Status: IDK man.
Body
Wanna keep you here, 'cause you dry my tears.
Light is something that is only ever synonymous with him. Though it existed far before him and will persist for eternities after he is gone, it will lose the intensity of its glare.
It is quiet aside from the muffled snores that escape him, buffered by the buried state of his face against the bare skin of an exposed chest, the bridge of his nose slotting perfectly into the crevice of a breastbone, arms lax and lazy in their embrace, fingers warm as they splay across shoulder blades, stroking every once in awhile, eliciting a contented shiver.
Fingers curl and twine through dark, messy locks, not attempting to smooth or tame their wild appearance, but rather to give an outlet for the absentmindedness a sleep-addled mind sometimes still holds.
The sun will never feel as warm as it does in this moment, filtering in through the blinds, which had long been forgotten in the heat of the press and pull of the night before, all rationale lost to want and desire.
Hindsight is 20/20, but to say that there isn’t a touch of disappointment at being rousted with the crest of the sunrise would be a downright lie. The desire to throw up an arm against the onslaught is great, but not as overwhelming as the cage of his body, flush and warm and encompassing, clinging as if at any moment he could float away, back into the heavens where he belongs.
And maybe one day he will.
As if on cue, as if the thought was somehow spoken aloud, he shifts, but only marginally, pressing his nose closer to the skin before nuzzling in, a noise caught somewhere between a sigh of recognition and a chirp of satisfaction escaping him, hands moving, fingers dragging against shoulder blades and arms tightening in an attempt to be closer. An impossibility, but nothing and no one is going to stop him from trying.
“Hoseok.” It comes out more like a squeak than a syllable, a test of the waters, as if giving him a name, admitting he’s real, will cause it all to unravel, will prove the opposite to be true.
The accused hums, deep in his throat, giving one last nuzzle before tilting his head back, eyes blinking closed against the light of day as he slides up along the mattress, moving to shield his face once more, finding sanctuary in the junction between neck and shoulder. His body weight is even more persistent and solid in this position, and it is almost as if he is trying his hardest to express his want to remain.
It’s too real, too close, too good.
Despite what the senses tell, despite each day beginning in a similar fashion, at some point the dream has to end, doesn’t it?
“Morning.”
Does it really matter if it does?
It’s debatable, when his voice is rasping through the silence, thick with sleep and pushed out between lazy chuckles. Hands find their way back to his hair and he lets out a satisfied sigh, lips finding their way to heated skin, and perhaps it doesn’t.
Perhaps, what matters in this moment is a breath. A smile. A rustling of the sheets and a shifting of the mattress. Words whispered into skin and the solid press of him.
And maybe that is more than enough.
It is quiet aside from the muffled snores that escape him, buffered by the buried state of his face against the bare skin of an exposed chest, the bridge of his nose slotting perfectly into the crevice of a breastbone, arms lax and lazy in their embrace, fingers warm as they splay across shoulder blades, stroking every once in awhile, eliciting a contented shiver.
Fingers curl and twine through dark, messy locks, not attempting to smooth or tame their wild appearance, but rather to give an outlet for the absentmindedness a sleep-addled mind sometimes still holds.
The sun will never feel as warm as it does in this moment, filtering in through the blinds, which had long been forgotten in the heat of the press and pull of the night before, all rationale lost to want and desire.
Hindsight is 20/20, but to say that there isn’t a touch of disappointment at being rousted with the crest of the sunrise would be a downright lie. The desire to throw up an arm against the onslaught is great, but not as overwhelming as the cage of his body, flush and warm and encompassing, clinging as if at any moment he could float away, back into the heavens where he belongs.
And maybe one day he will.
As if on cue, as if the thought was somehow spoken aloud, he shifts, but only marginally, pressing his nose closer to the skin before nuzzling in, a noise caught somewhere between a sigh of recognition and a chirp of satisfaction escaping him, hands moving, fingers dragging against shoulder blades and arms tightening in an attempt to be closer. An impossibility, but nothing and no one is going to stop him from trying.
“Hoseok.” It comes out more like a squeak than a syllable, a test of the waters, as if giving him a name, admitting he’s real, will cause it all to unravel, will prove the opposite to be true.
The accused hums, deep in his throat, giving one last nuzzle before tilting his head back, eyes blinking closed against the light of day as he slides up along the mattress, moving to shield his face once more, finding sanctuary in the junction between neck and shoulder. His body weight is even more persistent and solid in this position, and it is almost as if he is trying his hardest to express his want to remain.
It’s too real, too close, too good.
Despite what the senses tell, despite each day beginning in a similar fashion, at some point the dream has to end, doesn’t it?
“Morning.”
Does it really matter if it does?
It’s debatable, when his voice is rasping through the silence, thick with sleep and pushed out between lazy chuckles. Hands find their way back to his hair and he lets out a satisfied sigh, lips finding their way to heated skin, and perhaps it doesn’t.
Perhaps, what matters in this moment is a breath. A smile. A rustling of the sheets and a shifting of the mattress. Words whispered into skin and the solid press of him.
And maybe that is more than enough.
♠ ♠ ♠
*flings self into the nearest trash compactor*