#daisy scribbles

it’s a silly fear. there will be more moments to come. there will be this same moment, again and again, for at least a few more permutations if not for infinity. johnny moving in close to him with a line, a look. subtext, alive behind his eyes. the scent cocktail of sweat, cologne, hair product, and dust burning on tungsten bulbs. and this, his touch. still, kun’s pulse hammers for fear of losing it (and even that makes him fearful, as thought it could beat too hard and shatter the faberge egg of this moment). moments with johnny are a bag of tiny, perfect diamonds: countless, near-identical and yet unique, each precious beyond measure.

therein the unspoken art lies. kun has been taught how to think another person’s thoughts until his own eyes can tell their unspoken truths; how to welcome a strange heart into his own chest and sync with its beat; how to assimilate their spinal cord alongside his own until they stand in the same place, taking up the same space.

johnny inhales, barely audible, but it roars in kun’s ears like the recession of some primordial ocean’s tide. he already knows what johnny will say. 

“my life is with you, my king. my future lies with you,” says johnny. “what i feel for you surpasses fealty. it surpasses brotherhood. my king... i am wholly, fervently, ardently yours.”

kun’s heart drops into his stomach and curls up there in its acid before rising again to stick at the back of his throat, corrosive and sickly. those words are his cue to open his eyes and meet johnny’s gaze. he can't summon the courage. “and i suppose i cannot stop you?”

“it is already done,” replies johnny. “it cannot be undone.”

here, kun is supposed to smile. he swallows and forces himself to crack a joke. “so steadfast.” his voice sounds weaker than it usually does when he says this. “is this the ardour of a knight?”

johnny’s thumb touches kun’s bottom lip, feather-light and reverent. when kun finally opens his eyes, johnny’s expression robs the air from his lungs. after a lifetime of suppression, the barest hint of oxygen superheats johnny’s passion. he murmurs, “this is my ardour for you,” and kun’s skin scorches.

kun’s legs go weak, his hair stands on end, his heart stops and restarts at triple time in his chest, and just as he thinks johnny’s fire will either consume him or resurrect him like the big, red bird of legend, the squeal of a megaphone splinters the air. 

“cut. let’s reset.”

johnny’s hands drop away from kun in a heartbeat. he turns away, hand already outstretched towards the p.a. standing by with his water bottle. kun, for his part, does his best to suppress the urge to lie face-down on the floor of the sound stage and scream.

kun learned the art of screen acting from the very best. no one ever taught him what to do when he caught his character’s feelings.

or, kun and johnny are co-stars, method acting is for hacks and weirdos, and kun wonders if he can get worker’s comp for a broken heart.

taeyong knocks on the doorframe. he hates to interrupt johnny's flow, but– "how's it going?"

johnny grunts, waving a hand in a gesture that taeyong has learned means come in. taeyong approaches on little cat feet and peers over johnny's shoulder at the page the latter is writing on. it's covered in scratched-out lines and notes jotted in the margins with lots of question marks. one says in bold pen, THIS IS DUMB. YOU ARE NOT FUNNY.

"not so good, then?" he ventures, dropping a kiss on johnny's head.

"well," sighs johnny, "my mom thinks i'm funny."

"your mother has very discerning taste."

"if only my mother was in charge of staffing the snl writer's room."

or, an au in which johnny is a starving comedian expat and taeyong is an aspiring musical theatre actor from a small town and they're both taking it one day at a time in This Crazy World We Call Showbiz