Circular object sentience

prolonged exposure to fallout will result in certain death

Junmyeon falls in love with skipping stones and broken clocks.

The hand he holds wears a broken watch, its face cracked, the minutes and hours ticking back and forth, the second hand jittering. It doesn’t matter, though, because the hand wrist that wears the watch is connected to soft, pretty fingers that are longer, yet thinner than his own.

Junmyeon likes broken time, likes the unknowing of when or where he is, Junmyeon likes it because it is always Spring, and his flowers always bloom. Winter cannot touch him when he holds the hands of Time as they tick and tick and skip and fall and giggle and sing.

Time has a different name for Junmyeon, a different feeling. Time glitches and Time twists and Time turns and sometimes Time gets lost, but Junmyeon always finds his sweet, still time when he calls Zitao.

He has wandering, appreciative fingers, Junmyeon does. He has always been more partial to physical contact, always wanted to hold and grasp, be held and grasped. Zitao reciprocates no matter when or where they are, even when Junmyeon’s cheeks and fingers are wet.

Junmyeon has smaller hands than Zitao, but they’re full and rooted, and he brushes his fingertips along the cusp of Zitao’s jaw, marveling at the angles and strength. Half of Zitao’s face is pressed against the spun white sheets of their bed, but Junmyeon draws anyways, his eyes soft and wet, lips pink and trembling.

Zitao is wide awake, staring at Junmyeon with his bright, starry eyes, full of planets and shooting stars, his lashes long as the flutter, slowly and sleepily. A coy smile plays his lips, and for a moment, his teeth sink into them, an expression so sultry and unabashedly so, that it makes Junmyeon flush red, and he draws his weepy gaze down, staring instead at Zitao’s collarbones.

Zitao smiles, but it fades, replaced with a gentle frown, and Junmyeon’s stomach suddenly turns, and he closes his eyes tightly.

They are spinning.

The sheets stay white, their bodies stay close, legs intertwined and fingers on faces, but the quiet fades, the bright morning sun shining through the sheer curtains becomes blue, a frosty blue void of warmth, and Junmyeon’s toes curl and he presses closer to Zitao, eyes growing wetter. It is suddenly cold.

Cold does not do Junmyeon well, and Zitao knows it and hugs his little love close.

There isn’t a true power dynamic between them, no one who is stronger or more supportive than the other, no one who is more or less naive, though Zitao may be a bit more childish and prone to losing himself, because he is not even a handful of years younger, but when the cold creeps in, Junmyeon seems so much smaller.

Zitao is reminded constantly of how fragile Junmyeon is, how easily flowers can wilt, and when water freezes into ice, it is only natural that it cracks.

Now it is Zitao’s turn. His pretty fingers trace Junmyeon’s face, caress the wilted petals of the flowers as they cripple and close in the cold, and his heart aches. He does not like this. Junmyeon is so pretty — even when he cries and hides — but he is so much prettier when he can flourish.

“They’re wilting.” Zitao says softly, voice melodic and soothing, and Junmyeon presses his face against Zitao’s collar bones and smiles against the skin, despite the sadness in his eyes and on his cheeks.

“Sorry.” He offers weakly. He cannot help it.

Sometimes Zitao gets lost, and Junmyeon follows him.

Sometimes Junmyeon gets cold, and Zitao warms him.

Zitao pouts and wiggles his legs a little bit, glancing at the frost forming on the window panes. It has been so, so long since they have been home. Three, maybe even four days now, and they both know that the others will worry, especially Yifan, who sometimes soars through the galaxies hoping to find them.

But Zitao does not care. They’re safe with each other, and will eventually find their way back home. Maybe in a few more days, when Spring comes, they’ll return.

Junmyeon feels his stomach drop, and he is falling, falling and clinging and keeping his eyes shut tightly, because this part always makes him a bit woozy, though Zitao seems to thrive and glow when they bend and skip and tick and twist.

They aren’t spinning, but falling, falling helplessly but happily. The sheets stay white, their bodies stay close. The light streaming from the window churns the color spectrum, blue, green, even purple, before a red, yellow, and finally coming to rest on a nearly claustrophobic, warm orange — the color of a sunrise.

Junmyeon feels the frost melt, feels his flowers bloom once more, and where he has anchored himself, feels the steady breathing of Zitao, fast asleep, fatigued from their trip.  

Junmyeon opens his eyes slowly, breathes in the air of their new environment, and smiles softly. On the bedside table, an alarm clock quietly and politely announces its presence, beeping in trios.

Not wanting to disturb Zitao, Junmyeon turns as unobtrusively as he can, the sheets dragging with him, and turns to shut the alarm clock.

He is no longer perplexed or bothered by the broken clocks in his life, and does not think twice or dwell on the alarm clock that blinks a time that is not a time at all. It simply reads:

▧▧: ▧▧

Junmyeon shuts the little thing off, and rolls back over to his timeless love, twisting the sheets up even more. He does not care what time it is, what day it is, what year it is, or even what world they may have ended up in. He trusts Zitao’s instincts.

Besides, he thinks, eyes closing without strain. It is much warmer here.

hey so this is weird.

junmyeon's 'flowers' are based off of his Countdown teaser

feedback is always appreciated.

thank you so much :)