beauty, terror.

since tumblr made my very explicit account (bec ballet and art???) totally private and i cannot change my icon to something other than a cone, i'd have to remake and archive this one.

i'll refollow everyone, ofc, and post the starter memes in the new account as well. that said, here's a tracker so u know i got ur msg 🐇 

@actwo

@illblooded

@consilian (i am eggcited!)

@asteraeis

replies for:

@heshidden

starters are still welcome and so are plots. i just haven't been able to message everyone to get things movin movin. for now, pls excuse the mess here.

“Open the door, please.”

as it was in the beginning, so shall it be in the end. 

at the elysian, they were first taught the art of falling and that trust only comes second to it. one must learn how to fall with grace, whether or not there were hands ready to catch and bear one’s weight. had it not been repeated to her one too many times? to not rely on another, that there will be no safety nets. trust can get broken so easily and is often too fragile to last.

perhaps that’s why it took her a while to trust jongin and why she continued to trust him despite the curiosities she has been observing. not wanting to admit that she had been wrong to do so. choosing the comfort of what she wants to believe over facing the unfamiliar, what he had been hiding from her all this time. 

it began with the cherubs, the fading frescoes which decorated their living room. he had been playing a new piece on the baby grand whilst she fought off the summer heat with a glass of wine. when she noticed the flutter of tiny wings, she thought she had been dreaming. but she saw it a second time, then a third; when she pointed it out to jongin, he merely laughed at her.

“no more wine for you. you’re starting to hallucinate.”

and perhaps she was, that time. but all the other instances? not quite.  

still, she trusted him. even after the thorns on her costume became as pointed as his words. in anger, she stormed off to her dressing room. once out of sight, she let it all fall. cocooning herself in layers of tulle, unable to control her body from trembling. she did not understand, but she did not question him either.

she'd find jongin waiting outside for her, hours after. hands offered up in lieu of words, which haneul accepts with only the slightest hesitation.

even now, his patience has not worn thin.

“i see him.” she responds softly, now perched by the open window. like a scene from a renoir, the man plays to an audience of night revelers. souls drawn to him like moths to a flame, their silhouettes glowing beneath the lamplight. the sight of which makes her heart ache. “it was in navigli, when you insisted that getting lost was our initiation to the city.” the man plays, missing notes here and there, but the melody remains inviting and soothing. she turns to the dark wood door, picturing jongin resting against it. 

she wants to tell him that they’d have more sleepless nights. more mornings walking around dazed and fatigued, but content. that there were plenty more hours to lose in museums, in all their simple pleasures. but she’s also weary of the illusions. 

for haneul, there’s only two kinds of waiting.

the first is one that’s filled with calm, no different from being seated by a window as rain continues to pour. waiting for the skies to turn blue again, content with the knowledge that it will do so after some time.

then there’s the other, marked with heaviness and restless hands that know not what to do with themselves. every exhale bears weight, while her thoughts scatter about in search of a place to hide.

she’s experienced the latter more times than she can count; perhaps far too much for someone her age. her body knows the beginnings of it all too well; the way it tenses. cold palms, dry mouth. something close to a feeling of illness, only abated by fleeting moments of clarity. when she reminds herself that this fear is all in her head.

it’s all in her head.

that’s the problem.

she floods the studio with light when she enters it, not leaving a single fluorescent unlit. the brighter, the better. the ballerina is expectant, waiting for her phone to chime, anticipating the message that would go along with it. a simple no, her offer being rejected– she wouldn’t be surprised, of course not. a piece of her remains unsure of why she had asked for this meeting in the first place. uncertain of what it was that she really wanted to talk about – if there was anything at all.

in that quiet, however, echoes from earlier come all too easily. crawls up her spine and pulls her shoulders taut,

“You don’t have to become the villain. I do hope you’ll recover fast. I simply loathe the idea of being favored because you’re injured.”

and it repeats, and it repeats;  much like the image of joohyun’s fall. haneul’s certain it was done on purpose. how that sickens her – no, frightens her – for she knows not of the reason why. the mistrust colors everything between them black. murky and impenetrable by light. she only knows joohyun, the old joohyun. she knows the way her hands get cold just as her does whenever they would wait during evaluations. how waiting turned into planning – both girls wanting escape, just for the moment.

but these reminiscences are disrupted by the opening of the studio door, her eyes following the apparition slipping through. it’s all too muted just before the first word leave her lips.

“an explanation.” the debt goes both ways. “why are you doing this? why–” yet, it’s almost as if the burden of which is all hers to bear. “but first, sit down. you don’t want pressure on that foot, it’ll worsen your minor injury.” behind those pink lips, she bites her tongue. there’s a time for holding tight onto a weapon and another for simply choosing the shield, this moment calls for neither.

i. speak softly.

she counts the seconds between every inhale and exhale, watching the rise and fall of their chest. listening for the sound of air moving, the unintelligible murmuring that often accompanies their dreaming. her fingers move down her neck, feeling for the missing necklace. on the floor, the broken chain is tangled with everything else– its bejeweled crucifix nowhere to be found. “i’ll buy you another, don’t worry.” she believes him, as she always does. hides the thought of the heirloom away with every other promise she’s been told. things get lost and people forget. she’s used to it.

ii. listen well.

every theatre has its ghosts and if the stories are true, the elysian is home to two. they are the reason why she hurries down the halls whenever she overstays in the studio, wary of even a lamp flickering. afraid of the sound of her own footsteps as she races down the stairs, imagining phantom footfalls chasing after hers. they tell her not to be silly, that ghosts are nothing but old tales meant to keep children in bed. but, what they don’t know is that she’s seen them– how quickly they fell. how easy it seemed.

how, sometimes, she would hear them whispering. voices carried by the breeze whenever she dares crack a window open.

( leap, leap, leap. )

iii. ________.

what does she know of shame? it’s caving to a desire that she once believed herself to have full control over. the simplicity of saying no despite the screaming want in her head. and what of guilt? it’s the sound of their voice speaking of things she’s only ever thought about. the way her her body responds to every word as if it were a note; they lead and she can only follow. muscle memory. she tries to wash him off after, but he’s stained her dark, and the want continues still. 

that evening she dreams of schiele’s twisted forms. bodies contorted. eyes looking from beyond the canvas. in that dream, she takes a knife to each one until there’s nothing but shreds left.

how quiet it was then.

iv. always smile.

the pain does not come until someone points out the bloom of red growing on the tips of her pointes. spreading as she continues with her performance, the shards of glass cutting deeper into her foot. she  doesn’t stop until the music does, until one of the staff halts everything– taking her into a corner, their eyes wide with fear. “i’m alright.” she reassures them as the door to the studio is locked; nobody leaves until the whole things is figured out.

she’s treated like a walking crime scene. the pointes are taken from her, every inch of her costume is checked. there were extra pins there, too, and she wonders how she missed those. they tell her she’s lucky that the glass didn’t cause much damage– everything should heal in a month or two. 

“it’ll be fine in a week.” she counters, even as she almost bites down on her tongue as they bandage her up. 

v. say your prayers every night.

“she hasn’t stopped throwing up– really bad food poisoning, apparently.” 

“doesn’t sound too bad. everyone knows jihye needed to lose some weight.”

“where did those cupcakes even come from?”

fifteen stitches. tight and neat, all in a straight line. haneul counts each one again to be sure, eyes focused on preparing her pointes whilst she listens in. she thinks back to that evening, the final friday of february. the company dinner had been a quiet affair until jihye’s collapse. but after the macabre scene, it became a chaos of finger pointing and panic. fear spreading faster than poison. at least, one of a weaker kind. 

they say it was the cupcakes, but she had one from the same box. dark chocolate with a whole  cherry on top, how could she say no? she bit into the treat knowing of the risk. but the gods, they do listen, don’t they?

besides, one small bite couldn’t have hurt. 

for: @reventide |  中島美嘉 - 傳說

i. she had read of tenkawa numerous times, even as a young girl. had dreamt of visiting it one day, but never really got around to it. life just happened a little too fast and some dreams simply became forgotten in time. some-- for time doesn’t always eat away at everything. not everything is lost within it. at least, that was what she thought upon randomly finding a brochure for the mountain village in her mailbox. whatever it was-- a sign or mere coincidence--  she decided to finally go. the perfect companion for the trip already in mind.

( and she’s grateful for rosie coming along despite the short notice. haneul would have never gotten on that plane had she been by herself. )

it’s late in the afternoon when they reach the village and mt. ōmine-san immediately catches her eye. it loomed in the background, blanketed in mist like a slumbering titan. for a time, haneul loses count of how long she’d been standing there, gazing at the darkening horizon. only that at some point, a hand moves to hold hers, followed by rosie’s weight leaning against her. “it’s beautiful, unnie.” spoken just above a whisper. she nods to the younger, wrapping both arms around her frame. “pretty magical, huh?”

ii. by nightfall, the the village has taken on a firefly-like glow. rows of golden light lined the many narrow paths, red lanterns marking entrances to machiya houses. they pause from their walk ever so often, mesmerized by the silhouettes moving behind paper thin doors. appearing like stringless marionettes. when it came time to find something to eat, rosie follows her nose and haneul lets herself be pulled along. still trying to take in everything, despite knowing it’s an impossibility. the entire village, it seemed to her, was detailed by an artist’s hand.

“sometimes i can’t tell if you’re real or an actual hayao miyazaki character.” she teases, eyeing rosie’s chopsticks as it snatches one of her side-dishes. “where do you even put all the food you eat?” of course haneul steals it right back, eyes squinted playfully at the younger. rosie takes a sip of her drink before replying in a voice so hushed, one would think she’s revealing one of the universe’s secrets. “i burn it all off, like... like magic.”

iii. sunrise finds them at the foot of the mountain, facing a stone marker that has both frowning. “so we’re not allowed up?” rosie asks, the beginnings of a pout already obvious upon her lips, eyes darting from the marker to the path ahead. haneul stifles a laugh, places both hands on the younger’s shoulders, turning her towards the other direction.“maybe if you dress up like a yamabushi. how fast can you grow a beard, rosie?.” she playfully chides, locking her arm with the other as they walk back to the temple. 

“ten-no-kawa” she reads off of another marker before calling rosie over, the other having wandered off. the temple itself is impressive-- not as grand as the others-- but it is its own entity. ancient. in places where there were no people and the only sound is that of the stream, haneul muses that she can hear the gods whispering; benzaiten sending her blessings. “it translates to milky way.” she tells the other as they sit on some stone steps, sharing a bento box of rosie’s choosing. “quite fitting, right? i feel a bit closer to the heavens just being here.”

“is it because i’m angelic?” the younger asks with a wink.

“no, of course not.” haneul looks out into open courtyard, momentarily distracted by a pair of little girls, each one holding a pink wagasa. she used to have one of those, but hers was white with a sprinkling of cherry blossoms painted on it. beside her, rosie had become unusually quiet, picking at the food instead of eating it. haneul nudges the younger’s arm as she chuckles softly.