• dioxyde d'ocytocine • 

1057 words

summary : jongin woke up, but didn't understand. glass, leaves, fire, shapes and nonworking memory hovering over him.

angst, weird!au, fantasy, dystopianish, romance, mystery, jongin-centered. 

dedicated to : k eonni

rated : pg-13

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The first time he woke up, he noticed it, while he was seated.

As soon as his eyelids fluttered with difficulty, as if they weighed tons.

The way air felt constricted, but invigorating as well.

The way his body was numb, as if synapses weren’t travelling inside his nerves anymore.

The way he couldn’t feel himself.

His feelings, his sentiments. They had abandoned him.

As well as his memory, floating around him in untouchable puffs of oxygen.

Oxygen, which was the only thing left for his survival. It was his vital fluid, his nourishment, his everything.

The only piece of information he truly remembered was his name.

k.i.m.j.o.n.g.i.n

And that he was stuck, probably for a painful eternity.

He was trapped. By pure glass.

Just after realizing the truth of his destiny, his mind buzzed and black surrounded him.

β

The second time his insistent thoughts came again to bother him, he was startled by how blinding his bearings were actually being to his eyes.

Glass, glass everywhere.

He was in a sphere of glass.

His nostrils twitched and he swallowed oxygen again.

Oxygen.

He started pondering about the existence of the gas, but a few moments just after, his neck snapped forward.

β

The third time, he felt as if he was burning.

Mostly his hands. They were on invisible fire, molecules of combustion taking territory on his wrists.

He tried lifting his fingers.

Just to see, just to feel.

But surprisingly, or not, he just could not.

It’s when his nose collided with the strong, frigid material that he fell.

Again.

β

At some point, Jongin’s busy and troubled brain had stopped counting, impatient of knowing impossible answers.

But Jongin couldn’t remember.

The faculty had failed him.

He would stir, sense his food under his nose, savor it on his tongue, then the fire would start creeping on the ends of his arms, and his day would end.

If he could call it properly a day.

But after desperate hope, after infructuous results, sun rays shone on his tanned complexion.

He finally turned his head, again, to feel the cold piece of iridescent atoms, his pupils slowly dilating because of the want to know.

The sensation invaded his organs with endless curiosity, sending force to his steadily beating heart.

Finally.

He observed, analyzed it. The fire.

It had metamorphosed into ropes. They were engulfing his digits and were snaking on his upper arms, poisoning his skin.

Circling around a tree’s trunk.

His throat stopped exchanging particles of life, and he succumbed to the charm of sleep.

β

And then, the improbable happened, just before him.

After letting oxygen refresh him, after extinguishing the fire, he found himself awestruck.

A tree. Behind him.

He was bound to a tree.

Its huge branches were taking space into his sanctuary, its leaves the greenest he had ever seen.

Probably because it was the first time green had been captured by his retina.

He fell.

β

There, reflected on the other side of his bubble of glass, his back.

His toned and chocolate-colored shoulder blades, yes.

But he couldn’t ignore the freshly painted hexagon in the middle of his body, the lines shining under unbeknownst light, the chains dancing on his coat of muscles. The ink had been inserted between the fibers of his flesh, staining his bronzed body with creativity.

The most incredible thing he had seen till all these discoveries (which, don’t forget, couldn’t be saved inside his cells), was the hole in the middle of the symbol.

The perfect keyhole, waiting for its savior.

Patiently waiting for its destined key.

His eyelashes quivered with tiredness before cutting his vision off.

β

The child of the Earth lost one leaf when he inhaled for the first time of that awakening.

And it twirled in front of him.

Before settling on glass.

Then Jongin felt water droplets blocking his oesophagus, being drowned with air.

β

The trunk was even more rigid against his skin now, and he would often whimper with pain because of the scratches it would tattoo on him, his debating movements being his tireless enemy.

Dozens of greens were on the floor.

Jongin coughed.

And orange caterpillars and red ants sputtered out of his mouth.

β

A rebellion had been announced for soon.

Sooner than he had really thought.

The tree had shrunk on itself, its offsprings laying on the glassy ground.

The ropes weren’t as tight as they had been before.

No more fire. No more life.

The hexagon as fresh as it had revealed itself at first.

And still no memory of it all.

There was a fissure appearing on the sphere though, just before he dozed off.

A crack, followed by chiming and joyful sounds of freedom.

Jongin vomited air.

β

This time, the last time he let himself get pulled out of his peaceful subconscious, was because the window burst in thousands of pieces.

Of glass.

And a male entered from the masterpiece he had created with his bloodied digits.

Small, well-built, doe-eyed.

Heart-shaped lips, long and twilight tinted hair, milky surface.

Jongin knew it would be the one to make him suffer. To make him remember.

Buds of flowers and burgeons of multiple varieties of plants gathered together between his vocal chords, the oxygen a prisoner of the outside world.

The human gasped, then fought against the fire.

The man shushed him tenderly, almost hypnotizing him, his robes enveloping him with sudden warmth. A glinting suspect in the palm of the stranger’s palm sent lightnings of intelligence.

Something wanted to close on itself on his back.

The newcomer suddenly got on his feet again and went behind Jongin, just in front of the dying tree.

Shivers ran down his spine.

“Hmph,” he tried to pronounced, the air dumping him in his face.

A sob echoed around them.

Then instant relief came over his frame, his back itching for it.

For the destined key.

The stranger put the object he had in his crimson hand inside Jongin’s keyhole, the thing made of gold plunging inside his flesh, pleasure making him tremble with force.

plants

mumbles

pink

uniting

kisses

moans

breaths

love

numbers

ecstasy

dopamine

oxygen

oxytocin

love

love

kyu--

“K-Kyungsoo,” he whispered, a hand caging his jaw with soft gestures.

Tears flowed down his cheeks.

Kyungsoo kissed him passionately.

Jongin breathed.