polyrhythm [4/100]
polyrhythm
four. chocolate
Yesung's skin feels different, some weight curving against his arm.
"I -" he's facing Shindong, and his eyes are strangely short of blank, something floating on the tips of his fingers, so temptingly close to his hand. He wants to snatch that feeling, shove it into his heart, teach it to understand thoughts. Oh, he knows desire, yes. But he doesn't remember that desire is new.
Along the curve of his cheekbone, his nails sink down, and suddenly -
The hand of the creator teaches him pain.
He's screaming in his mind, and in that instant, he learns that too. His mouth is closed, not even striving to open, but the throbs of the nerves of his mind are screaming along their new-blazed paths.
The tips of his nails are quick to score his skin.
His blind eyes -
They're wide, set almost-deep, painfully black against the white. It's a fine constrast, carefully shaped, the slight sway and dip of the corners. He looks down, and the motion is smooth, cords tightening under his skin, the set of his head held regally curved. Blood rushes through, bit by bit, almost as though controlled personally. But it's not, only caused by the motions of set machines; renewable life, that grows again and again, completely free of exhaustion.
A perfect creation.
"I -" Yesung whispers, and his voice is dipping, trembling.
Shindong looks at him, his gaze empty, and his arms are around Yesung, heavy against his hipbone, and Yesung's hands are tiny before the expanse of flesh, and they're kissing, simply because it's all that's habit.
Yesung's drawing back, away from the wet kisses, the warmth in his mouth expanding -
He's back, his spine arched just so.
It's a new world, rough-hewn, mystery in the actions of the creator. Logic is - well, it hasn't been created yet, has it? Sliding down Shindong's arm-
Yesung slips his fingers in, and it's warm, and sticky -
He glances at his fingers, so warm, warm, warm, such a new feeling. There's no wonder in his gaze, trapped in the present. It only is, the warmth clinging to his tips. He's lifting his fingers, the arc of his wrist cutting into the nothingness, and something -
Some hand grasps his, and carries his fingers into his mouth, leaving the eyes to strain downward for a sight of his own actions. They snap down -
And the taste is sweet, a faceted texture on his tongue.
He's blinking, a heavy pressure hanging off his lashes.
His fingers slide badly, too coated.
They're kissing again, and his knuckle is warm against the junction of thigh to pelvis.
Flesh is brushing flesh, hotly, when Yesung realizes -
He doesn't know this person whose hands are upon him -
He doesn't know where he is -
He doesn't know what he is -
Lost, he breathes a quick short spurt, and sinks back into the pit of sensation, and goes back to shoving in blindly. There's cum draped over his torso, and their limbs are swirled together, familiar even for those who aren't strangers, wet and limp and the feelings are limpid in their nothingness.
The sun rises, its light a slender slice through the nothing.
He catches a short beam in his finger, running straight down. He's rotating his hand, meticulously, just watching the tread of the light, when, quickly, he glances at the sun, his eyes not knowing that they should be damaged. The beam slides away from the perfect unwavering center, and he's staring, his fingers curled short against his leg -
And he wakes up.
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