(kiwoon) pluto
title: pluto
author: somsatang
pairing: kiwoon (kikwang/dongwoon)
rating: pg-13 (implied sex)
author's notes: disjointed. bad verb tenses. the usual. i had an idea, but i didn't go exactly as i had planned. :( hopefully it's readable? i don't know too much about space, so i kinda stuck shit in there i thought fit. i have another fic in the works, but this one was done just to waste time. (huhuhu, what is homework?!)
pluto;
and let me listen to you talk about
your dreams and your obsessions
i'll be quiet and confessional
the violets explode inside me
when i meet your eyes
then i'm spinning and i'm diving
like a cloud of starlings
elbow - starlings
At the age of eighteen, Kikwang’s dream of being an astronaut fell through.
He stopped seeing the constellations behind his lids when pressing his eyes to his fists, the Milky Way weaving through colored hoops in a spherical formation, reddened comets rolling across a spacial white plate. There were alabaster frames on the walls where glow-in-the-dark stars were torn (avoiding mother's subtleties and prying hands), leaving only a disgruntled Galileo to chastise him through olive painted strokes. Despite his father's apologetic and apothecarial approach to pre-determined higher education, he feigned joy, ignoring the obvious lack of "NASA" illustrated on his new glossy green guidebook.
"Astronomy Club" consisted of six heavy-set girls who snapped multi-colored chewing gum loudly, comparing this week's astrological sign charts to the prior and next. One insisted on complimenting (rather, suggesting the removal of) the cobalt of his sweater vest, effectively sending him into the hall in nervousness and sweating palms. Words exchanged that he wore "nerdy" vests, was terrified of the (desperate, annoying, rounded) doubled X gender, and was undoubtedly a loser. Though he had remembered a "loser" being someone who did not win anything-after all, it was what his second grade encyclopedia explained-others saw the definition quite differently, and like the last 12 years of his life he had been shelved into a lonesome, unpopulated planet. This time, being the Faculty of Science.
In every sense of the meaning, he had been grounded.
There are never any seats in the library on Thursdays. Whether it be the broken state of his Buzz Lightyear alarm, or sheer inopportune fortune, he always found himself standing pressed against the shelving for “New Books” and “Vampire Novels”. Scratched and worn mathematical equations stayed curled under yarn-covered forearms, splayed over a year-old textbook. Kikwang allows his eyes to fall shut, but he still can’t see the tiny balls of lights, though they blanket every line of his texts and research. There’s such difference between numbers, speculation, and the real thing.
“Are you looking for a seat?”
A spring ago, he got to see Ursa Major in the sky-it was unexpected to see him again now, curved along the dip of a nose. Before him stood some kind of quintessential entity with (presumably) unwashed golden locks and a rumpled plaid button-down. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, “My friends are over there. You could join us-i-if you’d like, that is.” The other's words are slow, the corner of his mouth seemingly gesturing toward a group of rambunctious boys, busy reenacting Medieval sword fights with pen and brush.
“No, it’s okay.” His gaze doesn't meet the responding apologetic look.
“Well if you change your mind, we’ll be there. We’re art students-we don’t bite!” The boy calls from over a broad shoulder, shuffling toward the chaos with his own fountain pen in hand. Kikwang pauses to watch quizzically, almost missing the jovial trivialities of play. He sunk to the slate carpet below, ballpoint tracing out diameters, parameters, and centimeters.
His mother was an art major. She believed his interests in plasmatic spheres hovering in a universe above were in vain; life was whatever one could see in front of their face, feel, taste, or touch. Surely, her mouth would fall agape knowing Kikwang had found the distinct connection between this belief and his own.
It was too bad that he let him leave.
But he did not stay devoid of his presence for long.
This unnamed celestial body came mounted upon a nightmare, trampling half-dreamt offers of caffeinated beverages and “doing homework” together (he read girls enjoyed such things-would he partake in this happiness also?). A modern day Cassiopeia spent his nights draped over Kikwang's astrophysics papers, indulging in drugstore European chocolates and stories of himself, never leaving the mirrors of the redhead's eyes. There's nothing attractive about his sometimes sallowed skin, the protrusions he calls hips and ribs, the alcohol that makes the air around them heavy and warm; but Kikwang gives into what he desires, insisting he's beautiful-worth more than the late nights, limbs tangled up with junkies and jocks.
“I guess he wasn’t the right one for you.” The intellect would respond to his inquiries, eraser gnawed right to a nub between biting edges of teeth. “I guess I’ll just have to find another one. You’re the one who knows all about stars-There’s a lot of them up in the sky, right?” The blonde laughed, taking another bite out of a powdered confection.
So he found another. And another.
A true astronomer.
Dongwoon moves onto his second year. He still doesn’t understand Kikwang’s infatuation with chemicals and calculations, giant balls in the sky, Greek names and poorly designed stellar animals (he could draw them much better-he just needs to ask). He doesn’t understand why he walks to meet him in the university laboratory and he’s always alone, oversized frames fogged from bubbling orange concoctions and tiny azure flames; why when the other stands at the doors of the studio, and he’s always with someone else, lips locked tightly together like holding a secret between. "No one knows my secrets, anyway." The art student thinks, rubbing a thumb over a charcoal smile.
“My professor liked the painting. He gave it an A+.” He explained, smoothing the edges of the canvas down fondly. It was an idyllic scene-grass, flora, every shade of nature on the color wheel. Kikwang liked it. He was used to observing blacks and purples dotted with white, but he was convinced there was life on Mars. This is what he'd hoped it looked like. “It’s nice.”
“You were alone in the labs-“ Changing the subject abruptly, “-are you often alone?” Blunt.
Orange liquid spills over the top of the vial, “I don’t have time for people. My work is very demanding.”
“But you have time for me.”
He wants to open Dongwoon's sketchbook, use his bitten pencil to explain dopamine. It ravages his common sense. Dongwoon is a flavor that doesn’t appeal to him. He’s reckless, narcissistic, gives his heart (his body) out too easily; Kikwang likes quiet, long words, numbers for answers. But he’s addicted. Passionate. He wished the other understood why he’s ventured so far from his shuttle without oxygen, swirling in the void and lights of Son Dongwoon. He doesn’t though.
So he doesn’t tell him.
Kikwang stood outside the dorm building, embraced in layers of cable-knit scarves and matching sweaters. It wasn't long until Dongwoon sauntered out, worn jeans zipped but unbuttoned, his choppy hair the only other evidence of being thrown against a cheap mattress. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” His smile was crooked, “But you always see me like this. Don’t you?” No questions about the implications of his words left the bespectacled boy (he saw many things, “cheap and slutty”, he couldn’t recall). He lets him pound fists through the shields of his coat, catches the weight of his taller frame before it came crumbling to the softer snow. “He said I was handsome …” Murmurs left upturned lips, icy hands running paths from the other’s shoulders to close the universe sized distance of their hands. Through the fabric of his mittens he could feel the engulfing flame-the one that drew in moths and other spineless creatures (now including himself).
He’s bright like a supernova. But they’re self-destructive. Explosions-not stars.
The dorms on the other side of campus are quaint. Jubilant designs of cherubs, fleur-de-lis, and braided vines decorate the archways, hugging narrow hallways colored in sepia luminance. This is the kind of place he expected Dongwoon to inhabit. Gorgeous, little room for anything else, full of a designer's deepest secrets. A door at the end is home to a rectangular white board, numbers and names ("doojoon" from drama class with an extra digit, a "junhyung" from chemistry) drawn drunkenly across it. It closes behind him.
Pillows are soft, they smell like deodorant, hair wax, and instant ramyun. The skin beneath his threadbare tee is hot and sticky, and he mimics the syrupy texture against the underside of Kikwang’s jaw. "Your smile is so beautiful," Dongwoon states between soft nips and teethes, words slurred along the edges, "I don't know why I try to forget it."
It was as if meteors showered the spaces between his bones and heart, spreading a kind of warmth he had never felt from any fraternal (it had to be beyond that) relationship before. He's finical, covering bare skin (he's never had reason to feel comfortable in it), squirming when the other's fingers and tongue touched spots he hadn't even read of in books. Dongwoon's eyes were comparable to black holes, unnerving, and he worked sloppily but efficaciously at swallowing whines and moans. "Stop fighting it," The blonde whispers, "Just let me." And so he does.
His glasses are folded on the night table beside them. It's okay, though. He didn't want to be able to see the mistakes happening beneath Dongwoon's quilt.
Buzz Lightyear doesn't have to wake him the next morning. He's aching from head to thighs, a cold lump dividing his throat and stomach, allowing frostbite to creep through arteries and capillaries. This numbness keeps him in bed for hours, timing minutes with the other's purring breaths, the constant tickle of his chemically lightened strands. The blonde is sleeping on top of his undershirt so he doesn't take it (confrontation was the last thing on his mind), and he toes his way carefully from the futon to the door, mindful of a possible waking state. Kikwang misses the sketches and watercolors laid neatly on the desk adjacent. Planets, stars, and a smiling boy with outstretched hands.
Students are gathered on a leathered couch outside, drinking soda and chattering when Kikwang steps by. They look quizzically at him-sighing once they take in his disheveled appearance-preaching short apologies under their breath with clasped hands.
How many others had taken the walk of shame before him?
They decide to have lunch in the nearby coffee shop. Dongwoon compares the drinks to "shit", but Kikwang likes the herbs they use in their soups. Folding his body into itself, Dongwoon grumbled obscenities, clutching the edges of the table as if he were falling.
"Rough night?" Kikwang asked. He wasn't going to pull off a Roman inquisition (maybe to save his own heart), but was curious to see what the younger remembered. Without response, he shrugged, bringing his spoon back to his lips.
A nod lifted the blonde's head, "Yeah. It's funny, I was trying to forget someone," He swished the taupe liquid in its cup before pouring another insurmountable heaping of sugar inside, "It worked. I guess. But I barely remember who I was forgetting them with." Kikwang sees a nebula of red crescents across his arm, the purple he tried to hide with a furred hood. Subconsciously he presses a palm against his matching violet plume, chalking up the faltering tone in Dongwoon's usual lilt to a malicious hangover.
He laughed. They laughed.
But neither could find the humor.
author: somsatang
pairing: kiwoon (kikwang/dongwoon)
rating: pg-13 (implied sex)
author's notes: disjointed. bad verb tenses. the usual. i had an idea, but i didn't go exactly as i had planned. :( hopefully it's readable? i don't know too much about space, so i kinda stuck shit in there i thought fit. i have another fic in the works, but this one was done just to waste time. (huhuhu, what is homework?!)
pluto;
and let me listen to you talk about
your dreams and your obsessions
i'll be quiet and confessional
the violets explode inside me
when i meet your eyes
then i'm spinning and i'm diving
like a cloud of starlings
elbow - starlings
At the age of eighteen, Kikwang’s dream of being an astronaut fell through.
He stopped seeing the constellations behind his lids when pressing his eyes to his fists, the Milky Way weaving through colored hoops in a spherical formation, reddened comets rolling across a spacial white plate. There were alabaster frames on the walls where glow-in-the-dark stars were torn (avoiding mother's subtleties and prying hands), leaving only a disgruntled Galileo to chastise him through olive painted strokes. Despite his father's apologetic and apothecarial approach to pre-determined higher education, he feigned joy, ignoring the obvious lack of "NASA" illustrated on his new glossy green guidebook.
"Astronomy Club" consisted of six heavy-set girls who snapped multi-colored chewing gum loudly, comparing this week's astrological sign charts to the prior and next. One insisted on complimenting (rather, suggesting the removal of) the cobalt of his sweater vest, effectively sending him into the hall in nervousness and sweating palms. Words exchanged that he wore "nerdy" vests, was terrified of the (desperate, annoying, rounded) doubled X gender, and was undoubtedly a loser. Though he had remembered a "loser" being someone who did not win anything-after all, it was what his second grade encyclopedia explained-others saw the definition quite differently, and like the last 12 years of his life he had been shelved into a lonesome, unpopulated planet. This time, being the Faculty of Science.
In every sense of the meaning, he had been grounded.
There are never any seats in the library on Thursdays. Whether it be the broken state of his Buzz Lightyear alarm, or sheer inopportune fortune, he always found himself standing pressed against the shelving for “New Books” and “Vampire Novels”. Scratched and worn mathematical equations stayed curled under yarn-covered forearms, splayed over a year-old textbook. Kikwang allows his eyes to fall shut, but he still can’t see the tiny balls of lights, though they blanket every line of his texts and research. There’s such difference between numbers, speculation, and the real thing.
“Are you looking for a seat?”
A spring ago, he got to see Ursa Major in the sky-it was unexpected to see him again now, curved along the dip of a nose. Before him stood some kind of quintessential entity with (presumably) unwashed golden locks and a rumpled plaid button-down. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, “My friends are over there. You could join us-i-if you’d like, that is.” The other's words are slow, the corner of his mouth seemingly gesturing toward a group of rambunctious boys, busy reenacting Medieval sword fights with pen and brush.
“No, it’s okay.” His gaze doesn't meet the responding apologetic look.
“Well if you change your mind, we’ll be there. We’re art students-we don’t bite!” The boy calls from over a broad shoulder, shuffling toward the chaos with his own fountain pen in hand. Kikwang pauses to watch quizzically, almost missing the jovial trivialities of play. He sunk to the slate carpet below, ballpoint tracing out diameters, parameters, and centimeters.
His mother was an art major. She believed his interests in plasmatic spheres hovering in a universe above were in vain; life was whatever one could see in front of their face, feel, taste, or touch. Surely, her mouth would fall agape knowing Kikwang had found the distinct connection between this belief and his own.
It was too bad that he let him leave.
But he did not stay devoid of his presence for long.
This unnamed celestial body came mounted upon a nightmare, trampling half-dreamt offers of caffeinated beverages and “doing homework” together (he read girls enjoyed such things-would he partake in this happiness also?). A modern day Cassiopeia spent his nights draped over Kikwang's astrophysics papers, indulging in drugstore European chocolates and stories of himself, never leaving the mirrors of the redhead's eyes. There's nothing attractive about his sometimes sallowed skin, the protrusions he calls hips and ribs, the alcohol that makes the air around them heavy and warm; but Kikwang gives into what he desires, insisting he's beautiful-worth more than the late nights, limbs tangled up with junkies and jocks.
“I guess he wasn’t the right one for you.” The intellect would respond to his inquiries, eraser gnawed right to a nub between biting edges of teeth. “I guess I’ll just have to find another one. You’re the one who knows all about stars-There’s a lot of them up in the sky, right?” The blonde laughed, taking another bite out of a powdered confection.
So he found another. And another.
A true astronomer.
Dongwoon moves onto his second year. He still doesn’t understand Kikwang’s infatuation with chemicals and calculations, giant balls in the sky, Greek names and poorly designed stellar animals (he could draw them much better-he just needs to ask). He doesn’t understand why he walks to meet him in the university laboratory and he’s always alone, oversized frames fogged from bubbling orange concoctions and tiny azure flames; why when the other stands at the doors of the studio, and he’s always with someone else, lips locked tightly together like holding a secret between. "No one knows my secrets, anyway." The art student thinks, rubbing a thumb over a charcoal smile.
“My professor liked the painting. He gave it an A+.” He explained, smoothing the edges of the canvas down fondly. It was an idyllic scene-grass, flora, every shade of nature on the color wheel. Kikwang liked it. He was used to observing blacks and purples dotted with white, but he was convinced there was life on Mars. This is what he'd hoped it looked like. “It’s nice.”
“You were alone in the labs-“ Changing the subject abruptly, “-are you often alone?” Blunt.
Orange liquid spills over the top of the vial, “I don’t have time for people. My work is very demanding.”
“But you have time for me.”
He wants to open Dongwoon's sketchbook, use his bitten pencil to explain dopamine. It ravages his common sense. Dongwoon is a flavor that doesn’t appeal to him. He’s reckless, narcissistic, gives his heart (his body) out too easily; Kikwang likes quiet, long words, numbers for answers. But he’s addicted. Passionate. He wished the other understood why he’s ventured so far from his shuttle without oxygen, swirling in the void and lights of Son Dongwoon. He doesn’t though.
So he doesn’t tell him.
Kikwang stood outside the dorm building, embraced in layers of cable-knit scarves and matching sweaters. It wasn't long until Dongwoon sauntered out, worn jeans zipped but unbuttoned, his choppy hair the only other evidence of being thrown against a cheap mattress. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” His smile was crooked, “But you always see me like this. Don’t you?” No questions about the implications of his words left the bespectacled boy (he saw many things, “cheap and slutty”, he couldn’t recall). He lets him pound fists through the shields of his coat, catches the weight of his taller frame before it came crumbling to the softer snow. “He said I was handsome …” Murmurs left upturned lips, icy hands running paths from the other’s shoulders to close the universe sized distance of their hands. Through the fabric of his mittens he could feel the engulfing flame-the one that drew in moths and other spineless creatures (now including himself).
He’s bright like a supernova. But they’re self-destructive. Explosions-not stars.
The dorms on the other side of campus are quaint. Jubilant designs of cherubs, fleur-de-lis, and braided vines decorate the archways, hugging narrow hallways colored in sepia luminance. This is the kind of place he expected Dongwoon to inhabit. Gorgeous, little room for anything else, full of a designer's deepest secrets. A door at the end is home to a rectangular white board, numbers and names ("doojoon" from drama class with an extra digit, a "junhyung" from chemistry) drawn drunkenly across it. It closes behind him.
Pillows are soft, they smell like deodorant, hair wax, and instant ramyun. The skin beneath his threadbare tee is hot and sticky, and he mimics the syrupy texture against the underside of Kikwang’s jaw. "Your smile is so beautiful," Dongwoon states between soft nips and teethes, words slurred along the edges, "I don't know why I try to forget it."
It was as if meteors showered the spaces between his bones and heart, spreading a kind of warmth he had never felt from any fraternal (it had to be beyond that) relationship before. He's finical, covering bare skin (he's never had reason to feel comfortable in it), squirming when the other's fingers and tongue touched spots he hadn't even read of in books. Dongwoon's eyes were comparable to black holes, unnerving, and he worked sloppily but efficaciously at swallowing whines and moans. "Stop fighting it," The blonde whispers, "Just let me." And so he does.
His glasses are folded on the night table beside them. It's okay, though. He didn't want to be able to see the mistakes happening beneath Dongwoon's quilt.
Buzz Lightyear doesn't have to wake him the next morning. He's aching from head to thighs, a cold lump dividing his throat and stomach, allowing frostbite to creep through arteries and capillaries. This numbness keeps him in bed for hours, timing minutes with the other's purring breaths, the constant tickle of his chemically lightened strands. The blonde is sleeping on top of his undershirt so he doesn't take it (confrontation was the last thing on his mind), and he toes his way carefully from the futon to the door, mindful of a possible waking state. Kikwang misses the sketches and watercolors laid neatly on the desk adjacent. Planets, stars, and a smiling boy with outstretched hands.
Students are gathered on a leathered couch outside, drinking soda and chattering when Kikwang steps by. They look quizzically at him-sighing once they take in his disheveled appearance-preaching short apologies under their breath with clasped hands.
How many others had taken the walk of shame before him?
They decide to have lunch in the nearby coffee shop. Dongwoon compares the drinks to "shit", but Kikwang likes the herbs they use in their soups. Folding his body into itself, Dongwoon grumbled obscenities, clutching the edges of the table as if he were falling.
"Rough night?" Kikwang asked. He wasn't going to pull off a Roman inquisition (maybe to save his own heart), but was curious to see what the younger remembered. Without response, he shrugged, bringing his spoon back to his lips.
A nod lifted the blonde's head, "Yeah. It's funny, I was trying to forget someone," He swished the taupe liquid in its cup before pouring another insurmountable heaping of sugar inside, "It worked. I guess. But I barely remember who I was forgetting them with." Kikwang sees a nebula of red crescents across his arm, the purple he tried to hide with a furred hood. Subconsciously he presses a palm against his matching violet plume, chalking up the faltering tone in Dongwoon's usual lilt to a malicious hangover.
He laughed. They laughed.
But neither could find the humor.