well whaddya know
Trees
→ keyho, jongyu, heartbreak, feelings
→ 700+ words; reposting from kficrevolution@dreamwidth just because i lost all the text files when my laptop crashed; inspired by this blog entry i lot lelz how quotidian
The trees outside his window scatter the sunlight and spread shadows silhouetting the leaves and branches that fan out. Minho wonders at trees and the way they grow.
Sometimes, Minho wonders at the space that appears between people. It crops up in barren, static places, where inside jokes and old affections go to be forgotten.
Here’s the thing: Trees grow; this much is certain. People grow as well. Sometimes up, sometimes old. Sometimes apart. To this day, it mystifies Minho how people planted so closely together can branch into two completely separate segments of the sky. He thinks about Jinki and Jonghyun, and the wasteland of cold, empty distance that suddenly opened up between them.
They never seemed to fight, or if they did, they didn't do it with words, nor with fists, nor steely silences. They were two people, who, for a brief, shining moment in time (time being the linear, cyclical, circular, infinite then and now), which is more than most people ever get, belonged to each other the way two people who believed they loved each other belonged to each other.
Minho had seen it in the way Jonghyun had looked at Jinki, like the light of dead starts still flickered in his eyes, hot, bright, and full of yearning. He'd seen it in the way Jinki would only let himself lean aganst Jonghyun when the his too-young, too-tired bones strained under the weight of all the expectation. Then the slew of solo projects began to pile up between them, the dating rumors began to fracture the sealed bubble of happiness, until there was nothing. No falling out, no grand showdown. Just the looming silence that crept in the cracks of their slowly breaking hearts. All they could hear was the silence and how deafening it became.
Minho thinks about trees: Their gnarled, furled roots can dig so deeply into the soil and knot into each other. We're like trees, because there's a part of us that will never let go, because we grow into the shape of the people around us; you make room for them in the spaces of your life and when they leave and leave them vacant, splinters of them still linger in the floorboards, the bedsheets. Their memory aches like a dull throb that leaves you pressing against the bruise of them, just so you don’t stop feeling it.
Feeling what?
The warm body next to him snores and thrashes, resisting all internal programming that demands he wake up. Kibum is splayed on approximately two-thirds of the mattress, hogging four-fifths of the blanket and using the only two pillows on the bed. Kibum's hair is a disreputable bird's nest and his legs tangle into Minho's, holding on even in sleep.
Minho wonders at the space between them: how there isn't any at all.
Minho knows they weren't always like this. There used to be a point in time when a heavy awkwardness or a lethal lull in conversation would be the inevitable third companion when the two of them were alone together. Kibum cranked the volume up too high in everything he did and Minho couldn't keep up, couldn't get a word in. Their differences polarized them, their interests kept them apart, but something must have brought them together.
Maybe it was the way growing up makes you take more chances, makes you re-write preconceived conclusions about other people. Or maybe it was the way Kibum was the one who smoldered when he was on stage and it was Minho who was able to unlock the private and the tender. Maybe it was discovering the fit of Kibum's hand in his, how they both felt it was right. Or maybe it was -
"Yah, stop it! You're thinking so loud I can hear it in my dreams," Kibum says, voice still blanketed in a thick layer of sleep, but no less acidic. He flops his hand against Minho's chest; the touch sends a frisson of something electric across Minho's skin and his veins turn hot. Minho knows he'd do anything Kibum would ask him to if he always touched him like this. "Go back to bed. God knows your need the beauty sleep."
Minho smiles, shaking his head at the way Kibum refuses to afford him even an each of space, but expects him to fit anyway. He does.
Maybe he doesn't understand why people grow apart. Maybe he understands less why two people get together. All he knows is this. This is something he never wants to stop feeling.
→ keyho, jongyu, heartbreak, feelings
→ 700+ words; reposting from kficrevolution@dreamwidth just because i lost all the text files when my laptop crashed; inspired by this blog entry i lot lelz how quotidian
The trees outside his window scatter the sunlight and spread shadows silhouetting the leaves and branches that fan out. Minho wonders at trees and the way they grow.
Sometimes, Minho wonders at the space that appears between people. It crops up in barren, static places, where inside jokes and old affections go to be forgotten.
Here’s the thing: Trees grow; this much is certain. People grow as well. Sometimes up, sometimes old. Sometimes apart. To this day, it mystifies Minho how people planted so closely together can branch into two completely separate segments of the sky. He thinks about Jinki and Jonghyun, and the wasteland of cold, empty distance that suddenly opened up between them.
They never seemed to fight, or if they did, they didn't do it with words, nor with fists, nor steely silences. They were two people, who, for a brief, shining moment in time (time being the linear, cyclical, circular, infinite then and now), which is more than most people ever get, belonged to each other the way two people who believed they loved each other belonged to each other.
Minho had seen it in the way Jonghyun had looked at Jinki, like the light of dead starts still flickered in his eyes, hot, bright, and full of yearning. He'd seen it in the way Jinki would only let himself lean aganst Jonghyun when the his too-young, too-tired bones strained under the weight of all the expectation. Then the slew of solo projects began to pile up between them, the dating rumors began to fracture the sealed bubble of happiness, until there was nothing. No falling out, no grand showdown. Just the looming silence that crept in the cracks of their slowly breaking hearts. All they could hear was the silence and how deafening it became.
Minho thinks about trees: Their gnarled, furled roots can dig so deeply into the soil and knot into each other. We're like trees, because there's a part of us that will never let go, because we grow into the shape of the people around us; you make room for them in the spaces of your life and when they leave and leave them vacant, splinters of them still linger in the floorboards, the bedsheets. Their memory aches like a dull throb that leaves you pressing against the bruise of them, just so you don’t stop feeling it.
Feeling what?
The warm body next to him snores and thrashes, resisting all internal programming that demands he wake up. Kibum is splayed on approximately two-thirds of the mattress, hogging four-fifths of the blanket and using the only two pillows on the bed. Kibum's hair is a disreputable bird's nest and his legs tangle into Minho's, holding on even in sleep.
Minho wonders at the space between them: how there isn't any at all.
Minho knows they weren't always like this. There used to be a point in time when a heavy awkwardness or a lethal lull in conversation would be the inevitable third companion when the two of them were alone together. Kibum cranked the volume up too high in everything he did and Minho couldn't keep up, couldn't get a word in. Their differences polarized them, their interests kept them apart, but something must have brought them together.
Maybe it was the way growing up makes you take more chances, makes you re-write preconceived conclusions about other people. Or maybe it was the way Kibum was the one who smoldered when he was on stage and it was Minho who was able to unlock the private and the tender. Maybe it was discovering the fit of Kibum's hand in his, how they both felt it was right. Or maybe it was -
"Yah, stop it! You're thinking so loud I can hear it in my dreams," Kibum says, voice still blanketed in a thick layer of sleep, but no less acidic. He flops his hand against Minho's chest; the touch sends a frisson of something electric across Minho's skin and his veins turn hot. Minho knows he'd do anything Kibum would ask him to if he always touched him like this. "Go back to bed. God knows your need the beauty sleep."
Minho smiles, shaking his head at the way Kibum refuses to afford him even an each of space, but expects him to fit anyway. He does.
Maybe he doesn't understand why people grow apart. Maybe he understands less why two people get together. All he knows is this. This is something he never wants to stop feeling.