#phantom .

          and it’s one of those nights — he breathes in the cold, breathes out the disquiet, pale rays of the moon playing upon his skin & in his eyes. restless, he is ; tossing and turning [ like the wrathful sea ] in bed with sheets tangled at his feet, stopping only when he whispers to himself that doing so would not earn him peace in the end. it is with a shivering sigh that he finally stays still, trying to reach out for calmness which seems so far away but he manages, albeit slowly — just as a faint sound comes from his phone. the night isn’t young but he thinks he knows who it is from, so he grabs it.          i feel like maybe we burned out a little.his heart  s i n k s.and he wishes this isn’t true ; this short & simple message — the man he loves says so much, too much in just a few words and he hates it. he wants to play dumb and tell him that their fire's never flickered, that it is still burning bright [ but even the strongest flame burns out ; fuck, he hates it because he’s always right, this is true and it hurts ].

[ ᴛᴇxᴛ ; phantom ] it hurts to know that you feel the sa  [ unsent, drafted. ]

two, three heartbeats later and his bony fingers fumble again.

[ ᴛᴇxᴛ ; phantom ] i’m sorry. [ unsent, drafted. ]

he finds himself in city lights, in a place where the tongue is foreign and the pace is just a little faster.  it’s been a long day and the static city sounds are still ringing in his ears long after he clicks the lock to an apartment that he doesn’t own, in a room that is not his to keep.  he is a man lost at sea; it’s been this way for years.  he is a man of changes, fickle as the water that makes up his world and there is no other colour that describes him but blue.

lips purse as keys clatter, another sound to grate at his aching head.  the smallest of sighs escapes his lips and his feet travel on, like they always do — to the bedroom that is not his, the bed that won’t stay for long.  long fingers pull at the hem of his shirt and his eyes catch swirling lines inked into his side, forever stained his skin.  he is adorned, crowned with art by a careful hand — and he remembers a night smeared with ink, the darkest of desires.  

it is hard to forget ihara yoichi, try as he might to get away.

and this is how things come full circle, with a phone in his hand as he stares blankly at the lines carved into his skin.  he’s sure his voice sounds like static over sea shores and two continents, but he’s also certain that yoichi will know who it is without even mentioning a name — so he doesn’t.

( × voicemail ) ” it’s been awhile, but i’m coming home.  i think it’s finally time to finish that tattoo.”

there’s nothing more he needs to say, so he drops the phone to his side and his free hand traces the design.  it’s known by now that he is the water and the ocean wave.  

even though the tide will leave, it always comes back to shore.

light head, heavy heart. new year hits town too soon. the night is biting but he digs his nails into it — and they both find a brand of solace in this way, his hatred for the cold [ maybe hate is a little too strong a word ] and desperation for something fresh [ to clear his head ] entwined. he thinks there's a gauze covering his eyes because all he keeps seeing is a blur of faces, a hazy kaleidoscope of ... unknown figures, moving in a slow motion everywhere he turns. sometimes they appear double, like a glitch in a video game. he wants to see the neon lights, the fireworks outside, though everything seems dull now, so he tries to make the filminess go away by blinking hard. cognizance grips him before long and he feels the coolness under his hand, nibbling at his palm. there's a frown that mars his pale visage — soft, denoting confusion — but as he brings his hand up, the glitter and blood gracing his bony fingers make him remember. the party, the fights, crushing bottles and shit. of course, what is izanami without at least a little trace of violence? he takes a peek around. he's sat on the floor in a bathroom stall, all alone, as always. funny how, out of all places, this one becomes his church. somewhere he runs to whenever he feels lost. tonight is no different, just count the vodka in [ with the countless cigarettes ] ! and he's on his knees again, praying to porcelain. he slumps back against the wall, head aching and a trembling sigh falls from his incarnadine petals before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then leads the cigarette to his lips once more, wondering what time it is. he shifts a little, fishing his phone out of his pocket. it's really late but that's not what caught his attention — [1] unread message. well, it is impossible to hear a soft beep of the phone when he's in a riot nearly 24/7. a careful swipe and his number arises. fuck. a voicemail sits in his inbox, innocent and he wishes he could clip the wings of the butterflies [ no, hummingbirds ] that dance within. he shivers. exhaling a plume of smoke, he waits for a few minutes before deciding to listen to what he has to say ; forgets how to breathe when that voice trickles into his ear. his lower lip is bitten until it bleeds [ a habit laced with anxiety ], he's grasping at each and every word even though he doesn't say much but it is enough to render him frozen and make his heart skip a beat while an odd emotion [ he is the only one who can make him feel the strangest things ] floods over him. i'm coming home —           home, home,           h o m e. isn't home where the heart is? he tucks the simple sentence away [ as if it didn't mean that much ] in the depths of his mind where it is hard for him to reach, then there's this ... smile, a fragile thing that rests on his lips soon after — because he knows he's still somebody's fool.

[ ᴛᴇxᴛ ; —— ] i'll see you then.

" you're cold. "           " i don't feel cold. " it's all the same. fingers like skeleton tracing the piece that has been engraved upon perpetually icy skin ; an unfinished path on lower hip writhing around the back. ink and blood in his head, ink and alabaster before his eyes. the reflection of that gone night bitten by desire flickers in his mind and he remembers it too well. inhale. exhale. he feels his dead heart tatter painfully slow but he doesn't show it. love hurts, he knows. and the murmuring of the tattoo gun once again whispers through the quiet room, swaying with the frail beat of rain kissing the windows. he's not the same. not since the white rabbit lured him away into the labyrinth of love, keeping in its pocket the feelings he held for ahn jaehyun that he ran away from, that he wanted to deny real bad because he was unsure if it was right to even play with the idea of being with such man. innocent, he was – and curious, too so he merely smiled. still, he was in love, wasn't he? he followed, teetering with excitement after the white rabbit like a child when promised a candy until he fell down the hole. he's hit bottom and he can't climb back up. he feels down all the fucking time. eat me,  d r i n k  me ;

this is only a game.