here it goes again, the pendulum swaying back and forth, them moving one step forward only to return to the start. the remerging of the once diverted paths, now pulled apart at the seams by the enunciation from the other side of the berth. they are in his room, have been for the past hours — it is the same dance over and over, the same tragedy unfolding every time their desires have grown too ravenous, enough for seojung to succumb. so say surrender. say kiss me now and make me forget. forget every terrible thing we’ve done to each other, every cruel word we’ve spat. but memories do not fade just because they want them to. this is suicide, a suffocation with his neck already bruised. there is no escape, no running away, his feet have lost touch with the barren ground, his soles aching from the sprint. but he cannot outrun the dead now, can he? cannot outrun every remembrance of the way uriel made him tremble, the way he makes him tremble still.
with his ashen face and shivering hands, seojung feels like a narcotist. one more time, just one more time and i’ll be good. i’ll be fine — i can go on like this. i won’t need you forever. the deluge of untruths fills the expanse between them, hollow is the spectre of his heart that still whispers his lover’s name like a mantra that can soothe him still. but all the gods are dead and they are not lovers anymore, even with the kisses reciprocated between aching mouths and teeth serrated to carve the skin that isn’t his to claim anymore. his room reeks of the wake of delirium and heartache: none of this is good for him but he cannot quit. doesn’t know how. how they’ve entangled themselves back into this cycle of hurt and grief, doesn’t know how to rummage for the exit when all egresses lead to uriel.
“told you from the start that this is a bad idea.” seojung is aching. bones, lips and chest. dark eyes remain on the vestiges of the joint — aren’t they beautiful, the things that are destined for doom? inhale, exhale. perhaps if he indulges long enough, the wound will cease to ache as much. a lie that he keeps telling himself, over and over again as if repetition is enough to make it a truth. he turns his head languidly, cold gaze landing on his lover’s face. they are still naked, parts covered only by silk and beneath the faint moonshine, almost look surreal varnished in the aftermath of mania. how demented to have been frantic enough to make that phone call with scorched throat. how wretched, how hopeless. inhale, exhale. maybe if he shuts his eyes again, everything can return to it was months ago when uriel was only a phantom submerged, hands far from strangling seojung again. uriel is trying to get him back, seojung is only trying to forget. “don’t know why you’re still surprised by this point.”
“i’m done. i’m done trying so hard only for you to never even look in my direction.” from this, closed — ft. jung uriel @synthes.
