mouthful of dirt.

siken sentence starters / closed.

   Reality is the succession of language. For example, you keep singing tothat song I hate, stop singing. In other words, I hate that song, stop singing.In other words; stop singing.

   It is, until Moonsik goes against it.

    But he’s not all about breaking and going deaf without mending something,making contact, so he looks upwards, mumbling something, a song. It’s like he’s lived thisbefore, walking behind her, back straight and hair sticking to his forehead orgetting into his eyes, barely listening to her. Her, distant, both inthis space and in his mind, but, ultimately, it was fine with him. 

   Stop singing.

    “We’re almost there, the gallery, I can see it from here,” but it seemedto be shifting a couple blocks with every street they crossed. “I promisedto take you there.”

   He thinks that’s an awful way to put it: singing.

siken sentence starters / closed.

   There’s a number on his screen, a number that’s labeled asunknown. And he recognizes it after,but just before the other line can speak, he accepts it, making his pace through the masses slow down. He shouldn’tdo that. He can’t afford to slow down. Not when he’s two damn minutes late to takethe bus.

   Oh. It’s him. He can’ttell whether that inspires relief or concern, but it does make something inside twist. And, for someone that knows so much of bodies, he should know.

   He grows urgent with every word that reaches him, andso do his steps. In turn, the audibility falls short, to the point he shoves afinger on his ear and clears his mind, only for a moment. He’s beenagreeing to what he thought were opinions, and humming to what weren’t, but hecouldn’t tell you what the hell hewas saying. The bus, Juwon, his voice, the moon, the people, the bus, hisvoice, his voice.

   “…didn’t think…feel…this way.”

   What?

   “I can’t—hear you,” there goes another body he collideswith, this time almost dropping his cellphone. “Juwon, I can’t hear you.” Bythe moment he reaches the stop, he’s timely enough to see the bus disappear and the smoke dissipate. “I am—was, in themiddle of something. Sorry.” His hands run through his hair, he inhales moreair than he can take, and presses the phone to his ear again.

(...)

the table shakes when there’s one less body attached, and he follows, a looming figure in the otherwise homely kitchen. kihyun likes the solitude of his own apartment, an abandoned one-bedroom in a building no one cares about, rather than moonsik’s. but loneliness eats the weak, feasts on the strong, and there are times when he needs someone else. “i’m a night owl.” hard questions default to rehearsed answers but kihyun doesn’t miss a beat. “and i don’t drink.”

he grabs the nearest towel, small enough to fit in his palm, and pats the droplets from moonsik’s cheeks. gentle, despite his overbearing looks. “it’s not unusual to want company sometimes,” he stops, stares into his eyes, questioning, “unless you don’t want me here?”

   He can’t bring himself to answer his question. I don’t know— no, the voice inside murmurs uncharacteristically faint, like it had finally given from coming up with answers, always trying to make sense of everything.

   “Bars are out of the question, noted,” 

   Moonsik hums, almost like Kihyun did just moments ago. He’s not keen to mimicry, but there are many things out of their place today as it is. He can see the window from the corner of his eye, wondering when the golden hour settled in, and what was he doing when it did. Ah, right. The cut on his lip pulses when he remembers, but he refrains from flinching. He, also, refrains from flinching at Kihyun’s touch, not because it was rough— it was unnervingly soft, if anything.

   That’s why, for once today, Moonsik looks like he’s hit a wall.

   His eyes, the ones that look all black and all pupilless if you don’t look close enough, flicker between the room. But Kihyun was close enough to notice that; maybe he could also catch the smell of death lingering Moonsik like a haunting, the lulling moons instead of eyes beneath his bangs, as well as their sharpness. Hence, why he’s not moving, letting him wipe the water all he wants. He’s an open book, presenting himself pages all wide, written in all sorts of laguages: dead and alive.

   Moonsik was also just as near, and he could see everything he overlooked. The scar on his brow, a mole disrupting the eveness of his skin; and what else do you need to see of a person other than their face to guess what they’re thinking? (Everything else, he answers himself.)

   “That’s what you have my number for,” running his tongue across the cut on his lip, he swallows and stays still. “Not when I’m like this— is it still bleeding?” it’s a slower process than he thought, but he does regain his composure, parts his lips to let him take a better look.

siken sentence starters / closed.

   He’s come to terms with the fact that he’ll die from his eyes one of these days.

   The eyes that swallow all light and don’t expel it back, the eyes that flicker, that close slowly on him or sometimes don’t at all. The same eyes that are witnessing a micro roberry and aren’t as agitated as they should be. Just tired.

   Being a witness doesn’t feel that good, he thinks, leaning back into a wall to catch a breath from the overflowing sidewalk. Nor does it feel bad, though. It won’t scare his sleep away tonight. He doesn’t learn his lesson; staring that long and hard at the guy with that poor (now literally) man’s wallet wasn’t going to earn him anything more than a stare back. Or glare, but glares are meant to intimidate, and this just makes him prolong the eye contact longer.

   He’d be smart to rewatch his entire stunt playing on the surface of Moonsik’s eyes, an unspoken, hi, yeah, I saw it.

   You… “…again.”

   He learnt one thing; mischief has black hair and an unnerving height.

   “Is this what you do 24/7?”

   I don’t have to answer that.

siken sentence starters / closed.

    Jaehyun speaks before the fatal moment of him, falling asleep.

   It has him thinking how he’s yet to get the appeal of spilling; you spill nonsense, laughter, sunsets, like the one behind the window, questions, demands, demands. Again, he can’t get it. But there’s something he knows to a T, and it’s the underwater way of disappointing: humoring. Not that he’s proud of it, in the slightest, but he’s never deemed it unfair.

   “Is it alright if I answer for you?” for us, because he, too, lacks an answer as he hides under his mouthmask, until he pulls it down. Jaehyun asks him to say they’ll never get used to it and Moonsik feels like a third person today, someone that barely fits in a ‘we’. He’s hesitant, his fingers betray him.

   “Well, worst case scenario, we do.” the bus shakes, he supresses a yawn that makes his sight blur, “Until I find a way to change it—” these ridiculously mundane meetings, he means, where he’s dying to rest and Jaehyun just wants someplace quiet to read. “Don’t get used to it yet.”

(...)

“I never stay for long, but then again, you never stayed either.” she whispered as though anything louder would make him leave with the wind. he was already too fragile, already too hurt yet he stood at the end of her hallway with water glistening in his hair as though he was never hurt at all. She stood up then, dusting her shorts and tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear “Why don’t you dry up and drink some tea before you go.” She wouldn’t let him know it hurt, hiding the thorn that had pricked her heart beneath a facade she had nearly mastered if not for the people who continually tried to break it. “It’s cold outside. You’ll get sick if you stay like that.”

   There are many things Moonsik should’ve done differently today already.

   For starters, he should’ve remembered to put his alarm a little before dawn, he should’ve made himself some coffee before she woke up, and he most definitely should’ve not stayed the night at her place when he’s got work this evening.

   The hallway feels longer than last time he came. He can’t remember much of that visit, too, other than it surely didn’t play out like today’s. Moonsik closes his mouth and grows more teeth at the sound of her speaking about her, about him, then grinds them in thought until they’re reduced to nothing. She speaks her truth with an odd smile and all he remains is attentive.

   “Would you have wanted me to stay?” he's making it sound so easy, telling someone about things you deduce in silence. But he doesn’t expect a concrete answer. With these many places to go and people to meet, he can’t believe she’d settle for one person in one place at one time’s moment.

   Now that he’s walking towards her, every step or so dragged but a bit more alert, he realizes she’s closer than expected. And he doesn’t get very near. Enough to lean on the frame and glance at the stove, then to the pot she already had boiling, and it gets a sigh from him through his nose. It’s from relief, and he didn’t expect it to, but he’s not quite ready to go. Not after drinking a morning something. Not after sitting down with her a little longer.

   “I’m already feeling a little off,” for no particular reason, he feels like offering a smile. Maybe because he owed her one. “Any tea will do.”

   In his eyes, the clear expression of a déjà vu’s aftermath.

(...)

Only three(?), before her mouth falls open to say: “Hey, listening.” To stop there, stand up from her spot and clutch on the bar over their heads. It’s a slow process, but she relishes in it all somehow - first in his bangs, how they fall on either side of his face. How tired he looks without having to do anything, how the feeling reigns just from getting a load of all she’s had to offer these past few minutes.

How much did you hear?

Jimin looks straight at his face, tilts her head for a better view. Not that the stranger’s actually unsightly, you know. Hence, a sigh. Half in amusement, half out of her own lack of strength in this stance. He can figure that out, too, if he wants.

“You prefer being anyone else?”

   Haha. That’s funny.

   Moonsik lets her do her thing, check him out, tilt her head a little, all while thinking she proves to be more of a riddle than an anecdote. More than those times you’ve told someone about your day. But that’s just the way it goes for most people; you find out they have a life and problems and brothers and it makes you realize you’re just scratching the surface.

    “Now I’m not so sure, I think it fits me,” he pushes his hair back, the pads of his fingers trailing down to drum on his chin. He never realized how vacant this cabin was until he spoke again, voice above the tone he expected. Good, at least he’s still pronouncing everything properly. He might not see very well, but he’s not slurring, and considering how fucked up he allowed himself to get tonight, that’s a fair accomplishment.

   “Most call me Moonsik though.” And the thing about this was that, no matter if she got his real name out of him, it’d be the first and last time she’d hear it. Because these subway meetings aren’t meant to last and he’s already foreseeing to never knowing the end of her dilemmas.

   “Who do you prefer being?”

(...)

like a black cat with nowhere to go, he finds misfortune in the nooks and crannies of his existence, chatoyant eyes staring past him at every turn. but this has nothing to do with his shit luck. nothing to do with him. why he sits on the precarious edge of a dinner table in an apartment that doesn’t belong to him remains ambiguous — a clouded grey closer to white than black. moonsik is strange: a combination of laid-back and high-strung, yet calm enough to match kihyun’s perpetual apathy.

somehow, they match.

he watches, observant more than idle. the table sways when he leans on it but kihyun doesn’t move, knees bending ever so slightly to maintain his golden perch. “s’been a long time since i’ve tasted blood.” a lie. sharp and clean; too good to be true. but that would encompass him entirely, wouldn’t it? he looks up and his neck cracks, stiff from underuse throughout the dreary evening. “hmph,” his exhale sounds more like an impatient grunt, “i’m not fickle. you should know that by now.”

   Moonsik, as strained as he was from the initial disgust of bleeding, doesn’t shy away from Kihyun’s attention. He’s got his face damp in the weak light, and it twists his features to look more serious than they actually are. What an ugly noise, he thinks when his bones pop, but he guesses it’s not as bad as the scratching on the wood.

   “And was it yours?” The blood. The blood he tasted. This brings many questions Moonsik won’t dare to ask. In turn, he breaks the contact for a moment, thinks for a second, and immediately looks at him again.

   Fickle. He’s unsure how right that word sounds on him. Not when he’s this absent on the daily, how he speaks, how he moves and stares. As of now, at least, that’s what he thinks. And other than that, there’s not much of Kihyun that he knows of, and vice versa. The difference is, Moonsik hardly has anything worth hiding with dear life. He looks nothing like it though, he’s been told, and wants it no other way.

   “You don’t strike me any other way,” A half-truth, said so honestly it seems whole.

siken sentence starters / still accepting.

   The subway shakes and moves forward, no moonlight spillingor a soul talking. And this was fine as it is; he’s not on all his senses tobe as wary as he should. He’s estimating he’ll arrive in about ten minutes, andhopes that whatever moves the world will give him the balance to not stumble onhis feet when he gets off.

   He’s looking at the floor when her steps near.

   Now there’s a girl sitting to his right, and Moonsik neverrealized the moment she began mumbling to herself until he rubbed on hiseyelids. She’s so, so talkative and he’s so, so drunk. He’s got his eyes flickeringinto slits and his hands on his pockets when he starts paying more attention;he wants to tie how she went from her parents scolding to her brother’s damnbad habits. But she didn’t say that. Not openly.

   If anyone’s out therelistening, then good. But otherwise, that’s cool too.

   There had to be something about her voice that kept himgrasping from time to time her ramble, at least until he got off. Moonsiksteals the chance to speak before she can go on about who knows what, voice slow and half-stuck tohis throat;