feral roots

There’s a lingering perverse smile plastered across pale features as the latter’s words creep into acute ears one by one, or rather, he only captures words of his very own interest, those which bring senses to awaken. Ah, it’s a routine he cannot grow tired of just yet for it is as amusing as it may ever be. “I love how you throw insults at me every five minutes. It’s cute.”

It’s burlesque to its finest because he’s laughing and there’s a pristine sense of mockery spilling along with it, one which he is certain the taller wouldn’t simply dismiss – but the shits and giggles die out just as soon as they birthed because a mere phrase draws him in. There he becomes someone else, abandons the prettily sculptures mask worn through mundane streets and instead allows the facade of a vicious creature to arise.

”You’re no fun, for fuck’s sake.” He’s dead (quite literally), stern on the tongue and straight on his feet in contrast to the laid back posture previously presented because the devil has been summoned and it is more than glad to attend to its caller. “Very well.” Lithe fingers twirl the taunted weapon entangled to its lengths as a latter palm arises to meticulously pull on the lock, which shortly leads to a perfectly angled and clear-cut shot landing centimeters apart from the latter’s head.

This time there are no smiles of triumph, no malevolent aura emanating from the bold act and no theatricality to it all because patience has run out and here remains nothing but the skeleton hungry for a soul. This time the beast is out for blood and oh God, have mercy on those who dare crossing his path.

“Tell me what is it that you want from me, Christo. I do not, however, make promises to grant your wish. I am no genie, after all.”

“I can’t let you ever fall into the mindset that I actually like having you around.”Christo returns the smile in a way that is both grim and a bit genuine as Baekhyun continues to be, well, Baekhyun. 

Finally, the other is being serious or at least he appears serious, stance different than it was moments before― Christo prefers this side of Baekhyun. It fits the image that he built up inside his head over time, feed and nurtured by warnings that were often given by the elder, wiser vampire’s within his home. 

“He’ll murder you if you let your guard down, Christo. He has an advantage that you don’t.” 

Christo doesn’t flinch when the bullet snags a lock of his hair, the smile one his face however does falter slightly. The sound of the gun triggers a vivid, violent memory of red skies and black smoke that cloud his lungs while he and his sister run. He closes his eyes, willing the imagery of dead bodies of vampires and vampire hunters on a blood stain ground from his head. “Baekhyun, do you solve all your problems through violence?” The question is out of place – more of a thought than meant as an actual question. “Don’t you ever grow tired of fighting all the time or is it in your blood as much as it is in mine?” 

Christo can’t stop looking at the gun so he closes his eyes. He swallows a lump of bitter animosity as he fights to keep back the vampire side of himself that encourages an unadulterated hatred for Baekhyun purely because of the others parentage. 

(... ) It is a contrast – on the outside stands the avid enthusiast of an undead species, while on the inside he lies in a bed of hysterical laughter, amusement and entertainment. “Think of us as royalty, high on a throne.” A throne which Byun Baekhyun plans on decorating with thick entrails and the red velvet of his enemies when fulfillment is achieved within this realm – then again, no one needs to know that.

Christo takes a slow breath in and sighs. “it’s irritating, really, just how alike you and my older brother are.” and really, the resemblance in personality is infuriating – causing his patience to run thin with their constant talk of royalty and thrones. “especially when your blood is tainted, and unpure.”

Then there’s that look in Baekhyun’s eye – though small in stature – there’s something about Baekhyun that (under normal circumstances) radiates a warning to be careful. It’s in the way he carries himself both confident, fearless, and able to leave the impression that he knows your darkest secrets and you should watch your back.

It’s because Christo assumes that the other knows his families oldest secrets that he isn’t fearful of him regardless of the fact that now he’s holding a gun – Baekhyun won’t kill him until after he receives whatever information he’s looking for. 

“Baekhyun, when I said that we’re the resistance...” Christo shakes his head but doesn’t alter the bored expression resting on his face having already lost interest in this particular topic. “It was meant as a threat.” he doesn’t need to say more, and crosses his arms. 

From what Christo does know of the Byun family he’s fairly confident that Baekhyun can’t simply escape the shadow of his vampire hunter parents legacy nor undo the years he spent building up his own name in exchange for the meaningless title of ‘vampire king.’

ii. In many ways her silence is a riddle, even when their nights are long he knows only one thing: that he doesn’t want to go home. He never wants to go home, feeling so brave at heart because he’s an avid keeper of silly notions so he holds firm to the belief that he can take on the challenge of the thousand years that weigh heavily on her shoulders. 

iii. He knows that she’s lived a thousand times over him. And he’s foolish to think that he can count the layers that make up Jieun when she’s already centuries ahead. That for every century he gains he’s still short a millennium. It’s only plausible to understand that for every minute he takes one step forward, he’ll still be the same distance away from her as when he first started. This doesn’t stop him from wearing her ink-stains like the battle paint of a warrior that’s proud and vigilant.  

iv. The way the red wax falls on the letters are just another reminder that for people such as them most relationships are sealed in blood— he has to be careful— because he’ll willing break his heart everyday for her and still gather up the pieces to offer it as a token, dirt and all. Heart break, and all. It’s just another reminder that all things in the shade of red, burgundy wine, pomegranates, and lunar eclipses are theirs for the taking.

@igniso

Bewitching notes emanating from divergent sources seem to cluster the sound traffic along the large venue as the pianist cuts through a vivid crowd – a few greetings take place along the way (empty ‘hello‘s and fake ‘nice to meet you’s) as the shape of a fabricated smile seems to adorn his features while playing the role of an intoxicating drug, something very much convincing to the eyes of the public. It is all a matter of etiquette within the music industry, a series on necessary contacts despite the unpleasant presences, a vicious cycle of feigned laughter and pretty smiles and conversation leading to nothing but business. Music festivals like this seem to horribly drown into the stereotype more often than not.

It takes up to thirty minutes before Baekhyun is able to slither his way out of the mass and additional five seconds before air may fill suffocated lungs once again, slender fingers carding through jet-black locks as his figure reclines to the main stage’s wall, which just so happens to be the first solid surface he is able to find. And there he finds that peace is short vivid because there’s a familiar scent tickling at his nostrils, hazel orbs immediately landing upon the source – a taller male standing a few meters away from him, perhaps too engrossed into a conversation of some sort to notice of the vampire’s presence.

Needless to say, the urge to approach mystery, something far beyond the human realm and yet so intimate to their reality, draws the shorter towards the latter step by step while features contort from annoyance to the mirror of sheer amusement.

“If it isn’t Christo.“ The far edges of thin lips have been tugged upwards by now in order to allow the blossoming of a pompous smile while words cut through whatever subject the other had been discussing with the circle of people standing by, manners diminished to nothing but a faint bow of his head in order to acknowledge the bystanders before his full attention may once more avert to the taller. “We seem to be bumping into each other quite often these days. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re stalking me.“

Laughter seems to fully give in the previous act set up across his demeanor, a palm rising in order to conceal the sound out of habit before slender arms may cross over his chest. Indeed, it ‘just so happens’ that they have been bumping into each other ever so often at literally every single event – well, it’s not exactly just a casualty when Byun Baekhyun is the one playing stalker like a snake while viciously sneaking his way into the male’s life as a result of ulterior interests. (But the other doesn’t need to know that.)

“Are you here to play with your band?“

Pale cloudless sky, and the fresh crisp of autumn’s air creeps into his skin like a fever — he’s not prone to liking this weather when his skin is already cool to the touch and his body soaks in any slight change in temperature, bones absorbing it and warning him of the months to come. 

It comes as no surprise when Baekhyun’s scent appears on the wind, carried with the falling leaves and all else that seems to be dying off or go into hiding before winter came and delivers a harsh hand. Christo should have taken heed, and followed natures warning.

Then again, hiding from Baekhyun was useless. (He knows, he’s tried.) 

A forced smile appears on his lips along with a feigned pleasant look. His friends nod before betraying by leaving him alone with Baekhyun whose unpredictability puts Christo on edge (with good reason.) The last time they’d met was pleasant, at least until Baekhyun pulled a knife on him and stabbed him in the side for ‘research’. 

And he can’t help but feel annoyed with himself for not picking up on the pattern sooner. 

It always goes like this: 1. his band gets invited to a festival or a gig at a great venue he can’t turn down. 2. Baekhyun appears. 3. After the concert Christo either wakes up in some weird location, bloody and uncertain if he killed someone or if he’s lucky Baekhyun is impatient and decides to be upfront with his assault and attacks him on sight.

“Ah, Baekhyun.” Christo takes a step back and then another step just to put some distance between him and the insane vampire. It didn’t matter given Baekhyun’s strength and agility, but it made him feel better anyway. “It seems like it was just yesterday that you poisoned my drink.” he smiles, tapping his chin. “Oh wait, it was yesterday.” 

He drops the facade, fingers tracing the goosebumps raising on his skin as he stares at Baekhyun with an equal mixture of distrust, and irritation. “What’s your agenda today? Are you going to cut off one of my fingers just to see if it will grow back, or are you going to do me a favor and take my heart?” 

Christo spits the words like a nasty venom, needless to say they weren’t exactly on good terms with one another — “I’d really rather not die two days before my birthday, thanks. And i’d really, really like to keep the use of my fingers, go for the liver or something less vital to my music.” 

His eyes never stray far from the floor. Silence is begging to be broken, but he’s not so keen to fracture it’s face just yet. Then he hears footsteps leaving, catching visage of dirtied sneakers and stained white laces. Someone else takes off. Another follows. Baekhyun leaves last, and takes his heart on a burning, silver stake.

“Why are you asking questions you know the answers to?” He leans back on the stool, gravity the only thing keeping him stationed. When he smiles up at him, his facade has fallen. 

“You felt it too.”

Heartbreak: myth.

(A heart never breaks. That’s what’s so fucking frustrating. It’s not really breaking. God, it’s not a fucking piece of wishbone to pull into two.)

Heartache: fact.

(Ache first. Your body does what it wants, has desires that go unmet. Your mind picks up after the mess your hands have created. There are cuffs on your wrists now. Somewhere amongst all of it, you feel the pang all over again and it really does feel like something’s shattering – you swear something’s breaking. But you’re still breathing, your fucking heart’s still beating just fine and god, fuck you, because you don’t ever learn. Because there’s still so much to love about him.)

“Do I need to explain to you the nitty gritty details –” He’s trying to shove his feelings into a box, but they’re spilling out at the seams, and he’s only got two cuffed hands. “Should I paint you a fucking picture on canvas?” He’s taking a step back, watching the cardboard fall apart. “Should I write a song about it, compose some lyrics to go along with all of this, burn a disc for you?” Now he’s watching his skin do just the same.

“You felt it too.”

Heartbreak— also know as vulnerability.  “Don’t be dramatic, Jack.”

Christo chews on the nail of his thumb, abiding the hush that’s fallen since Jack last spoke. He can hear Baekhyun linger just a few feet away, trying hard not to breathe as he presses an ear to the door that separates him from them — and it’s cute how hard Baekhyun tries to hear anything through the thickness of the door with his pitiful human ears while the likeness of two mythological sit in bated silence. 

Eventually, Baekhyun grows tired of waiting. Christo’s phone dings a few minutes after he leaves, at which he spares a quick glance at his phone before he re-pockets it without bothering to respond.

(SMS: baekhyun) call me later to let me know how it goes, or w/e you get a chance. 

“Kill him.” It’s a contraindication. A complete turn around from his stance during their fight the night before. His eyes don’t waver from his twin’s as he continues with a shrug of his shoulders. “Turn him, make him forever in your debt—” Christo licks his lips still tasting the tinge of blood on them he stops speaking abruptly, thinking.

Heartache— weakness, a golden opportunity. 

Almost absentmindedly his hand raises, reaching out to touch Jack on the chest over his heart would be. Palm flat, and fingers spread he can feel the ice cold of the skin seep even through the thickness of the black hoodie Jack is wearing. It’s an odd sensation mainly because there is still the lack of an actual heartbeat or blood flow. There’s nothing but a body that hasn’t functioned in years, if Christo hadn’t experienced Jacks heartbreak last night he wouldn’t have believed it.

Yet here, just by looking into his brothers eyes he can see how broken and furious he truly is.

“Does it still hurt?” Christo asks, not acknowledging whatever it is that Jack has said before, unknowing if he should take pity on his twin or rip his heart out now and present it to their father wrapped in satin blood stained bow. What an even stranger thought: Christo, the elder that’s too soft killing Jack the younger, and also predicted victor in this so called prophecy. 

“The rules of the living have never applied to us.” Christo moves away, head nearly swimming from the pint up emotions that his brother is keeping within, “If you’re hurting then just fucking say so because we have other options.” 

“If your heart is breaking do something about it don’t just bottle it up.” though he wants to bite his own tongue at the words he’s about to speak, heartbreak was a very ugly thing and he can still feel it like an echo inside of his chest from yesterday. “This is your last chance to tell me what you want to do...” 

In the house he was born in there’s a lot of corridors, hidden rooms, and various underground floors (where the other vampires sleep in safety) There’s one room in particular that Christo always finds himself going back to when he’s walking the corridors with no particular direction in mind, it’s always the room that once belonged to his mother.

All the rooms inside the mansion are pitch black, the bedroom window have been painted black and are covered with thick heavy curtains but her room is the only one that light is allowed to shine through the curtains — when he was scared, he and his sister would play in her room until the sun went down, they would go through her old things like her jewels, old clothes, and other keepsakes. Some were made out of materials that would burn their skin at the touch such as the old hawthorn coffee table, silver tea set, rings but he and his sister would study it in awe regardless. 

We'll lay here for years or for hours Your hand in my hand, so still and discreet — So long, we'd become the flowers

( 04:36:07 ) 

Jieun’s face is an anomaly that Christo despite having seen a thousand times, only wishes to see a thousand more. He and her ghosts, study the contrast that her skin and dark hair leave against the green cut of the grass, he admires the rose staining her cheeks, lips, and the tips of her fingers that twitch ever so slightly in her sleep. 

Even from the slight distance he sits away from her, he can feel that her blood flows, albeit slow, it’s warm and sweet much unlike the spirit that takes her entirety from him during her waking hours. The dawn always approaches so suddenly, striking him violently but the morning stirs the spirit within her gently, rousing her to wake — he lets her fingers go just to turn back time.

( 04:01:00 )  

With each new turn of the clock, sometimes Christo will lay his body next to hers. Then, and only then does he’s certain God created one of hands for holding one of hers. The other is made to brush away the ghosts who like to stroke her hair, fascinated as he is by such a radiant lovely thing to be within their grasp.  

Other rewinds of the clock, he uses his time biding the foxes, urging them to take interest in the songs he’s written for her. Eager, their fur is as cold as it is red and on nights like those, his fingers ignore what they’re made for and will play the strings of his guitar, allowing the melodies to fade one into another. Sometimes he’ll play until his fingers bleed just so he can remember that like these foxes, his blood flows slow, cold and black.

( 05:21:05 ) 

Then there are the times when he can’t hold her hands when his are painted in the shades of someone else’s red, he can’t bring himself to look her in the eye, so he hires the fireflies.

Christo lures them. The fireflies come one by one in lines searching for the sweetness of the honey inside of them. With each close of a lid he whispers a silent plea that each will live, he selfishly asks them to stay alive long enough to chase off the dark lingering in Jieun’s eyes. 

Christo then tucks each individual jar into his pack saving their light for a night when somewhere on the other side of the thick of trees there’s a girl he doesn’t want to lose, he bends the rules of magic to get back to her safely — he leaves the woods, crosses the border of this world and the on intertwined unnoticed.

“Don’t think your any more special than your mundane arse is, buddy.” 

The gun pressing into his chest doesn’t change the scene – rather, it riles him up. “I’m a questions kind of guy. Questioned my way into Starfleet. Would question god whenever he fucking lets me meet his grandeur face. Also will question until I make my interesting arse make its way out of this situation.” He finds himself finishing the sentence with an index finger shoving against the other’s chest, eyes met at level and head refusing to lower anymore than his were.

The man backs off, and in the moment that his back is turned to walk the other way, the gears start turning.

(Possible scene number one: Use the next moment in surprise. Grab the holster in his hand. Question him more – just to fuck with him. Just to fuck with him. Then demand answers. Demand location. Demand coordinates. Demand better fucking clothes, bloody fucking hell. Receive. Receive. And receive. Probably get the whole scene turned around on you somewhere along the way. Die, probably. Nice. But also, never see Uhura’s nice ass again.) 

(Bummer.)

“What, you’re speaking like you haven’t masturbated. My hands are basically your hands. Just think of it like you’re touching yourself. Loosen up, ice man. You’re making a handsome face look like a bad kind of sour.” He takes two steps back, eyes shifting to the clothes given again, but really surveying the room this time.

(Possible, more logical, better scene number two: Wait until the less hotter version of you leaves. Do not get dressed. The clothes are fucking uglier than Spock’s brow job. Come on. Grab that gun in the corner. Hope that it has some sort of ammunition. Hope that it has some sort of ammunition you understand. What the fuckload is this ship anyway? What kind of energy source are they even operating on? – Back to the plan. Grab the gun, or something. Wait, is that a porn magazine? Grab that too. Then leave the room. Probably give yourself five minutes tops until the less sexier version of you realizes you’re a goner. Hijack one of those smaller ships attached that you saw on your way here. Get yourself the fuck out of here and back to seeing Uhura’s nice ass. Maybe die in the process.) 

(Nice.)

“So basically you’re a middle man thief. A criminal. A space criminal. A space criminal with my face, my body, my… everything. Wonderful. I lowkey was wishing you were, yanno, some galactic superstar or something. Would’ve been more exciting to tell the crew that I have a clone rockstar twin. Man. You really know how to shatter dreams…” 

He processes the new information over in his head. Once it lulls for long enough, he decides to discard scene two. With the assumption that they’re in a galaxy at least thirty or so universes apart from where the Enterprise was abandoned, the probability of returning would be slim to none. Instead, he listens carefully to the other’s suggestion, keen to catch each detail.

“Fine.” Is his only reply as the doors close. He has only a few minutes as he’s correctly assumed, but he doesn’t use them. Doesn’t even grab for the porn magazine. Instead, he painstakingly slips on the new clothes. He looks into the mirror staring afar from him from the corner.

(Scene number three: No scene.) 

(Just fucking wing it.)

“It’s just a detour, anyway.” 

First thing to add to the long agenda list he’s been mentally keeping track of since, i dunno, roughly 4 weeks ago when his beloved ship was ‘confiscated’ by some trooper for being neither here or there with his morals. Apparently looking out for oneself in this mess of a war was considered being an alliance to the enemy regardless if you claimed nomad or not. 

Anyway, back to the to do eventually agenda: blow this kid’s fingers clean off AFTER he gets his ship back because this fake Christo, ironically, is entirely too touchy for real Christo’s taste — so he backs off, smirking as he catches a glance of the other male’s expression in the reflection bouncing off one of the windows. 

He can practically see the clocks’ turning in the other him’s reflection which nearly tempts him into allow a half smile rest on his face because did this guy really think he’d turn his back if he felt that the other posed any real threat. Did he think this side of the galaxy was born yesterday. 

(Let’s be real, he probably does.)

It’s the remark about masturbation that actually does bring out a genuine smile as well as a small chuckle. Perhaps this clone of his isn’t so bad after all. 

“Oh, but I am famous.” Christo keeps the smirk as he leans against the door. “not in a ‘galactic rockstar’ like you were hoping kind of way, but more of a ‘say my name too loud on the wrong side of the empire it just might get you killed’ kind of way.” 

Which in his humble (not so humble) opinion was a million times cooler than jamming out on the regular to space punk as alien chicks went wild.

Christo smiles for the first time that night, backing away from the door. “I thought you would see things my way.”

 It doesn’t take long for his clone to get dressed, and the minute he steps out of the room Christo tosses him a blaster pistol. “Doesn’t have ammo, so use it wisely. Deceit is your best friend, my friend.” Christo says, looking at the other in the eyes before he claps the other him on the shoulder, “We’ll reach  Corellia shortly so while we wait... got a name?” 

Because honest to god he can’t remember if in the long drabble of words, questions, observations... plus the weird obsession with the ship’s cat if he ever actually did learn his clone’s name or not. “Not that it matters, you’ll probably ask some stupid question while they’re taking you in cuffs and they’ll blow your pretty face off.” Pity. It would be weird watching his twin, with his exact face and body, be killed. He might even miss him, but not really what he’ll actually miss is the opportunity to wipe that annoying constantly curious, yet knowledgeable smirk off his face himself. 

Christo might even consider fighting an imperial to get to be the one that do the execution, just to make sure it’s done right and he’ll never have to worry about this weirdo on his side of the universe ever again.