#j.agged

longing?, by the time he’s on his fifth dream, he’ll support his weight on juwon’s shoulders, forcibly, because he’ll want to get up and he’ll want to leave and he’ll simply want for anything that won’t truly transcend the touch. in each glass, he leaves in his spit more truth than a sinner in a confessional. juwon wouldn’t know, would he? he thinks no, ideas are translucent and my beasts are far too sweet. & juwon’s a bitter bitch. i think i’ll laugh at that. ha.

oh, saints? they say:

my hands are caught in the backlash of my own revenges and i’ve grown weary with all this hell embedded in my spine; my shoulders hunch forward because i have the universe in my veins, the big bang in my irises. i do things on my knees every day but the last thing i’d do is pray. juwon? you understand a lot of things, but i’m always in a state of translation, and i’ve always made sure to be my own language. it’s just- i have god on speed dial, just press three - give me the phone ‘cause i want to talk to him first: fuck you, fuck you, fuck fuck fuck-

i know he stalks lucifer on facebook. see, his last post reads: god has left the building. ;)

in honor of turning twenty-fucking-something next year, i demand retribution for everything that has ever been denied to me, he says. but just not said - in words, he means - just with that tick he gets on his brow whenever juwon looks at him in the eyes - rather wrongly, in his opinion. doesn’t he know that animals don’t take well to locking gazes with anyone? everything tastes like blood to him.

a few other instances:

you’ll be your own casualty, you’ll be your own casualty, you’ll be your own casualty, when he hands him a drink.

reality check, you can make them want you but they’ll never stay, how about we encourage him to take the leap?

baekyun will never, ever change, will he? not for himself, not for a belief, not even for fate, katsu guesses. he is not surpised. a decade must’ve felt ridiculous on his snarky friend, even if it felt like an entire stretch of white on white to katsu. just a long, long winding stream of never-ending days hastily sewn together into a franken-esque timeline.

the cold has never been an element that exists to katsu, either, even if he pretends that it does; that he often plays at curling in on himself a fraction for the show, muscle tension accruing in increments anywhere between his back and his legs; that for a veneer of something-human, some-thing logical, katsu would pretend to play at most things with unerring precision, if the risk did not outweigh the desired returns. so katsu bows his spine just a smidge when the wind takes a crack at them, and throws a not-so-heated glower at that motherfucker with the stupid square mouth.

the taunts slides off of his skin like melting snowflakes—here for a split second, inexistent in the next. katsu presses the lukewarm bottle that’s sweating the very last bits of its condensation against the heat of his forehead, and lets the drops sliver down the arch of his brow, down the length of the cartilage of his nose; smiling, bitingly, at the sheer adamancy of the boy that refuses to let up the fiasco, right when he breaches the silence for the second time, a third time.

it is supremely funny to him how friendship fits like a glove between them. it’s perhaps the one indisputable fact that’s made him come back, over and over, with increasingly more idiotic insults to throw at him just to see which one of them would stick; that they somehow forget to be strangers despite the chasm of time and distance. how all of that and them defies a lot of established science. but…that’s not a very important aspect to have, really.

perhaps it’s the centuries of lives that baekhyun has had to live; that from each and every one of those lives the ageless boy has gleaned a sliver of something that coaxes familiarity, a thing that tells the other standing—or sitting, in this case—that they’ve already seen this before.

it fits right like the almost-empty bottle in katsu’s hand, so pleasantly rigged with so much drug that the taste had turned tacky— not that it would have stopped him from downing it regardless. the experience of drinking it was just worsened, is all, but the effects of the drug gradually kicking in would make rights out of that in about three minutes flat.

i. you caught his eye from the very beginning, as monstrous as his teeth seemed, as godly as his hands were. you weren’t wanted back anyway. this wasn’t a choice, it was an ultimatum; yet you can’t bring yourself to forget his ragged seas, the impulse of his moons. this begs the question: will you worship this god with your life?