Act 1: Ridiculous

 

The probably biggest problem in his promiscuous life right now was that he was in love and had been for what felt like ages. But it was the stupid kind of love, that you try like hell to quash but always comes back, an invasive species that can never truly be removed. It was ridiculous. It was painfully unrequited. It was tremendous, deviant, but as hard as he tried he couldn’t shake it off.

For all of Jeongguk’s particularities and weird preferences of humor and the quirky obsession with scoffing at him for their differences while being aware of them being actual similarities, he was stupidly absolutely undoubtedly in ridiculous love with him. He hated it, but he was nothing if not weak, so even though it would probably be best for everyone if he just it up and dropped contact with the younger, still he found himself inevitably coming back every single time his mind had wandered off to these thoughts.

It was a ridiculous kind of loving, a ridiculously real one and he couldn’t shake it off and even if he could, he probably wouldn’t.

 

He put his texts about forgetting aside. About houses that didn’t feel like homes and suffocating disorders, chains bounding him to suffocating places. About urges to forget memories and feelings, inseparability and the – thanks to the chains – unreachable need for a new beginning far away.

Instead he started to from songs about hidden thoughts circling around the scent of days after a lot of rain, crisp and cool and warm all at once, sunshine on sandy beaches. With stories about eyes not brown and not black but somewhere in between, shade changing depending on how the light was shining, and sparkles, deep in the brown and black wooden mazes. About bunny teeth and pink lips curving upwards gently, outstanding cheeks when a grin was forming, light skin and sunburns. About the cracks puberty forms in a voice and shiny, brown-purplish hair, changing color depending on the sunlight the day gifted.

He used to have the scent of days after a lot of rain, crisp and cool and warm all at once, sunshine on sandy beaches in his nose and deep at the bottom of his heart he’d said Jeongguk simply smelled like home.

 

 

Act 2: Blame

 

An intense and probably tremendous moment of realization, or better said moment when realization was slapping him right across the face, in his promiscuous life was when he was snipping at the rose bushes delicately with his small garden shears. Because roses were supposed to be a source of calm for him since he finds their beauty entrancing, their scent subtly romantic, as cliché as it might be.
But realization was bitterly reminding him that they all have thorns and if you get too close, if you become to bewitched by the beauty, too dizzied by the scent, they’ll make you bleed.

And as much as he wanted to be angry with Jeongguk, furious, cursing him and never seeing him again, since the hollow in his chest was still aching, still making him feel like he couldn’t breathe, he just couldn’t because in the end he can’t blame the younger, not one single ridiculously bit.
He rather blamed himself for weaving himself a web of ridiculously huge feelings he knew he would get trapped in.
He had been blinded and enamored by whatever it was that had been burning all his insides and has been putting himself out there to the point that there was no going back.
He had destroyed himself, systematically, letting himself get caught up in the subtle charms, the restrained smile, the lull of his voice, the way he had looked at him in a way no other person ever had, and he had fallen. Hard. Ridiculous deviantly hard.

And in the end, he was still in love with him whether he wanted to be or not. Something about the brunette had drawn him to him physically, but everything else made them connect emotionally in a way he never experienced before.
He had been so sure of his feelings, he forgot that Jeongguk might not feel the same way.

 

He scribbled over his books about tickling and teasing and giant paper planes, climbing trees and care. About goals of reaching the dream and saving the world from too much wrong, the simple doing and loving the yesterday, living the now and leaving something for the tomorrow. About smiles and blushes, video games and hours of dancing, fights and lullabies.

Instead he started to write poems about aching hollows of cold and missing. About dark nights and thoughts dipping into the same colors, long lost imaginations of love and warmth. About taking pulls slowly and quietly while listening to long lost music, forgotten by the one who used to introduce the sounds to him. About a name on a pair of lips 24/7 and urges to scream it, long lost eyes, lips, smiles in front of his vision but in the end he had to wonder why – just like him – Jeongguk was also crying.

 

Act 3: Let Go

 

A disappointment his tremendously ridiculous heart had to finally accept was the fact that the very best for him wasn’t the very best in general.
The very best for him was Jeongguk. Probably he wasn’t the thing that made him the healthiest or wealthiest but for his heart and mind he, to say the ridiculous truth, was the right one. The right one, the right partner, things like that didn’t exist - he was widely aware of that - but for his mind, the way it was working at this time, and for his heart, the way it was beating at this time, the younger was the right one. For this temporary part of his life he was the stupid perfect very best for him.
But the very best for him wasn’t the very best in general.
There were things, something like little raindrops reflecting the stardust, things that could have become actual chances for the two of them, in another life or another universe. These things were there - both of them were widely aware of all of their visibility - but after clinging to them too desperately for too long he finally had to accept that they were just glimmers of possible chances that took place in another time, another life, another universe. They weren’t actually real ones in this temporary state of their lives.
His heart clenched and his mind shouted, his body was shaking and his soul was crying. But he knew he had to end this here because the very best for him wasn’t the very best in general. Let glimmers be glimmers and chances be chances, treat both things the way they are supposed to be understood.
It wasn’t nice, it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t “gonna be okay soon”. It was ridiculous, tremendous, deviant, real. Somewhere it was even reflecting the saddest form of beautiful.

The very best for him wasn’t the very best in general so he had to let go.

 

He shredded his notes about tragedies and ever lasting importance. About conflicts and a dying battery together with a crushing circulation, frozen bottle posts and bitterness. About cigarettes and hating the way he couldn’t hate. About gaining and losing, parts that reminded him of him. About there being something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold but also about the accepting of fates together with regaining tracks of a former path.

Instead he started to do art about life and happiness.

And just as he was drawing - texts, songs, books, poems and notes long lost, gone, banned from awareness – he was thinking about if he was crazy because he saw so many things differently than everyone else. He thought about it with a smile which happened to drop when his gaze wandered away from daydreaming and became clear again, focused on the paper in front of him, empty except of two tiny words, written in nobody’s but his very own handwriting.

Jeon Jeongguk.