.

Your eyes meet.　There have been reports of snow leopards killing foxes.　You stare to him,　both predators,　both prey,　and you try in this moment to make sense of yourself,　more than anything.　Oversleeping,　debased into some puddle of tranquility.　Grace of your tucked arms supporting,　you lean forward,　bring your lips against his in some stupid,　deliberate gesture.　A kiss,　in more accurate terms.　Something you are doing intentionally because you find yourself glowing with the desire to kiss him,　and there is no falsehood you can obfuscate the truth with in hopes of making yourself look better.　Is it better,　then,　to be entirely without feeling?　You don’t feel much,　but you are feeling this.　Lips joined in an intimacy,　chests flush against one another.　Though you may be a terrible soldier,　you have this,　whatever this is,　eternally comforted by its ambiguity.　You do not have the heart to ask for clarification.　You aren’t sure if there’s even a word for something like this.