Five | Pale Synthesiser | Ontae
Space-Hair | SHINee oneshot collectionA/N written because apparently a certain someone doesn't ship Ontae e.e I will convert them. I will. This was written in a rushed manner (i.e under an hour with the aid of a kiwi) so it's pretentious/stupid/nonsensical/everything writing shouldn't be, but I have to convert this human. And I will. I will. Enjoy :3
•••
And just like that, you fragment;
Pale Synthesiser,
Clutching to more than dissonant chords
And broke-back melodies.
I watch you go.
Tick-tick-tick goes the metronome of
A young one’s heart.
Pale Synthesiser,
Clutching to more than dissonant chords
And broke-back melodies.
I watch you go.
Tick-tick-tick goes the metronome of
A young one’s heart.
If any night was a lonely one, Taemin figured it would be a Friday; though the stereotype beggared the belief that all the young indulged in company past their limits of comprehension, most were alone, and most stayed that way, swigging solitude over a beer-bottle and silence over the emphatic music of such nights. Outside, streetlights played their whistle to the empty pavements below, and it was a low whistle, one that gave note to the crumpled aluminium cans and faded cigarette butts. They'd once pulsed with life, though now lay corpse-like, on cold city-streets.
Peace isn’t something we achieve by harmony.
A treaty augmented across scales,
Monochromes turning violent,
And then the sound of a
Pale Synthesiser
Playing.
A treaty augmented across scales,
Monochromes turning violent,
And then the sound of a
Pale Synthesiser
Playing.
Headlights trailed into the distance. Watching for hours, for as long as Taemin did, they would create a soothing stream. Colours never forgot their worth against slate-canvas, just like taillights remembered how to explode as vibrant voices amidst pitch-sky. Tyres squawked (not too dissimilar from dying birds, or new-born young) and behind Taemin, a body stirred, letting out a distant moan. It was late. He slept peacefully.
If beauty were conceptual,
Music would be beauty.
I hear sounds closer to heaven than
Devil to hell,
And I know you play those sounds,
A Pale Synthesiser never breaking wave.
Music would be beauty.
I hear sounds closer to heaven than
Devil to hell,
And I know you play those sounds,
A Pale Synthesiser never breaking wave.
Inside such a claustrophobic room, the gloom stretched and breathed in all it caught in its hooked hands, fingers crooked like the twigs of bare trees. Silhouettes were formed like the tresses of ink in water, and any noises were muffled – though Taemin supposed it wasn’t the gloom that stifled scant sound, rather the tepid boughs of the bedroom, boughs that cast shadows further defined than the cheekbones of the man who slept by Taemin’s side. He shifted, and the duvet did with him, and as Taemin reached out to touch it, his arm stiffened.
Such ethereal things die easy.
One touch,
One kiss,
One breath...
Any dissonance upsets the aria
From the Pale Synthesiser.
One touch,
One kiss,
One breath...
Any dissonance upsets the aria
From the Pale Synthesiser.
As wind wandered, lonesome, by the cracked window-pane, Taemin exhaled, considering how cold his room would have to be for the breath to condense. Colder than it was now, surely, but not by much. Men weren’t equipped for less than warmth, but Taemin figured maybe he was. Limbs like match-sticks and features gaunt and hollow, he didn’t have much to freeze. A heart, possibly, and a few organs as flaccid as the most broken of plant-stalks. The cold would proliferate through him, but find nothing to latch its icy fingers to. There was no skin to grip. For the strong man beneath the duvet, however, such a notion was different. His pallor was of ash as he lay, position foetal, will weak.
To see music in light
Would be to blink with lidded eyes.
You told me that.
The Pale Synthesiser only bleeds
For a song that compels
Shadow.
Would be to blink with lidded eyes.
You told me that.
The Pale Synthesiser only bleeds
For a song that compels
Shadow.
A gruff voice punctured the four-wall darkness, but no words were formed at the end of the owner’s tongue. It was a sleep-complaint, a half-thought bridged across dreams that no longer existed in reality. Taemin stared at the owner of the voice, only able to see him through the dusty crack of moonlight that speared by the glass of the window. The light lanced across the rickety bed, illuminating a strong jawline and eyes held captive beneath thick eyelashes that would flicker occasionally, attempting to escape from the density of a dream.
Nature dispels understanding,
And Pale Synthesiser
Listens.
Tick-tick-tick goes the metronome
Of a young one’s heart.
A metronome never quietens.
And Pale Synthesiser
Listens.
Tick-tick-tick goes the metronome
Of a young one’s heart.
A metronome never quietens.
Reaching out with a bare, slender arm, Taemin used his shivering hand to glance his fingers across the man’s cheek. The body beneath the duvet flinched, but remained still thereafter, releasing a gentle breath. His skin was warm against Taemin’s calloused palm, and as he a thumb across the soft face, he remembered the earlier night like it was caught in an hourglass. Tipping the hourglass, Taemin observed it, with eyes no-more feline than those of a panther. Outside, a mizzle began to form, jarring like drumming-fingernails against the windowpane. Taemin shuddered.
Silence is wanton of sound,
And lustful of music.
Bless ‘er still, Pale
Synthesiser, and don’t ever
Lose yourself
To her seduction.
And lustful of music.
Bless ‘er still, Pale
Synthesiser, and don’t ever
Lose yourself
To her seduction.
Dropping his hand, Taemin rubbed his bare arms, prickled by night's subtlety. Parting his lips, he felt the candid touch of the sleeping man’s against his like it was still there. The man’s hands roamed Taemin’s stoic body – free, unparalleled, like flowers that bloomed in the finest of land’s loam – and the touches were petals, feathery and saccharine against a catalyst that pined for more. The friction was tight; if in view, it would be a landscape mimicked by meadow-mire and rustling-river, with so much to find, so much to see, so much to explore. Though in the heart of the metropolis, in their own thoughts the men had been somewhere much more rural, much more quiet, much more serene.
If ever the distant beat
Of drums called over you,
Pale Synthesiser,
I would repel them.
They don’t know beauty
As pure as yours.
Of drums called over you,
Pale Synthesiser,
I would repel them.
They don’t know beauty
As pure as yours.
Taemin understood that the body beneath the duvet was more than just that. The man was a blessing to those who could see it, but a detriment to the ones that could not. His skin was scarred and his lips were chapped and if he were to blink one could see the heaviness of the black rings that stained those eyes, like imprints on coffee-tables or disbanded wedding rings, and even his hair was rugged, messy, unkempt and uncared for. There were blemishes along his wrists and hands where he would stub his cigarettes, for he didn’t always have an ash-tray and he was too wholesome to add another discarded drug to the pavement’s fray. A good man with a bleak life. He was sordid.
Even the most mesmerising songs
Have flaws.
An out-of-tune strike on guitar string
Or a distant crease in linen-voice.
But not you, Pale Synthesiser.
Never you.
Have flaws.
An out-of-tune strike on guitar string
Or a distant crease in linen-voice.
But not you, Pale Synthesiser.
Never you.
From next-door, the sounds of riotous pleasure emanated out like vicious dogs were rampantly baying at their owners. Taemin hated such unashamed behaviour from his oftentimes placid neighbours. Though he knew the human need for comfort greater than any man, when he willed it he was silent, and his lover was silent, and their bodies were like smoke, combined before any words could forego them. The man beneath the duvet would simply tease Taemin, massaging, caressing, consuming, a curse that moved from the church to the sinner like the devil would infect its prey – deadly, quietly, succinctly. All thoughts would abandon Taemin then, a coil of jeweller’s wire without precious stone, and his entire mind would seize until the man snipped the string that bound them.
The greatest sounds
Are timeless,
Pale Synthesiser.
Though the metronome of a young man’s heart
Goes tick-tick-tick,
It is different for the old man.
Are timeless,
Pale Synthesiser.
Though the metronome of a young man’s heart
Goes tick-tick-tick,
It is different for the old man.
Taemin ran his bony fingers through the sleeping man’s hair. It was brunette – a false brunette – and was akin to the touch of fresh-grass in summer field. The strands would billow in the breeze, and would cast a frame around a smile so innocent not even the vulgarity of their night-explorations could douse it. When the man smiled, his eyes squinted also, curved into two crescents that laughed giddily, that embraced a life Taemin had long assumed to be past the stage of reparation. The reserves of death within him were so blatant he could be a necromancer, if he so dared.
Do you ever wonder
How the whimsy of an instrument
Could capture the hearts
Of the distant,
Just as you do,
Pale Synthesiser?
How the whimsy of an instrument
Could capture the hearts
Of the distant,
Just as you do,
Pale Synthesiser?
“Are you awake?” Taemin whispered, voice misconstrued in fragility. He figured if his words were to belong to man then they would be of the injured, the frail, the elderly. The calm created a coexistence with the remorseless world outside, and as the mantra of from across-building subdued, Taemin was left to himself, and the assumed-sleeper, awaiting an answer that could never come.
If I ask, you never answer
And if I don’t, you always do;
A thought that knows when to play,
Knows when I need you most.
That is your gift,
Pale Synthesiser.
And if I don’t, you always do;
A thought that knows when to play,
Knows when I need you most.
That is your gift,
Pale Synthesiser.
“Are you?” came the reply, words pedestrians that walked the pavements of strewn bedsheets. Taemin cocked his head, allowing his long, russet hair to fall by his shoulders, and elicited an answer as simple as it was conclusive: “No.” The man grinned then – a sad grin, as if one the mourning wore at funeral-wakes. As Taemin remained motionless, gaze festering the open wound of the nothingness before him, he felt two strong hands on his shoulder, and the familiar mingling of moving duvets, as those hands began to press against soft-flesh.
Often,
Pale Synthesiser,
I wish you wouldn’t tempt me.
I am weak towards
Your touches, and always
Beg for more.
Pale Synthesiser,
I wish you wouldn’t tempt me.
I am weak towards
Your touches, and always
Beg for more.
A slight moan escaped Taemin as the man began to plant lips across his long neck, and he wondered if death felt like this, a simple slip into the expected unknown. Though one could speculate, they could never be sure of the sensations to over-come them – a regalia of pain, of pleasure, of subterfuge and of company all in one simple change of state. Stretching a wiry arm behind him, Taemin curled his fist into the man’s hair, grip a vice that forced him in further. Resting the back of his head on the man’s strong shoulder, he was given complete access to the length of Taemin’s neck, dropping kisses like feed for germinating seeds.
Your music is never loud enough,
And I want to hear it undue.
O’, Pale Synthesiser,
If you negate the boundaries of beauty,
Why won't you negate the boundaries
Of song?
And I want to hear it undue.
O’, Pale Synthesiser,
If you negate the boundaries of beauty,
Why won't you negate the boundaries
Of song?
An obscenity fumbled with the buttons of Taemin’s lips as he used a small hand to grip the man’s large one. Though he would be keen to protest, the only thing Taemin was to was innocence; his eyes grew brazen as he guided the man’s hand in the dark, body already convulsing at his touch. The man’s hand crawled beneath Taemin’s boxers, and he whimpered then, a shrewd sound, much more at-home in the depths of dingy side-alleys than the constraints of cold bedrooms. As the man’s fingers moved, Taemin’s world refracted; streets became overwhelmed with apoplectic light, and each building was an enigma of incandescence, evanescent until the day it was burned by the brightness of all around it. Flashes of colour were ingrained in each groan, and every rapid inhalation signified another stunted vision. The man moved his hand quicker, Taemin’s palm still guiding him, the fingers of his free hand constantly intertwined with the strands of the man’s hair.
And this is bliss,
Pale Synthesiser,
And the young one’s metronome
Goes tick-tick-tick,
Faster and faster,
Until it loses its time.
Pale Synthesiser,
And the young one’s metronome
Goes tick-tick-tick,
Faster and faster,
Until it loses its time.
Perspiration wrinkles Taemin’s nose as sweat beads down his forehead, and his head falls to the man’s toned chest, resting there as his heart expounds every thump as if a need for cessation. His toes curl, and his arms flex, and in his mind there are no more secrets, for transparency transcends each notion that attempts to form. The man touches, and Taemin succumbs, and the more he believes he can understand, the less his body knows. Grunts tumble from his lips as the man’s hand jerks, and he feels himself sliding into an area he can't quite comprehend – his eyes are screwed shut and his feelings are blunt, daggers unsharpened that pierce at his skin – and then a hand runs to his chest, the muscle there, and need grows and grows and grows until-
Silence,
Pale Synthesiser.
It's
A
Deadly
Sound.
Pale Synthesiser.
It's
A
Deadly
Sound.
Taemin collapses into the arms that are ready to hold him, body warm, mind ruptured. Thoughts split across the surface like cracks in splintered tile, and though he believes he's ready to stand, Taemin cannot find the strength. An insect with snapped antenna, a shell lost from seashore, a dancer without stage, a body without bone. He allows the man to his wet hair, hands sticky, damp. Taemin shudders, eyes flickering, as the man slides his hand from the small body. An after-thought is bequeathed from the man’s dry lips whilst he sits there, nursing Taemin’s weak form, as he murmurs, “You'll sleep now.”
I suppose, with all beauty
Comes a price,
And you,
Pale Synthesiser,
You paid
The greatest.
Comes a price,
And you,
Pale Synthesiser,
You paid
The greatest.
A slight nod indicates Taemin’s admittance as he shifts alongside the man, to lie there, atop the duvet that the man still inhabits. The warmth tides through Taemin in trembles, a tumult with yawing pattern. Thoughts begin to realign, built plank-by-plank so that he can float, but the sails remain uncast, for he didn’t have the strength to unroll them. For a while, Taemin lies there, observing the peaceful man. His complexion is further-porcelain than the moonlight, and on his lips the tastes of the last cigarette remain, torturing his body with the remnants scattered by mistakes. Taemin doesn’t mind, however, for he loves that taste; another way to get his addict’s fill, without the aching cost. He plants a fingertip on the man’s lips, and the man drops a kiss there.
A song so bold
Can never be forgotten,
And a metronome will never stop.
As I watch you,
Pale Synthesiser,
I clock the time we had.
Can never be forgotten,
And a metronome will never stop.
As I watch you,
Pale Synthesiser,
I clock the time we had.
“Are you awake?” Taemin asks again, and this time to no reply. The sunrise isn’t far off, he assumes, the nuances of navy filtering into a hazy orange outside. There is no light yet in the room, however it would soon come, and bring with it the ubiquitous lot of life. People would rim the pavements outside like dead flies in cups and the traffic would purr, salient and slender, in the divinity of a day worth standing for. Idle gazes would hatch thoughts and admonish all doubt, and the new-born birds would replace the carcasses of the dead. The haul of night would end, and bring with it the world.
If to end is to start,
Then we never did end.
I believe we've always been,
Pale Synthesiser.
I believe we always
Are.
Then we never did end.
I believe we've always been,
Pale Synthesiser.
I believe we always
Are.
“Then sleep well,” Taemin wished. Before he closed his eyes, he gave the bed beside him one final glance. It was empty.
And just like that, you fragment;
Pale Synthesiser,
Clutching to more than dissonant chords
And broke-back melodies.
I watch you go.
Tick-tick-tick goes the metronome of
A young one’s heart.
Pale Synthesiser,
Clutching to more than dissonant chords
And broke-back melodies.
I watch you go.
Tick-tick-tick goes the metronome of
A young one’s heart.
In time, we'll find that
The soulless never sound, that the dead
Will always breathe
The melody we forgot.
You're still alive, Pale Synthesiser,
Because I still feel you.
The soulless never sound, that the dead
Will always breathe
The melody we forgot.
You're still alive, Pale Synthesiser,
Because I still feel you.
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