anything we want
a/n: still have a few other things to write for the holidays and i'm sorry they're going to be a little late orz for my partner in crime, jadey matey, who holds my hand through the bad times and the good. merry christmas (cutting it close!) and i love you lots ♥
anything we want
869w; pg (soohyun/hyorin)
and in the darkness, i will meet my creators.
It’s when the sun comes in on the edge of a cloudy sky, that lazy sunlight that is just barely there, silver rays reflecting off the glass case. Afternoons, she thinks. China sits on the shelves (prettily) and she knows their designs by heart - blue laced in between layers of creamy white, the almost color of a pearl. Porcelain, something so beautiful and breakable, just beyond her fingertips but in the sun’s reach.
Mahogany shelves. Everything inside is indecipherable through the blinding light. Everything inside is what she can’t have (use feel touch without consequences). Everything inside is what the light can.
Hyojung knows it is coming (the end). It’s been coming for a long time she’s heard, stuck around under the bed, the only black blemish in this chemically clean room (she refers to it as home). It lives in between the walls, she assumes, tucked away to shade everyone’s eyes. It lives breathes hurts like she know she won’t for much longer.
IVs drip. Monitors beep. How long? she wonders. How much longer? Everything is so white. Waiting (how morbid). Waiting for the end, and she guesses she is too.
He has a pale face. Pretty, in some twisted way, like a tree growing horizontally with tangled spines. Not right. Dark eyes, shaded cheekbones, long fingers blur once, blur twice, then fade.
Prepared for a funeral. All black, like the shadow beneath the bed.
“Are you afraid?” the doctor asks. White coat, white gloves. She blinks once.
Blinks again. He stands behind them, prepared for a funeral. I don’t know. Stares at him.
Would this be the end of me?
(is that scary)
It doesn’t occur to her that it’s happening when it is, an out-of-body experience (maybe she was severed early. fate can be cruel that way). She hears something through the dull roar of silence, dull roar of white. Black. Silence. Flatline. Flickering on off on off.
She has heard that your life flashes before your eyes in that final moment. And she tries to remember. What was my life?
And she thinks instead: is this it?
He holds her hand. Feels nothing. Lifts her up, lifts her out of the shell that died. Pale grey, empty.
Lovely.
She opens her eyes. Her arms are outstretched, palms facing the sky. The sun is there, right there, fiery red in the sky and melting. Burning the world.
Not her, though. His hand is in hers. It’s not cold or cool or warm. Numb minus the tingling. It’s simply nothing, like her.
(the sun cannot touch her anymore)
They walk for hours. Float in the river, brown with pollution. Emerge dry and lay down on the concrete of an empty street. Wait for the traffic to come.
So, are you like, the Grim Reaper? There’s a hint of amusement in the back of her throat. He catches it. Holds onto it. Things like this do not come his way often.
I guess so. Humors her more. The cars come, tires on asphalt, kissing their faces.
They feel nothing.
What did you see?
(she wants to talk about it. few hours in and it comes out, quivering lips)
He pauses. My life.
(like everyone says. she wonders if she’s the only strange one)
And what did you see?
(being polite, she assumes. how many times had he went through this before)
Her lips press together. My mother’s china case.
(and is it weird that i remember nothing else, nothing but that one detail and the sun, that huge star that created our universe, but not the rest of my life?)
Tiptoes on the rail. Water beneath rushes, wind whistling. It does not tangle through her limbs. That’s when she knows. Dead. Pushes herself up, higher and higher.
He watches her. Does not intervene (how many times had he went through this before?). She climbs until she can climb no more, staring at the world from the highest point she can reach, reminding herself that she was once a part of it.
(it’s ok)
They run, run on limbs that are not theirs, not really. What are we running from? But she doesn’t know, not anymore. No answers. There are none, reasons, consequences. There are none.
The sky burns. Setting itself on fire, red and orange all over the grey. They are the only colorless shadows on the horizon, that black blemish beneath the bed, the ones prepared for a funeral.
They just run, run for the sake of running. Run from nothing because they are two persons who are not people, who do not gasp for air or stop. Eyes that are pits of nothing and everything, more alive and deader than any oxymoron could describe.
This is all they can be.
Night paints the city pastel colors. Darker and darker and darker. And then they fade - girl and boy, two silhouettes so close that they could be confused as one - holding hands to the ultimate end.
The sun cannot touch them anymore.
(burning brighter and brighter and trying to find them just once more. never)
(must be nice, being human. must be nice, knowing that everything leads up to that one moment, that one moment when you remember everything and think -
i lived)
anything we want
869w; pg (soohyun/hyorin)
and in the darkness, i will meet my creators.
It’s when the sun comes in on the edge of a cloudy sky, that lazy sunlight that is just barely there, silver rays reflecting off the glass case. Afternoons, she thinks. China sits on the shelves (prettily) and she knows their designs by heart - blue laced in between layers of creamy white, the almost color of a pearl. Porcelain, something so beautiful and breakable, just beyond her fingertips but in the sun’s reach.
Mahogany shelves. Everything inside is indecipherable through the blinding light. Everything inside is what she can’t have (use feel touch without consequences). Everything inside is what the light can.
Hyojung knows it is coming (the end). It’s been coming for a long time she’s heard, stuck around under the bed, the only black blemish in this chemically clean room (she refers to it as home). It lives in between the walls, she assumes, tucked away to shade everyone’s eyes. It lives breathes hurts like she know she won’t for much longer.
IVs drip. Monitors beep. How long? she wonders. How much longer? Everything is so white. Waiting (how morbid). Waiting for the end, and she guesses she is too.
He has a pale face. Pretty, in some twisted way, like a tree growing horizontally with tangled spines. Not right. Dark eyes, shaded cheekbones, long fingers blur once, blur twice, then fade.
Prepared for a funeral. All black, like the shadow beneath the bed.
“Are you afraid?” the doctor asks. White coat, white gloves. She blinks once.
Blinks again. He stands behind them, prepared for a funeral. I don’t know. Stares at him.
Would this be the end of me?
(is that scary)
It doesn’t occur to her that it’s happening when it is, an out-of-body experience (maybe she was severed early. fate can be cruel that way). She hears something through the dull roar of silence, dull roar of white. Black. Silence. Flatline. Flickering on off on off.
She has heard that your life flashes before your eyes in that final moment. And she tries to remember. What was my life?
And she thinks instead: is this it?
He holds her hand. Feels nothing. Lifts her up, lifts her out of the shell that died. Pale grey, empty.
Lovely.
She opens her eyes. Her arms are outstretched, palms facing the sky. The sun is there, right there, fiery red in the sky and melting. Burning the world.
Not her, though. His hand is in hers. It’s not cold or cool or warm. Numb minus the tingling. It’s simply nothing, like her.
(the sun cannot touch her anymore)
They walk for hours. Float in the river, brown with pollution. Emerge dry and lay down on the concrete of an empty street. Wait for the traffic to come.
So, are you like, the Grim Reaper? There’s a hint of amusement in the back of her throat. He catches it. Holds onto it. Things like this do not come his way often.
I guess so. Humors her more. The cars come, tires on asphalt, kissing their faces.
They feel nothing.
What did you see?
(she wants to talk about it. few hours in and it comes out, quivering lips)
He pauses. My life.
(like everyone says. she wonders if she’s the only strange one)
And what did you see?
(being polite, she assumes. how many times had he went through this before)
Her lips press together. My mother’s china case.
(and is it weird that i remember nothing else, nothing but that one detail and the sun, that huge star that created our universe, but not the rest of my life?)
Tiptoes on the rail. Water beneath rushes, wind whistling. It does not tangle through her limbs. That’s when she knows. Dead. Pushes herself up, higher and higher.
He watches her. Does not intervene (how many times had he went through this before?). She climbs until she can climb no more, staring at the world from the highest point she can reach, reminding herself that she was once a part of it.
(it’s ok)
They run, run on limbs that are not theirs, not really. What are we running from? But she doesn’t know, not anymore. No answers. There are none, reasons, consequences. There are none.
The sky burns. Setting itself on fire, red and orange all over the grey. They are the only colorless shadows on the horizon, that black blemish beneath the bed, the ones prepared for a funeral.
They just run, run for the sake of running. Run from nothing because they are two persons who are not people, who do not gasp for air or stop. Eyes that are pits of nothing and everything, more alive and deader than any oxymoron could describe.
This is all they can be.
Night paints the city pastel colors. Darker and darker and darker. And then they fade - girl and boy, two silhouettes so close that they could be confused as one - holding hands to the ultimate end.
The sun cannot touch them anymore.
(burning brighter and brighter and trying to find them just once more. never)
(must be nice, being human. must be nice, knowing that everything leads up to that one moment, that one moment when you remember everything and think -
i lived)