We made love.

entranced by harmless fingers brushing fingers,

We danced to the song of lusts,

inviting gaze and mesmerizing hip sways.

When the edges of consciousness finally grazes with Oh Sehun’s frozen finger, colors gradually filters into room through the amber tint casted by the room’s drapery. Replacing the last thing to register his mind, rouge smoke and cloudbursts glitters. It felt like his bones grew extra weights overnight, and to move, yet alone rotating them around seemed impossible to Sehun.

The bed now softer on mornings compared to the last nights. Funny, since the night before they were in a blundering frenzy peeling clothes off each other’s back, faster than trees undressing itself before winter. The stabbing pain felt threaded needle piercing under his skin, his strained throat too sore to throw out any raspy notes.

He the life out of him, and it was clearly felt between the joints of Sehun’s hipbones, the ribboning red draping down his shoulder blades. Plum rouge on ivory white. His fingernails were gracious enough to return the love favors in forms of scattered purplish blue crescents up along the contours of Kim Jongin’s tender sides.

Marks out of greed and possessiveness filled their bone skin canvas. There is no harm in wanting someone so badly, as Jongin reasoned, thus every night they ignored the musn’ts and shouldn’ts for they were unbound lovers and sinners. Every of his words that ooze out of those pair of plump lips he swallowed, leaving an aftertaste of satisfaction. His soul was owned, it was Jongin’s to keep.

I inhale your scent.

I exhale insanity after.

Repeat.

Ragged breath scampers through both ribcages, to compensate the lacking in their lungs, moist clad flesh pinning flesh, blunt cuticles meeting translucent skin. Clawing the bedspread or grabbing a handful of hair, lusty grunts, saliva hot muscle rubbing one another. The plunging heat was Jongin. The walls were molten wax. Tears slick mixed with sweat. Drowned cries and screams far from suppressed sorrow.

Tonight they let go of all the burdens

tonight’s shattered pieces on the floor.

Tomorrow they will pick up the pieces

tomorrow’s cuts and remorse.

 

Alone is an unpleasant friend to be woken up with recently. Habitually Jongin stretched the tanned limbs in seek of the warmth who shared the same covers as his the night before. Nothing tangible by the end of his fingertips. Everything from last night was in standstill with exception of any trace of the ivory boy and the growing ringing inside his head. The sickening sight of the white blazer that used to nestle in front of the porch door was now absent.

Kim Jongin reclined his body at tangent with the frame of his bedroom entrance. The drawing easel still collapsed, kissing the floor. The coffee table itself looks like it survived an earthquake, commendable for something as cheap nor IKEA bought. The world seems to be teetering off Kim Jongin’s fingertips as he takes his sweet time digesting it all in. He then shrugged, and proceeds on a clumsy dance with a broom.

Counting stars is cliché,

I’d rather count your scars.

Tell me the stories,

of each and one of them.

Jongin wakes up alone which isn’t surprising by now. But reality contradicts that and he finds himself staring at the pale snoring figure beside him. And as much as Kim Jongin would like to play 20 questions, the only thing he’s achieving in that 5 minutes was to stare at the tendons poorly accentuated by the muscle tee encasing that very same figure. Wait that’s his shirt.

Who knew a smile can grow a garden of flowers back to life. Jongin didn’t. Well he never thought it was possible until he met the half-stuffed cheeks Sehun that was busy guzzling the unrefined culinary that Jongin has braved himself in front of the stove with whatever leftovers inhibiting his fridge.

His want of shooting bullets of questions was short lived by the hangover turbulence pinning his helpless brain to make sense nor function of the situation. Luckily Sehun was quick to judge a confuzzled (when confuse meets puzzled) look when he sees one.

“ Last night. You were too drunk.“

Oh Sehun lounged himself on the two-seater couch that he swore, ‘was him in by the minute’, but because he wanted to observe Kim Jongin vandalizing the pure canvas with red acrylic whilst waiting for his ‘good shirt’ in the washing machine, he it up, the irony.

Every time Jongin fluctuates a muscle, his shoulder blades would protrude up, and that patch of skin was worth looking in Sehun’s experience by far, if not the back sight of the stranger he helped tipsy waltzed home, now in a black tank was attractive to begin with.

Oh Sehun burdened clumsy. And flustered was the moment he stepped into the vicinity. He didn’t know what agitated him more, the cloudburst of splendor hues, or the amount of pollen clogged in the air and potentially risking the same to his nose that is now itching red.

He almost knock a pot of violet orchids with the instrumental appendage he calls as elbow as the man in his forties silently mutters that Sehun and floras just don’t flow in the same spectrum. But he could tell that if anything it was the first time for the boy to buy flowers.