starboy

text meme: still accepting

✆ for a MORNING text. 

( kkt: 여왕 님 ) i woke up and u werent here( kkt ) kind of sad about it( kkt ) whered you run off to this time? bring me a nice souvenir 

text meme: still accepting

✆ for a MORNING text. 

( kkt: insana ) its like four in the morning, yeah? i havent slept for two days i think( kkt ) i see god and he is bathed i n neon lightsssss( kkt ) eating a donut. looks jelly filled. ( kkt ) think i can fight him and win? 

$ for an ACCIDENTAL text.

he’s had a shit day. shit week. shit year. in his mind, that was reason enough to be chasing his pills with another shot of whiskey. he lets out a soft sigh as he empties his glass, trying hard not to wince at the blazing trail it leaves down his throat. as of now, he was coasting on his sorrows and muddles thoughts, but what he really wanted was the welcoming numbness his vices brought him. the fact that he could still coherently understand tae was a sign that he was not drunk enough to be having this conversation.

but what the other said did not disappoint, and a smile immediately blossoms. “and that, my friend, is where you’re absolutely right!” he signals the bartender for another shot and slings his free arm around the other’s shoulders. 

today he has a lollipop in his mouth in favor of his usual cigarette, they always say it helps you wean off the stuff. it was always the perpetual “they” who says these things, they who know better, they who knows best. they who dictate and propose but seldom hold themselves accountable of anything. if he weren’t too broke to buy himself another carton, he’d blow smoke in their faces and block out whatever nonsense they had to say about the repercussions of secondhand smoke. 

“my friend, technically speaking, all of us got holes.” he’s grinning because he’s an immature prick and knows it, but that’s his whole schtick. he’s the peter pan that never grew up, and everyone thinks its charming (in a pathetic way, he assumes.) “but if you aren’t talking about the holes i’m thinking of, then i suppose i can relate. i get it. the hole is there and it sucks because what used to be there isn’t there anymore, right? and you’re hurting because you’re thinking you’re gonna spend the rest of your life looking for the thing you’ve lost and it’ll be nothing but a void eating you alive, right? holes can be filled. with passions or love or even bad habits.” he wishes he had a cig to further prove his point. really, he needs one to take the edge off but he’d like to act like a noble person and say its to be an example. he’s both an immature and a hypocritical prick at this point, because as much as he hates others for harping on about knowing everything, his bouts of wisdom are as common sense as they come.

The observance has him frozen mid-sip, a splash of the chilled beer hitting his lips once before pooling at the bottom of the can. It was a visceral reaction he meant to swallow (like his pride) but he was so oblivious to his own well being that it struck him when someone acknowledged his existence. He sets down the glass bottle on the coaster, turning away from the other, needing a moment to compose himself before giving an answer. Too many bodies were present in such a small space, the usually half-empty bar now filled with all sorts of people looking for some solace at the bottom of their glasses. He, too, fit in that category as well most of the time. Today he needed a place with a comfortable ambiance that filled in the spaces he couldn’t with idle conversation.

“Since when have you started paying attention to me?” It wasn’t an accusation. He was everyone’s favorite vice, the one that slips to the shadows when no one needed him anymore; An easy friend who didn’t need much watering to keep the relationship thriving. A man of many acquaintances, but always with those who never made any comments about his lifestyle or any other blatant fault. 

Weary eyes lift to her dimly lit countenance. It took him a moment to process that the words left her lips, not his. He was more than certain he had said the same thing to another person at one point in his life, for this was his own philosophy refined through the passage of time. Being on the receiving end was new to him, an experience he was currently processing through his muddled mind. Images of the faces whom he reiterated the same concept to flashes in his thoughts and he is hit with an unnamable force. The closest thing he can associate it with was mild guilt. Did it hurt the others when he did this? Did he mean to hurt them? His intention was always set on saving them a world of agony and melancholy. Exposure to his world meant the infections it festered. No person deserved that. He didn’t deserve anyone. 

Yet he remains mildly pained at how she so blatantly held him at arms length. It roused something within him. 

“That’s my fuckin’ line,” he says in between a genuine laugh. Oh, how the tables have turned. He turns back to the quiet city life below them, muted by their distance from the chaos. Neon lights flicker on and cars zip by with their destinations in mind. He rubs his eyes and thinks about an excuse he can tell her to go slip away and smoke a joint for a minute or two. A sigh escapes his form and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and he does what none of the people who heard these words did to him: he was going to fight. 

she always said that he had lots of potential brimming at his fingertips. it was always there, always waiting. manifested from the withheld frustrations of acknowledging the possibilities, never pursuing them. she always said that he could become something great, a figure, a spokesperson, a revolution in the guise of a lanky vagabond. 

“baby, get that cigarette out your mouth. baby, ignore those pills.” 

she always tried to get him to stop with his vices. she only ever liked him when he drank. he was much more fun when intoxicated, more out there. sober, he was so unbearably himself that it drove her mad. so quiet, so thoughtful, always brooding. You’re in your head, baby, she’d say. Come out and talk to me. 

it was a process, as most things are. one timid step in and he’d trade his cigarette box for coffee dates. their conversations were often mundane, never reaching a peak or a conclusion. he thought that maybe all this small talk was to get to know each other. a leap and he traded his adderall for her kisses. every touch was enough to sent a jolt of energy to his heart. he started doing things he never did before: waking up when the birds were still chirping (so he could meet her before work,) sprucing up his meek apartment (so she wouldn’t make those faces whenever she came over,) and getting a second job (so he can buy her the things that brighten her eyes whenever she walks past them.) He thought he was getting better, that she was all the drugs he needed. A jump and he told her he loved her. he used all the analogies pertaining to the sun and the moon and the stars and all the celestial beings he loved so much. he thought his affection for her was as infinite as the universe itself. she thought it was sweet. 

“you’re always so sad. aren’t you happy being with me? why can’t you lighten up?” she doesn’t understand and he doesn’t expect her to. not when the sun has always shone for her and her alone, not when he sat on the moon singing his lonely tunes. she cannot fathom why he’s chasing that fleeting spark, the light that grows dimmer with every match lit, every pill crushed, toxins dissolved. it’s common sense that he’ll never achieve his peak again, it was all downhill from here, but all he wanted was to feel something -- was that why he was so in love with this pain? this profound ache in the depths of his bones, the infused melancholy and terror that came with apathetic resolve, all it gave was the something he needed in this void, the abyss that he once lingered in he has now become. so he begged her to hold him until he felt something again. to kiss him until the pain retreated and was replaced with love -- for her, for himself, for life. 

it worked for a while. things were fine. he was different. but flowers wilt and their petals crush into the ashes of a fiery passion that has long since died. 

she always knew her own worth, she simply reevaluated his. she doesn’t see the improvements, she’s only thinking why can’t you be better? he doesn’t know if this is as good as he will ever get, but knows that their time has come. he couldn’t convince her to stay if he begged on his own bruised knees. so he watched her leave, with her angel wings and devlish smile. he misses her, but knows this is for the best. any longer and he would have ruined her. 

tagged by: @hydriade

Rough: night Hide: drugs Foolish: love Sad: always Hate: everywhere

Light: bright Dark: fear Mother: liar Father: liar Child: liar

Marriage: never Love: despair Soft: dawn Pet: grumpy Dream: void

Divorce: irrelevant Water: drowning Loud: thoughts Announcement: run Power: pilfer

Fight: wounds Smack: down White: sheets Sick: mornings Kiss: strangers

He digs his pinky into his ear, aggressively itching it as he feigned disinterest to her words. Though he appreciated where this all came from – someplace caring, a place where she was somewhat worried for his general well being, there was a sting of agitation underlying his stoic demeanor. Living with this overbearing weight of dissatisfaction, of depression desaturating the world into monotonous gray, he was more than aware of the fact. It was all in his fucking head, wasn’t it? There’s still a piece of him that years to live, that wants nothing more than to pick himself back up and do better. 

But some says he wakes up and cannot bring himself to get up even though he has work in ten minutes. He cannot bear the idea of being around other people. He cannot face the world sober and mentally whole. Everything is too loud, too present that it had to be dialed back into something bearable. It was killing him, everyone around him was aware. It was prominent in the dark circles under his eyes, his sluggish movements, detached conversation. Such a poor excuse of a life. 

He opens an eye, puts as much raw exhaustion in the look he gave the other, and released a sigh to complete his general display of exasperation. In most cases he was the one constantly coddled by his friends, whose kind hearts constantly fret over his easy recklessness and bad decisions. Being on the other end was something new to him, and so his favored dry humor seemed to substitute any needed empathy in Kihyun’s situation. 

“Your constant sniffling says otherwise,” Chanyeol stifles a yawn, instead raises his arms and stretch weary muscles stiff from his previous position. “What is it that you want? Hot soup? A kiss on the forehead after I tuck you in?” He puckers his lips, makes revolting noises before breaking into abrupt laughter. 

“Let me guess, you work today, don’t you?” Chanyeol once again stretches himself over the table, kin to a lazy cat lounging in a patch of sun. “Well call it off, kiddo, I’m playing mom all day. I’ll give you a bath, let you play with your rubber duckie, then tell you bed time stories.” An impish grin blossoms at the thought of the other being babied. What a sight to see a grown man rendered useless as he snuggles into his stuffed bear and stifles a cough.