fic: Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star
You walk on chilly floorings made of white tiles and feel a smile tucking your lips.
You dance. That’s what you can do, that’s what you love to do. He loves it when you do that, everyone loves it when you do that. So you close your eyes and let your body sway, you roll your hips, take a few gentle and soundless steps with your bare feet and spin around, arching your neck back. You draw in a deep breath through your nose and convince yourself that the smell is fresh. Because isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?
(Cold cold cold, your toes say and hiss)
Your smile is gentle and you feel the urge to do it increasing, the feeling swells on your chest. It tingles and feels somewhat tight but it’s all good, you think, it’s all good and god it makes you feel happy.
You were happy.
That’s what you remember.
If you believe in it on a physical level, if you can produce it then everything is possible, isn’t it? Yes it is. That’s what you believe in, that’s what you need to trust in.
At least you can lie to yourself, that’s enough. The little game you play doesn’t have to be a complete success, it just has to work well enough for you to be able to keep playing it.
(You throw your aces to the table and score)
Spin, spin and spin after spin you keep smiling. Two steps to the right, one forward, move your shoulders on a circular motion, remember the torso, take a sliding step forward and turn your head. You feel your hair sway with the motion, you feel it covering your face and you bend your head back for a little, that smile burning on your face.
(But weren’t you always a terrible liar? That’s what they said, anyway)
You stop, somehow feeling peaceful and distant as you stand there all alone. You trace your fingers up your throat with a delicately soft touch (it’s barely even there) and smile as you move your hand so that only the tips of your fingers quirkily walk on your face. You examine your smile, you press your fingers on your closed eyelids. And then you sigh.
You like the cool tips of your fingertips, but most of all you love how the touch relaxes your muscles. And you can feel your eyes closed, you can actually know that they’re gently shut. The eased sensation spreads and your entire face numbs. And it feels good.
Your heart is pounding, you notice and put your palm on the left of your chest to feel it. Yes, yes it is. It’s pounding, that steady and fastened rhythm coming from inside of you.
(You carry your rhythm with you, because that’s what you do)
Your cold fingers slid upwards and wrap gently around your throat. You press gently, examining with your index and middle fingers to see if you can find your pulse.
(Thump thump thump, yes, you are alive)
You sigh deep again as the smile spreads (no, it isn’t sad, for you aren’t sad are you?) and rise to your toes, balancing your weight perfectly. You slide your right sole from your ankle (yes, that’s your ankle, you can feel it) to your inner thigh and spread your arms, bending forwards for a little, bringing your hands forwards before swaying them beautifully in a circular motion and raising them up, up towards the ceiling, wrists first. And you arch your back, almost like you were swimming under water, the motion gentle and collected, somewhat supported with your muscles.
You know you’re beautiful, you know you’re talented. You know people envy you, just for being you. And that’s enough reason to smile, isn’t it? So you do. You let out a heavy breath through your nose and smile wider. Keep those face muscles otherwise relaxed, you instruct yourself tenderly. Keep yourself tranquil.
A door opens somewhere on your right. You pretend that you don’t hear it, setting both of your feet to the ground again, taking several steps to your left and jump, diving downwards. Your palms are pressed against the cold, tiled floor and you bend them slightly before straining your muscles and pushing back strongly, sending you flying until you’re on your feet again. You spin around again and lean backwards, rolling those hips and snapping your fingers, listening to the varying rhythm your heartbeat provides you with.
(It beats faster when he’s around, and lately it’s become painful)
“Jin, it’s two am,” the voice says calmly from behind you. You can somewhat predict his position from his voice, your senses overwhelming. Slight strain, his torso’s being somewhat restricted - he’s leaning to something, probably with his back. His tone suggests that his shoulders are slightly raised and arms crossed. He doesn’t come closer to you, no, he’s waiting for you to come to him. You turn to him, that smile still on your lips, venomous and frightening, because it isn’t like you’re supposed to be smiling. And it makes him uneasy.
“It’s that and same for me,” you answer him with a somewhat cheery tone and let out a small laughter, brushing your damped hair back with your fingers as you cock your head, staying lively.
(Keep dancing, for you have been blessed with staying alive)
“I’d like you in bed,” he tells you and you hear the sound the fabric of his shirt makes as he moves slightly against that wall. You smile at him, you smile at the image of him, the one where he’s only half-dressed and reaching his hand out for you. “Come on, Jin. Come to bed. We can dance tomorrow.”
You laugh and you feel how the muscles on your face work, you feel the strain, the small reactions it causes on your face. You can imagine what you look like because you can feel it (it reaches your eyes, yes) and it makes you self-conscious. In a good sense, though, because he’s always told you how much he loves your smile.
“2 am,” you repeat his words, tasting them on your lips. You purse your lips and draw in a long breath (is it just you or is the room cold?), scratching your chin slightly. “You’ll be leaving in a few hours, then.”
And Kame’s going to dance, but he isn’t going to take Jin with him. He isn’t going to throw water on him in the middle of the practice for messing up a move even he himself isn’t able to do, he isn’t going to practice timing and group work, not with Jin. And it feels somewhat sad and lonely like that.
(Nowadays you dance alone, but doesn’t it make it even more tragically beautiful?)
“…Do you want to dance now, then?” he asks you with a heavy and tired sigh, giving you the impression that he hasn’t been sleeping much. But it can’t be your fault, no, it can’t be your fault because your steps have become light and soundless on the cold floor.
You feel like a shadow when you dance, and shadows don’t make any noise as they move.
You nod and reach your hand out for him. You hear him walking over you, taking your hand and placing another one on your shoulder. You snort at him, giving him a somewhat smug smile as you place your other hand on his hip and help him to bed downwards. He never even threatens to trip on your hold.
You pull him upwards again and his hand gently slides down your shoulder to your arm, pressing it gently as he leans in to place a small kiss on your lips. You answer with a small but eager shove with your own lips, playfully biting his upper lip. You feel a smile tucking his lips. But it’s just a tuck and it trembles before it falters.
(Sometimes you think you can hear him crying with his lips)
He breaks the kiss, wrapping his hands behind your neck and pressing your foreheads together. You make sure your eyes are closed (you touch your eyelids to make sure) and rub your noses together affectionately.
“I love you,” he tells you with an exhausted sigh as you pick him up, swaying him gently in the air. He hates it, you know, yet lately he hasn’t made any objections. He doesn’t object as he wraps his legs around your hips, you placing a hand to the small of his back to support him, lips gently brushing his neck as you spin around, standing on one foot as you feel the airstream.
You chuckle slightly, keeping that smile on your lips as you toss him to the air gently, keeping a hold of his wrist as you spin him around too, ending up with your backs pressed against each others. He leans his head back to rest on your shoulder as you take hold of each others’ hands and start going down, backs tightly pressed against each others.
“Things haven’t changed all that much, Jin. We can live like we used to, you can live like you used to,” he tells you as you lower down to your knees and you spin around, wrapping your arms around him and rubbing the sides of your faces together sensually as you pull him backwards closer to you until you’re both lying on the floor.
He likes telling those pretty lies to you.
You like believing in them.
You caress his face with your thumbs, smiling gently at him as you rub his warm, dry and chopped lip with your finger. You reach out for your pocket and take out a lip balm, handing it over to him. He sighs, wondering if you even properly listened to him as he takes it from your hand. You can hear him putting it on his lips and lean forwards to smooch him, the smile tucking your lips again.
“Better, right?” you ask him and fluff his hair. He makes an agreeing sound, still worried as he lies properly down on you.
“Come to bed, Jin. Let’s dance more tomorrow,” he repeats his request. You can feel his breath on your face (his is warmer than yours, of that you are sure) and the gentle movement of his chest as he breathes. You wrap your arms around his lower back as you sit up again, him on your lap and kiss his chin, your coordination failing as you aimed for his lips. But he doesn’t have to know that.
(He still loves you - and that’s the worst)
“I see the stars,” you tell him and entwine your fingers, bending your neck back, that wide, wide and pure smile on your face as you look upwards. “They’re very beautiful tonight.”
He sighs, pressing his forehead on your shoulder. You let out a somewhat loud laughter and force his face upwards. “Go on, look! They’re pretty, aren’t they?”
(He loves the stars, for they never leave him. Unlike you)
Kame never answers to you, you note grumpily and purse your lips, kissing his chin again. You rock his light form on your lap and keep smiling, smiling as you look upwards.
You can look, yes. Because you’re gazing at the stars - wouldn’t it be ridiculous to keep them close when you’re doing that? They’re pretty, you have to see them.
The cold, white tiled floor doesn’t matter when you’re looking at the stars with Kame. One day you will see a shooting star, of that you are sure, you will see a shooting star and you will both wish upon it.
And because you both wish for the same thing, the cruel mathematics will step in (two negatives equal a positive, you recall, so in some weird, universal way it must go the other way too) and the wish will shatter upon your eyes.
And he will cry, he will cry those hot tears that gently trip on your cheeks as if they’d be yours. And you two will be one.
(Twinkle, twinkle little star…)
You don’t realise you’ve said the words, singing so quietly it’s barely catchable. Your voice is soft, soft, sorrowful and tragically crying out in pain as you sing, your lips trembling as you caress his soft locks gently. He turns to look at your face, but you turn him so that he’s sitting between your legs, his back against your chest as you both gaze up at the stars.
“How I wonder where you are...” you continue, eyes stinging. You can hear him sniff as his fist hesitantly clenches around the fabric of your jeans. You hear him swallow, and just for a while you wish to press your lips on his neck as he did that, feel the workings of his throat with your sensitive lips, burning the sensations in your memory.
You have time for that later. But now it’s just the two of you, sitting there on the stupid, white tiled floor and gazing up at the stars. And you’re sure it’s never been that beautiful before, nor will it ever be.
(Maybe he doesn’t agree, but this isn’t about him, you remind yourself)
“Up above the world so high,” he joins your singing. And you can tell that he’s at the verge of crying. For your stupidity? Possibly, very, very possibly.
He hates that about you, but he loves and admires it.
(He can’t break it, he can’t take it from you - for that is what’s still keeping you alive)
“Like a diamond in the sky,” you sing more confidently, running your lips on his ear and breathing to it gently. You can feel him shiver, shiver and turn a few millimetres to you as he unclenches his fist and leaves it gently lying on your thigh.
He’s beautiful, you remind yourself over and over again. He’s beautiful and you’ve never seen anything like him, nor will you ever do that again.
He’s the most beautiful sight you will ever remember until his face fades away and becomes something you’ll desperately try to create by touching his face, running your fingertips over it over and over again as your hands shake.
But the shades, colours and shapes are slowly blurring and mixing, painting a whole new image all on their own. And it can never be as beautiful.
But as long as you remember how beautiful he is, it’s alright.
You don’t have to remember him - just that he was the most beautiful sight you had ever seen.
(he was your last)
“Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder where you are,” you finish hoarsely, a few tears gently dripping (drip, drip, drip, drip you hear) to the back of his neck. You trace your lips down it, feeling them on your lips, tasting them gently with your tongue and kissing them away.
And he stays quiet as he gets up on his feet, you feel and hear, leaning down to wrap his fingers firmly around your wrists as he pulls you up again.
You two don’t sleep that night. You dance under the stars.
He cries an ocean for you.
But it won’t change it.
BLIND.
(because he will always be there, you know)