RE: I THINK I’M CATCHING FEELINGS. // PROMPT.
He is a dream in the caricature of blasted ego; think: if Richard Grayson walks out of the door to illustrate to the world that this is worth saving, he might as well sew the filaments of his fears into one before placing it on Richard’s shoulders. The trepidation that sighs in Nam Hyunwon is real, all too real he might as well smoke to exhale the fumes, and they would contain anxieties more than carcinogen. So, he reverts back on his empty promises, the pack of cigarettes a sign that it has all become too concrete to ignore. Even the ember burning at the edge of the stick is enough to sear the memoire of a charred body sought amidst the culture of a broken car frame. Inhales. Again, deep enough to corrupt the lungs, blackening the organs to the point where he might need to return to them and fix, later. Nevertheless, it is none of today’s worries, for he peruses as Richard slides back into that leather costume of his, the atrophy of their relationship the sclera of burning heights burnt behind the back of Hyunwon’s eyelids.
No. No, no. If Richard is meant to die, might as well—
He swallows the intention. It voices in a string of words so foreign he might as well prick his throat with an icepick and it would make no difference. Since when did he discard himself at the door in lieu of becoming this... this insufferable bastard? But oh, fears do many things to human, and he ought to remember that among all the tissues and sinews, the fabrics of this universe still destine him into a man. Anomalies that coexist within his body doesn’t make him less humane... so.
Back to the present, he cloaks the wince that contorts his features upon saying those. The lament incised is instantaneous, clawing at the base of his throat but he says nothing. He listens, instead.
( If you’re trying to tell me that you love me, you should probably say it differently. )
That hits, not because it is wrong— that hits because Richard understands the gravity of his fears instead of lashing back out at his static words, which in retrospect come out as another axis of fears. In this view is the weariness that has sculpted the both of them, and eventually, their love, too. Hyunwon is scared, but it is not justified. He swallows, brambles in his throat. The veil is on; he thinks of the residual values that he holds dear to his chest before he shakes his head, raising to his feet to approach his beloved. He slides his arms around Richard’s torso from behind. No, not Nightwing, because to admit the alias means to alienate himself... and Hyunwon cannot stand the rift of this distance. He tightens the embrace, resting his chin on the clothed shoulders, before pressing a kiss on the side of the naked neck. “I’m... sorry,” and it sounds normative, but distinguished this time. “Just... Just come back alive, please. I know it might sound silly, but after that night, I just can’t see your flight the same way ever again.” And he pulls back, hands resting on the leathered bound sides of Richard’s posture. “You know we’re not invisible anymore, love.”
