&& serpentine

Her knees start to ache so she finds a spot in the corner to sit down, still sipping quietly at her water. As the silence ticks by, she’s at the end of her patience, and throws the liquid from her glass. It only takes moments for her to add to it’s volume, and a small flick of her wrist has it weakly shooting across the room, nothing more than a gentle splash against Jintae’s skin. It’s meant to be an annoyance, something to interrupt his training. And yet, while she has his attention, she’s hesitant to speak. Her gaze is focused on the floor, she can’t look him in the way, but she finally speaks, in a small voice.

“You should probably rest a little …”

he thinks simply and in extremes.

i. it's always all-or-nothing.

ii. putting your belief in something you cannot see, touch, smell, hear, nor taste is a foolish faith.

iii. there comes a time where moving on is pointless. you take yourself with you wherever you go.

he can't move on, so he doesn't; resigns himself to bitter blood. and it's been a little over a day since he's returned and the memories he's made haunt him by dusk and die just after dawn. it's when he's awake that he's not vulnerable. and so he's scared of sleep. by sleeping he's defenceless, and so help him god he can't face the demons he quickly crafted from brokenness.

allornothing, allornothing, allornothing. how do you live with yourself playing russian roulette to while away the days and always killing yourself off because of your impossible dreams?

he's awake, and so he does not think. he crafts delusions in the meantime to keep himself together. he ( they ) failed because of a minor ( major ) oversight and it wasn't a failure and in vain ( keep telling yourself that ) and it'll be fine ( the hell it will ).

today, he works hard. bound scars and bruises with bandages matter not. he beats on his instructor, releases the chaos and anger left dormant overnight with swings and punches and kicks that just graze skin. it frustrates him more. he works harder. through gritted teeth he's breathless, exhausted. he's stealing away energy that's not there - deserves to leave those cuts and bruises wounded. 

how could he be so careless? to let her down. let himself down. yes, how could he be so foolish to believe too, too greatly that he's a god among men.

there's no time to stretch his lungs. he hears the clock, swinging, swinging, ticking. like a gong crashing in his ear.

he sees hot red, feels cold blue. freezing in a stance, he rubs at and shakes off the droplets from his arm, catches sight of she whom he least wanted to confront. ( because she's the mirror of truth. she's a firefly burning bright in the night. and she's killed his light. )

he's still with tight fists when he frowns, relaxes stiff shoulders, and takes a greedy breath. the anger and seething red, red, red burns out when he comes over and kneels down in front of her. and he takes another breath because that's all he can do now to keep composed and not feed her his destruction so she may not ruin herself.

brows furrowed, he skims over her own bandages, bites at the inside of his cheek, “why are you here?”

it's hard to look up, let alone meet her gaze. it's coming to terms with yourself that failure is something to accept and learn from. yes, he acknowledges the failure and embraces that this isn't reality and he's still fast asleep. she should go away and not show her face around him.

“stop fucking,” he starts out, pushing the arcana to the other end of the maze, though the room between the two walls wasn’t enough either way before he continued on with “walking to damn close to me. i can hear your breathing and it’s starting to piss me off.”

it didn't matter how many days it's been. not when he's hungering for something more.

the walls are cold. goosebump flesh crawls down his fingers and up his arms, wraps around his spine and kisses his neck. he shivers. darkness swallows whole two figures wandering further and further into its embrace. should either of them shout out, their voices would carry for miles and die in the cracks of the walls.

through his laboured breathing is a string of wheezing ( and gasping for air when he punishes himself for self-suffocation. but it's not for naught, for he's onto something, someone, out there. they're trailing sounds behind them like blood droplets for him to come upon, and he's on their trail. )

“hey-” he grunts, stumbles back against the wall, and it once more kisses him cold and chaste, “you fucking.”

fight, fight. yes, good. that's what the walls whispered. you are a pawn in this game of chess. no one would lay witness to carnage in these shadows. and this is where secrets come to rest in a bed of the dead. it's then that his hand curls into a fist and he approaches the other male. no matter that he had to crane his neck to look jaehwa in the eye, he stood firm.

“believe me when i say you're the last one i wanna be stuck with,” turning away, ( he must not. he must not. it was a test. his fingers ached to splinter bone and trash the ground with shards, but he must not. ) and heaving a sigh, he let silence flood the halls again. nothing.

“go this way because i was trying to listen for something and you threw the trail off.”

may the corridors guide them in blindness, point the way with chills; lest they, too, walk between the cracks and die with lost voices. he grits his teeth and listens again, but the walls dare not speak.