march 14th. - shattering control; kisung
The cool feel of glass on his hand as he stares keeps him rooted. Painted blue lips, pressed into a thin line and then open when he tastes blood. Smokey eyes, far too blank for anyone’s liking, are glazed over with years of indifference. Mused black hair in what people would call artistic falls over and shadows half of his face, features and lines hardened by the fluorescent lighting.
He doesn't really see any of it.
Taking his hand off the cold substance, he watches as he pulls his arm back. The person in the mirror mimics the action, stubborn mouth twitching up in what could only be called a smirk.
"I’m sorry but…"
His eyes are barely focused, dilating behind shadows of enviable eyelashes. There's twin doubles of everything in his mind, only coming to focus as his fist connects with the mirror.
"…don’t I count?"
Sparkling slivers of fake sunshine and shimmering specks cave in for a split second before springing back out at the impact. Pieces of translucent glass, acting almost like fan girls throwing themselves at him, make their way to his skin. Ranging from microscopic to scar sized cuts, they cause spots of blood to bloom up.
He doesn’t even flinch.
A tap on the door, as it passes for a knock, jars him out of his trance of empty staring and mindless thinking. He turns his head, flipping his hair unconsciously out of the way, and matches a name with the person that’s just stepped through the entrance.
"Why won’t you…"
Dark brown eyes meet his own before flickering to the broken glass mirror and the pieces settled on the ground. Pouty lips turned in a frown, arms falling uselessly to his sides; Kibum looks almost innocent.
"…just believe me?"
He can tell that the younger isn't surprised by the state of his bedroom but dejected nonetheless. A drop of blood, as it splatters the ground below, gives him away; though Kibum would’ve noticed sooner or later.
He’s more worried about his heart than his forearm.
"Hyung…" is whispered; the sweet voice audible despite his hoarse throat. "My god, why?" and then he’s across the room, trying to get as much glass out as quickly and gently as possible. Brow wrinkled in concentration, he ignores the fact that Yesung is rigid and pretends that what he’s doing is normal, normal for the two of them.
"Says the actor, says the liar---"
He doesn’t want concern, far from it. He doesn’t want pity, or whatever everyone else calls it. He doesn’t want Kim Kibum acting like he cares, just like that. Oh no, he’s sick of the whole fly and crash routine.
"I really do love you."
There’s flashing neon stop signs going off in his brain, and the next thing he knows; Kibum is pressed against the wall, left of the newly-broken mirror, and staring up at him desperately.
He sees the look in Yesung’s eyes; closes his to escape it.
Then it's blue against red, the ever so disastrous picture, and he can breathe in the sweet sickly smell of blood. It's overpowering, it's suffocating, and he can't get enough. So what he does is let the demanding tongue enter as he parts his surely, deliciously, battered lips.
"---Says Kim Kibum."
Yesung's digging his nails into Kibum's skin, where fabric holds no protection. He's sure that there'll be bruises, tinted red and crescent shaped, where his grip on the younger's hips is but there's not a tinge of guilt. He wants Kibum to feel the way he does, bruised and used, even if only by the insignificant and easily misread action.
He’s almost sure that no one would understand.
But Kibum gets it. He gets what the other's doing. That doesn't mean he cares though, except for maybe under all the layers of self-control. Want; in the most simple way, need; in more than one form, selfishness; in no foreign manner---
"Don’t. Don’t tell me you really think that."
---he can almost feel the emotions pounding against his own glass barrier, just begging and demanding to be let out. Unlike Yesung's fragile reflection, splintering spider wick still littering light, his defense remains intact.
Because there's nothing he wants nearly as much.
How many times they’ve done this; he doesn’t know. It’s clear though, despite what words he throws out, he needs this just as much as the other, if not more.
"Can't you see that..."
The feel of warm skin burning trails on his, desperate moans resounding in his ears, skyrocketing feelings he wrongly labels as lust, Kibum simply in heartbeat proximity - he craves for all of it.
"...this means so much more to me?"