fic: Yellow Gold
(You’re on hibernation)
--
Rose scent follows you. It’s a layer on your swollen tongue, it’s thick, it’s there. Breathing goes with mouth open, breathing goes in small and heavy doses. Vodka doesn’t get it down, harsh doesn’t do.
It’s a battle of oil and water. Rose oil - and water doesn’t stand a chance.
Snapping sound of fingernails next to your ear - and you’re out. Black fingernails scratch below your ear and your breathing comes out ragged, overdosed. Violent shush (draught sound) comes from between your clenched teeth you show but the numbing is there.
You were far out already.
You collapse forward in a dream-state and your lips violently hit the bare skin, hit the skin-taste, shoulder skin-bones. Arms snake around your shoulders and you are held as the world spins, dances, rapid and swift movements, a modern dance. You’re between the waves, Moses’ pathway, what-the-hell-ever.
Fingers dance in your neck, sensations, hair tickles your shoulders, cheek, chin, your mouth is open as you turn towards it and the skin-taste is there.
Lips move on your lips and you weakly take a hand, you weakly hold a hand. Everything else spins.
He removes his other arm from around your shoulders.
You fall back. World stays.
(He won’t take the sleepy hibernation-you)
--
“Jin.”
Fifth glass, fifth bubbly chirpy-chirpy-trip. You’re dosing on liquids and your senses melt away into a speed-spiral. Make-up in one eye stares at you. One eye doesn’t need any.
“You’re not a bird,” he continues with a voice that almost dares not to speak. His voice sounds like you feel. Thus, you are his voice. You’re not a bird.
You smile to yourself and sway where you’re seated, chuckling quietly as your forehead hits the counter. You hear the distant swallow, the gulping sound his throat makes and an exhausted sniff. Calves cold.
He licks his lips and stands on his feet, turned at you. You play a little melody with your fingernails against the counter. He probably doesn’t hear it. Music is too loud, bass goes boom, your heart vibrates. Throat follows.
“I’m not going along with this,” he tells you and feelings have left his voice. He never talks straight, nor does he so now. Authenticity has long left his voice from where he used to be genuine. His voice is your senses now. As incoherent and shut off as you are.
Rattle. Chair-sound. Kame takes your keys from your pocket and you try to slur a sound of refusal, but don’t bother to oblige. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet. Your knees threaten to give in and you grasp a strong grip of him.
“Please do,” you whisper quietly, desperately. You bury your face in his neck, rosy skin-taste, and shudder. He pushes you away gently but wraps your arm around his shoulders to carry you out better. There are limitations and no’s, there are reputations and choreographies you must follow.
“With you like that, no,” he answers you as he carries you to the car and tosses you to the back seat. You crawl in better and lie down, not bothering with seatbelts. Fuck safety. You’re sure a full-stop would switch your brains permanently off anyway. Safety isn’t needed.
Slam. He’s on the driver’s seat. He spared almost all the trips to highlands. He can.
“I want skin-taste,” you demand with a slurred voice and the world spins. Nausea. Kame doesn’t answer.
(The two of you get hit by hibernation)
--
“I miss you,” you tell him one day as you sit in the car after work in a quiet parking lot. He fishes a cigarette from his pack and lets his hair fall on his face. Sometimes it feels as if your voice had been switched off with a remote, with some silly buttons. He has your throat.
Kame lights the cigarette, still ever-so-silent. You open the window for him to blow the smoke out of and he leans against it, further away from you. You feel stupid as you sit there, tipsy. Your fingers keep rapidly tapping the wheel.
He scrapes black nail polish from his fingernails and smoke comes from his nostrils in a curious little swirl. Your eyes start to water and you keep rapidly blinking. You wipe your nose and sniff.
Silence is golden, fuck the shit. Silence is acid was more fitting.
“It can’t be that hard,” you tell him angrily. He lets out a short noise, almost laughter but with no notable hint of amusement. Quiet and, soon, dead.
“It just doesn’t suit you,” he tells you and draws more smoke in his lungs, fragile lungs. Your gaze is cast down and your world threatens to fall over. Dizzy. You clench your fist and teeth, throwing your head back a little. Anger.
“It’s not for you, Jin. The form of the relationship we can have. It tires you,” he tells you, turning to you again. “So I think we should drop it.”
Calm, emotionless, cold. Kame has different methods than you, Kame doesn’t have to dizzify himself, Kame never does. He switches things off.
(You have ceased to understand which method is more fatal)
“I want you,” you tell him. “Make me happy.”
His eyes turn at you and you see a golden shower and it’s warm. But it’s only in his eyes.
Kame bites his lip and licks it slowly, turning his face away. He drops the cigarette from the window. His breather is liar-breathing. Back-holding, hold-outing. You take his hand. Hesitant, puppy-like movement. Gentle. You lean to him and bury your head in his shoulder. Dizzy.
“…I want the best for you,” he tells you slowly, considerately. And he’s holding back, frozen where he sits. Tired, small, frozen trembles, you sense them.
Sometimes breathing is the only sound you hear. Sometimes you cease to hear.
“I want what I want,” you answer him and wrap your arms around him. “I love you.”
His hesitant touches caress your hair and finally he rests his head on yours, breathes in your scent. You’ve enticed him.
Arms wrap themselves around you. And then the desperation hits you and you start crying, climbing on his lap. You keep holding each other close, harder, please just closer and more.
(The world is on hibernation)
--
Rose scent follows you. It’s a layer on your swollen tongue, it’s thick, it’s there. Breathing goes with mouth open, breathing goes in small and heavy doses. Vodka doesn’t get it down, harsh doesn’t do.
It’s a battle of oil and water. Rose oil - and water doesn’t stand a chance.
Snapping sound of fingernails next to your ear - and you’re out. Black fingernails scratch below your ear and your breathing comes out ragged, overdosed. Violent shush (draught sound) comes from between your clenched teeth you show but the numbing is there.
You were far out already.
You collapse forward in a dream-state and your lips violently hit the bare skin, hit the skin-taste, shoulder skin-bones. Arms snake around your shoulders and you are held as the world spins, dances, rapid and swift movements, a modern dance. You’re between the waves, Moses’ pathway, what-the-hell-ever.
Fingers dance in your neck, sensations, hair tickles your shoulders, cheek, chin, your mouth is open as you turn towards it and the skin-taste is there.
Lips move on your lips and you weakly take a hand, you weakly hold a hand. Everything else spins.
He removes his other arm from around your shoulders.
You fall back. World stays.
(He won’t take the sleepy hibernation-you)
--
“Jin.”
Fifth glass, fifth bubbly chirpy-chirpy-trip. You’re dosing on liquids and your senses melt away into a speed-spiral. Make-up in one eye stares at you. One eye doesn’t need any.
“You’re not a bird,” he continues with a voice that almost dares not to speak. His voice sounds like you feel. Thus, you are his voice. You’re not a bird.
You smile to yourself and sway where you’re seated, chuckling quietly as your forehead hits the counter. You hear the distant swallow, the gulping sound his throat makes and an exhausted sniff. Calves cold.
He licks his lips and stands on his feet, turned at you. You play a little melody with your fingernails against the counter. He probably doesn’t hear it. Music is too loud, bass goes boom, your heart vibrates. Throat follows.
“I’m not going along with this,” he tells you and feelings have left his voice. He never talks straight, nor does he so now. Authenticity has long left his voice from where he used to be genuine. His voice is your senses now. As incoherent and shut off as you are.
Rattle. Chair-sound. Kame takes your keys from your pocket and you try to slur a sound of refusal, but don’t bother to oblige. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet. Your knees threaten to give in and you grasp a strong grip of him.
“Please do,” you whisper quietly, desperately. You bury your face in his neck, rosy skin-taste, and shudder. He pushes you away gently but wraps your arm around his shoulders to carry you out better. There are limitations and no’s, there are reputations and choreographies you must follow.
“With you like that, no,” he answers you as he carries you to the car and tosses you to the back seat. You crawl in better and lie down, not bothering with seatbelts. Fuck safety. You’re sure a full-stop would switch your brains permanently off anyway. Safety isn’t needed.
Slam. He’s on the driver’s seat. He spared almost all the trips to highlands. He can.
“I want skin-taste,” you demand with a slurred voice and the world spins. Nausea. Kame doesn’t answer.
(The two of you get hit by hibernation)
--
“I miss you,” you tell him one day as you sit in the car after work in a quiet parking lot. He fishes a cigarette from his pack and lets his hair fall on his face. Sometimes it feels as if your voice had been switched off with a remote, with some silly buttons. He has your throat.
Kame lights the cigarette, still ever-so-silent. You open the window for him to blow the smoke out of and he leans against it, further away from you. You feel stupid as you sit there, tipsy. Your fingers keep rapidly tapping the wheel.
He scrapes black nail polish from his fingernails and smoke comes from his nostrils in a curious little swirl. Your eyes start to water and you keep rapidly blinking. You wipe your nose and sniff.
Silence is golden, fuck the shit. Silence is acid was more fitting.
“It can’t be that hard,” you tell him angrily. He lets out a short noise, almost laughter but with no notable hint of amusement. Quiet and, soon, dead.
“It just doesn’t suit you,” he tells you and draws more smoke in his lungs, fragile lungs. Your gaze is cast down and your world threatens to fall over. Dizzy. You clench your fist and teeth, throwing your head back a little. Anger.
“It’s not for you, Jin. The form of the relationship we can have. It tires you,” he tells you, turning to you again. “So I think we should drop it.”
Calm, emotionless, cold. Kame has different methods than you, Kame doesn’t have to dizzify himself, Kame never does. He switches things off.
(You have ceased to understand which method is more fatal)
“I want you,” you tell him. “Make me happy.”
His eyes turn at you and you see a golden shower and it’s warm. But it’s only in his eyes.
Kame bites his lip and licks it slowly, turning his face away. He drops the cigarette from the window. His breather is liar-breathing. Back-holding, hold-outing. You take his hand. Hesitant, puppy-like movement. Gentle. You lean to him and bury your head in his shoulder. Dizzy.
“…I want the best for you,” he tells you slowly, considerately. And he’s holding back, frozen where he sits. Tired, small, frozen trembles, you sense them.
Sometimes breathing is the only sound you hear. Sometimes you cease to hear.
“I want what I want,” you answer him and wrap your arms around him. “I love you.”
His hesitant touches caress your hair and finally he rests his head on yours, breathes in your scent. You’ve enticed him.
Arms wrap themselves around you. And then the desperation hits you and you start crying, climbing on his lap. You keep holding each other close, harder, please just closer and more.
(The world is on hibernation)