[♥ Fic] SEKRIT SANTA
The City | Eeteuk focused | Kangin x Eeteuk & other pairings | Rated R
In which the city is there but yet, it is not.
For:
lovelysilver19 @ ALEX-SSHI! FB'S ADMIN!APPA ^ ^
Note: MERRY CHRISTMAS ALEX! XD
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The city has always been lively during the day, people are crossing streets, walking past by each other -in circles, at times when one has no real destination- and there is always the soft chattering in the background. It is always been not really cheery but yet full of life as people acknowledge each other’s presence with a curt nod maybe, with a small smile others.
He is a visitor in the city, a fresh face amongst few hundreds, with a bright dimpled smile and eyes that curiously watches others pass by. He is an unknown in a city that lives and breathes and circles around a constant and it is without his knowledge when he attracts some -maybe unwanted but that is not really for him to decide- attention.
He is a visitor and he is intrigued by the fascinating life of the city. If one did not look closely, it would seem dead -like a world where people would be lifeless zombies, working for a head that appeared on LCD panels that repeated ‘No Talk, No Play, No Love’ or something similar- but it was not, it is not. The smiles although fleeting are there as people walk briskly, brushing past each other, barely making eye contact. Among the soft chattering of works to be done and people to be met, there are faint confessions of love and soft, sweet nothings. Yet as he observes others, he fails to notice that he himself is observed by someone -potentially dangerous but it is also not for him to decide- who does not make a sound as he follows, does not breathe a whisper as he watches, does not turn away when the visitor turns.
He is a visitor and he hears that the city is dangerous. He does not believe it, cannot believe it when he sees the sweet smiles from the unfamiliar faces, when he feels the soft, gentle breeze against his skin, and when he breathes in the fresh air.
The city never sleeps.
In the city, he is a visitor, one who knows nothing much about the place, one who is deceived by its friendly façade of the day, one who is tricked by its harmless image of the living -the living dead, he now thinks but he is not as sure as he stares at the sky when the sun is at its highest, when the clouds are white and drifting in a sea of blue.
The city, it breathes when you are sleeping. It is watching when you are not. It is dangerous.
There is a hot mouth against his skin, leaving warm trails of saliva that cool rapidly and bruises that make him hiss. There are hands against his pale skin and they are searching, searching and he loses his breath with each teasing touch -like butterflies, fluttering, fluttering. There are lips then a hot, wet mouth against his and a tongue slipping into his mouth and he is lost and drowning and... he wakes up.
The city, it knows what you want. It knows what you need. It’ll give it to you.
The visitor cannot seem to leave the city. He no longer thinks of where he came from, he no longer remembers. All he knows is that he is here longer than he should be and that he should go home but what is home, he doesn’t know.
He draws the curtain and it is not golden sunlight that streams into his rented room, it is silver moonlight that makes his creamy skin look alabaster. And when he looks out the window, fingers grazing over cold glass, he sees the lights of the city below, sees the mixture of hues of pinks and greens, of blues and yellows and orange shining under the moon. It is a cloudless night as he observes, watches, sees.
He hears sounds but they do not seem any different from what he hears in the day. There is the faint rumble and roar and humming of engines working, there is the faint chatter of life, there is the same confessions of love. There are beautiful sounds, not of nature but of humanity and he loses himself in it. He is drowning, drowning, drowning.
The city is at its peak when it is night. It is dangerous.
His eyes snap open with a start when he hears an underlying sound. He looks out the window again. It is the same palette of colors, it is the same mixture of sounds. But now, his heart is racing in fear.
It is night and the visitor has never been out at night.
It is night and even after numerous days turned into weeks, he still has not been out at night -nor has he noticed those eyes watching him, watching without blinking, studying his every move, his every dimpled smile, his ever soft whisper and kind act.
He is in danger, maybe, but he does not know.
The city. You may think you know it well… but it knows you better than you know it.
The sky is dark and the moon is at its fullest, at its roundest and brightest. He is lost, walking around in unfamiliar circles. He is lost although he knows that he should not be.
He knows this road, he thinks and he follows his heart, follows a path.
There is a whisper in his ear and he turns around quickly only to see a taller man behind him. He sighs, relieved although he does not know why -but there is a gut feeling telling him that he should run, run but he does not- and he greets him with a shaky dimpled smile. The visitor has always been slight in build, he knows, but when he compares himself with the other, it seemed almost ridiculous.
The other is tall -much taller than he who is wearing flat sneakers at the moment- and big -or maybe muscular or built would be a more flattering word-, much bigger than he is and his heart jumps when the man shifts closer.
Instead, the other offers him a smile, one that is friendly, kind and comforting as if the other knew who the visitor was, knew what the visitor wanted and where the visitor was heading.
The visitor is like a trepid mouse as he quickly inquires the other for directions and the other is more than glad to be of service, it seemed.
Be careful and do not invite people in… when you are in the city.
The other leads the visitor back to his room and the visitor thinks that he would come in, to rest maybe or to have a cup of tea but the other is standing at his doorway although the door is open. The visitor notices it and he turns, a little surprised. He cocks his head to the side before he invites the other in, smiling but the smile disappears once the door closes behind the other.
There are hungry hands on him, a heated mouth against his and he should struggle but he cannot when the touches are setting him on fire. There is sudden force and sudden movement and he feels the hard wall against his back and callused hands pinning his smooth arms against the wall. The actions are heated, rushed, fast and he’s lost in it until he is pulled away from the wall and laid on the carpet, the short fur of the carpet tickling his naked skin.
He looks up and the sight of the other staring down at him is enough to make him lose himself and indulge.
There is a hot mouth against his skin, leaving warm trails of saliva that cool rapidly and bruises that make him hiss. There are hands against his pale skin and they are searching, searching and he loses his breath with each teasing touch -like butterflies, fluttering, fluttering. There are lips then a hot, wet mouth against his and a tongue slipping into his mouth and he is lost and drowning and he cries out into the other’s mouth. He sees stars embedded behind his eyelids and he is contented and a pile of loose, relaxed limbs as he falls, falls and drowns in the darkness.
When he wakes next, golden sunlight is streaming into the empty room and it is cold. He is cold. It is empty. He is empty.
---
He is sore and tired but out on the streets, under the warm sunlight, watching again.
He pauses when he sees a couple of young boys, both visibly younger than him. He is struck by how they look familiar. The older looks almost like him but only with a rounder face and fuller lips. But it is the younger that catches his attention. He looks like the other except slightly skinnier and much younger. He looks like the other and he does not know why he is hurting.
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He does not remember his original purpose of visiting the city. He does not remember when he came or how he came and all that he knows is that he is here at the moment.
In fact, he knows that he has been here a little too long when he can pick out familiar faces of people, who he has never spoken to before, in a crowd -like that pink haired boy with the taller dark haired one and the two who hold on to each and laugh about small things like the reenactment of a Titanic scene-.
It is confusing and he does not really know what is holding him to his place, what is keeping him from leaving.
---
Days pass by in a medley of movement and color, of images and animation and he feels more lost than he has ever been. He does not know why he stands under that one traffic light -at the crossroads two blocks away from his rented room- when the sun is highest in the sky but he does. He does not understand why he feels the urge to wait, sitting, at the fountain in the circular park in the heart of the city but he does.
Time passes in a constant flow and although he is waiting, waiting, time is not and his memory fades bit by bit. He no longer blames it on the other as he can barely remember what he looks like -but he remembers the touches, the kisses, the scent of the other’s warm skin-.
He packs his luggage, prepared to leave -he has bought a train ticket back to wherever he was from or perhaps to a new place he thinks of going to-.
But before he can step aboard the train, he feels small hands tugging at his pant leg and he turns around only to see a small child staring at him with big brown eyes -blinking innocently- begging him to stay.
“He’ll come. Don’t go,” says the child and before he could ask who, an older man comes running up to the visitor and takes the child in his arms.
“Ryeowook-ah. Don’t go scaring people like that,” the man scolds softly and the child looks apologetic but the visitor is too stunned to actually react. He simply smiles, dimpled, like the sun and ruffles the child’s hair.
When the visitor leaves the train station, not aboard the train, he swears that he hears voices singing, a deep, husky voice melded with an angelic, beautiful voice and they are singing, as if to him, an ode of farewell.
He turns and where the two who were waving to him once stood, there was nothing there but the faint wind blowing , an aged photograph -of a couple, faces too faded to be recognized- flying away, further and further.
---
It is vaguely frightening when the visitor realizes that he cannot find his way back to his rented room. He is sure that there is supposed to be an old building where he is standing. He is confident that there is supposed to be his loud neighbors as they hand out their laundry.
But there is no building awaiting him and all there is before him is an empty plot of land, barren, wasted like the remnants of war.
The city is different now as the visitor struggles with his luggage. It is devoid of the living, as if plague had just struck and killed everyone. The only sounds he can hear are the fluttering of torn leaflets as the whistling sound of wind passing through echoes throughout the city.
The roads are empty as are the gardens and parks. He peers into shops -looking through glass windows- and all that are there are the items and the mannequins, the lifeless dolls.
He feels that he should call out -maybe a soft hello- but he is afraid of what his voice can awaken.
---
It seems to be natural instinct when the visitor finds himself hiding somewhere, curled up and breathing harsh. It is difficult to comprehend what has happened to the city.
Where are the people -like the pink haired boy and the taller one with voice of melted honey, smooth and entrancing-? He does not know and it scares him, scares him until he cannot breathe and he is holding onto himself tightly.
In between shaking and breathing harshly and glancing around hi wildly like a cornered animal, he falls asleep, arms wrapped around his knees that were brought to his chest.
---
He does not know what he is waiting for. He does not know why he waits at the fountain without water in the circular barren park, in the middle of the empty city when the sun has just risen above the horizon. He does not understand why he lingers, walking in circles, under a traffic light -which does not function- at the crossroads where there is only the wind and paper keeping him company, when the sun is at its highest point in the sky.
He does not know why, but he knows the city wants something from him; he knows that he wants something from the city.
And that is why he does; he waits for an unending circle to be complete.