me three
nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby – cigarettes after sex @vsapollo + @vsdionysus
sleep has left him, so he wakes up – near-noon seoul reminding him that he has barely slept. just a little over four hours on the clock, and with nothing in the day to do, but he just couldn’t keep still.
and the two other boys in his too-big home, they’re still fast asleep.
and his body feels sticky so he goes to take a shower. and the sun is too bright in his eyes so he puts on a pair of sunglasses. and the room smells like a night that lasted too long, so he sprays perfume on the walls. hair dripping all over the floor, he walks to the kitchen and thinks about cleaning his room.
sealed cigarette carton in his cupboard, lighter sitting by the knives on the counter. he reaches for it and taps out a little white stick of something that won’t affect him. he remembers that it’s a gift. someone had given it to him to say that he had been working too hard, that he should breathe, take a day off, sit and wait a while. maybe rot his lungs while he passes the time before certain death.
it’s an odd sentiment to have, he thinks. to tell someone to slow down all the way to a stop. though he understands it: how could a mere mortal possibly know what he’s actually going through?
how could anyone know that he’s a god disgraced in some way? when he holds himself so well, shoulders broad and suits pressed. when he looks at the sun and the clouds, or the ground beneath his feet, and doesn’t seem to long for his wings.
but he lights the cigarette and inhales deep. he sits on a stool by the kitchen island, chews on a handful of grapes, and he doesn’t think too much of it.
he is groggy when he wakes, reality and dreams seeping together in a drunken blur. most days are like this, marred by what would be a hangover if he didn’t nurse it away with more booze and alcohol. what day it is, what time it is, where he is never really seems to matter anymore. all he really knows in this moment is that he’s parched.
clumsily, he sheds himself of silken sanctuary and tries to make sense of his surroundings. somewhere below the abandoned sheets he thinks is another body. his skin remembers the warmth of two others from the night before but he is currently a man on a mission.
marble floors ice his every step as he wanders through the halls. it’s not his first time here, nor will it be his last, but he pays the price of being a drunkard. he still doesn’t know where to go.
“fuck me.”
by the time seju’s familiar figure comes to sight, he is all too eager to play the damsel in distress. he’s not nearly awake enough or sober enough to continue down this path. “i need water.” he groans in greeting.
he drapes himself onto the other god’s body, a movement that’s all too second nature. arms rest over seju’s shoulders and he buries his face into the familiar warmth of the crook of the boy’s neck.
