this is destruction for the faint hearted

[fanmix] won't you drown out my eyes (so i can see a little clearer)

tharae — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 06:28:08 GMT

made for bluesunsets ' gorgeous fic i am living underwater, written for the 2010 skins_bigbang .

won’t you drown out my eyes
(so i can see a little clearer)

1.

SO LONG, LONESOME
Explosions in the Sky

Instrumental.

ROOTLESS
Marina & the Diamonds

Dragging my roots through the snow
No home sweet and no sweet home
I've got nowhere to go
I'm rootless

SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS
Iron & Wine

And true it may seem like a stretch
But it's thoughts like this that catch
My troubled head when you're away
When I am missing you to death

SET FREE
Katie Gray

We wouldn't run and we would let go
Cause we'd realize
That we had
That we had no control

MY BODY IS A CAGE
Arcade Fire

My body is a cage
That keeps me from dancing with the one I love
But my mind holds the key

LOVER/SOLDIER
Washington

So, I survive
I just try to get through and stay alive
You do the same, do the same

TO BE ALONE WITH YOU
Sufjan Stevens

You gave your body to the lonely
They took your clothes
You gave up a wife and a family
You gave your ghost

IN OUR BLOOD
Horse Feathers

Let me be that thorn, thistle, or key
Let me prove you'll unlock just for me

THE IMPORTANT THING IS TO LOVE
+/-

So hey I'll be coming down
Hard on everything
I've been led to believe

10.

CORNER OF YOUR HEART
Ingrid Michaelson

There's a corner of your heart just for me
I will pack my bags just to stay in the corner of your heart
Just to stay in the corner of your heart

11.

IF YOU CAN’T SLEEP
She & Him

You're far away if you can't see my face
If the world is cold but the sun shines the same
Shut your eyes, there are bluer skies

12.

WHAT DO YOU COME HOME TO?
Explosions In The Sky

Instrumental.

bonus.

THE RIVER HAS RUN WILD (Live)
Mads Langer

I’m causing a commotion on a sinking boat
And, and you, you come undone
One by one

(.RAR)

tharae — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 10:12:04 GMT

another way of dreaming.
there are so many things hayato wanted to say.
johnny's entertainment.
hayato/ryu. 2,486 words.

a/n- my je_holiday fic, basically posting it up now because i was in the land of the je and didn't have time there

another way of dreaming.

You don't remember me but I remember you.
I lie awake trying not to think of you.
The way I let you down, the way I did you wrong.
The universe keeps turning, where do I belong?

- skins

Someone once told you that love was another dimension all together. They said that love was the last destination, the last definition. At the time you laughed and told them straight off that they were dreaming, there must be something wrong, where would love be anything at all. You were on your highs from life with bruised knuckles and acoustic guitars and that’s the only way you saw the world- black and white, one way or another, love or not. You were so sure that you were immune; love happened to people but it didn’t happen to you: you didn’t belong to it. But after, when you felt love, it was something else; something stronger, something sadder and it floored you. Off balance. Off centre.

And this is the saddest song that you would ever write. That is the one thing that you are sure of; these are the only words to supplement your anger and your sorrow, that emptiness that spills over from the inside. You wish that there was something else that you could write about, something else that your heart would run on, another kind of fuel on a fake fire but there is only love, there is only ever love.

...

You weren’t much of a believer, you know that now, if not before. Your illusions of trusting people didn’t run too deep, but if you believed in anyone, it would have been him, and he would have believed in you. That much was decided: you decided it for him when he shared his plastic bucket with you when you were in the sandpit, sitting there as conquerors- reflections of your future selves. You wanted to build a castle, to become king of the roost, how so very lovely, how so very lovely these fantastical childhood dreams. You wanted to become king so that everyone would respect you, give you what they hadn’t now, you poor, poor ignored child. You were sitting in the sand, waiting for something to happen, waiting for someone to turn around and find you.

And he did. A boy the same age as you, clutching a shiny red bucket and looking like he was going to cry, surrounded by larger boys and being prodded at. At four, you were sharp angles and sharp hearted, waiting for someone to care and at four, he was fairy bones and made of air, and he had that shiny red bucket that you wanted to make yours. So you leapt straight into the fray, punching someone’s face while you did so.

At four, you make a new friend, and at four, you get into your first fight and come out losing, but with that first punch you gain a taste for winning and from then on that’s all you seem to do.

...

Fast forward. Stop. Press that play button and watch it all burn. Watch yourselves, the boy with the auburn hair and the boy with the brown hair are sitting there, it happens like this: sixteen and self absorbed, and in love with themselves and the world. And it takes so much for them to be happy: they have to keep trying, they love themselves and the world and they don’t realise this. The boy with the brown hair reaches out, softly; there is something else that he has to do. There is something he needs to say but he doesn’t know how to say it; he is used to fast rough actions, the words trip out of his mouth, messily, quiet and the boy with the auburn hair narrows his eyes as he looks into the sun, turns and says me too.

...

You are eighteen and beautiful, your flyaway hair trapped in waves that seem to get you, straight from the inside. You’re the king of your school, the undisputed ruler of everyone. People flock to you, naturally, it wasn’t something that you were aware of but it happens. You take to it quickly, your word is law, you spend half your day life out fighting, defending, you send teachers to hospitals in shock, in terror and everything else. You don’t care. He disappoints you and you pretend not to care. You cut him out of your life; he leaves school and he leaves you but you don’t care. You don’t care at all. You tell yourself there was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. A whole lot of nothing that you built the last two years of your life around, a whole lot of nothing that you try and drown out of your mind with mindless fighting; trying to regain the name you lost.

The months move on, rolling through summer haze and autumn leaves and you keep pretending not to care, you keep dreaming of nothing until something changes everything from before. He isn’t there anymore, you send another teacher to the hospital and now there is a teacher who cares too much. She is anything but a normal teacher, she has passion; you realise this while you are fighting her and that eases you a bit as she sends you to the ground, again and again, knees on the floor and gasping in something like disgrace. Maybe you deserved this, this shame, this unbearable sadness, the dust in your face until you couldn’t breathe anymore.

He comes to your house later that night, you find him when you get home and now it’s strangers, sitting on each other’s beds, facing each other into the wall. Funny how you thought you knew a person. You used to know the angles of his face, the pauses before his words, measured, slow. Now you sit and watch him in the half shadows, he is sitting near the open window, close enough to make an escape. He often used to climb into your window when he was younger, and you used to talk. He’s sitting there. You would talk to him like you used to but you can’t, so you both sit there until the sun rises, awake, watching, waiting.

Later after everything is okay you find it harder to forgive him. It is just that every time you see him he floors you, destroys you. Every time. It never stops, he just keeps going and you just watch him walk past. Strange how you almost follow him, you are drawn to the quiet trail he walks and you want to walk it too, but you have neither the might nor patience, no matter how hard you try.

...

h,

i guess this is sort of my apology letter to you, sort of my love letter, sort of what keeps me running when i feel like there’s nothing left for me to do but keep running. i’m guessing that no one notices when i feel trapped, alone, scared because i’ve always been beside you and that renders me incapable of feeling fear, apparently. except that this year, when we fought i felt nothing but the fear of being alone. so lets test that theory, lets say i’ll dream a pathway to your heart, walking closer, closer and never further. i’ll get there, but who knows if i’ll get there in time? i’ll run, i’ll run through all those cardboard boxes barricading your dreams and i’ll fake my way closer, closer. i don’t know what you’ll do, but, i don’t know if i can trust you anymore to wait for me. and i’ll keep moving, i’ll keep moving towards you but who knows? who’s to say that you won’t see me anymore? who’s to say that you won’t leave me behind?

…

You spend your last day in your high school until night falls, watching the lights go up in the city through the fence of the roof. Hands running down the fence, there is something about watching the darkness sail through the buildings. There is something there in the air of the night, and suddenly you want to be free, you want to let go, you want to live. It is so easy to want something. You stare at the bottom below, flaring up with city lights. You hear a clatter and then he is sitting on the top of that fence, swinging his legs off and watching the city.

He speaks up. I’m leaving tomorrow. My father found a job for me.

I know. Bring me back a souvenir.

Don’t you want to say anything else?

You open your mouth and you say nothing, nothing, nothing because you are trapped somehow in your own mind. He wants you to stop him, you recognise that, that is easy enough to read in his speech but there is nothing that comes out from your mouth that repeats it. You want to say something because you want to make him feel better, something at all but you’ve never been good at words. Every time you speak now you feel the distinction between something and nothing and every time you breathe now you feel the mistakes between something and nothing and it is enough to make you want to cry.

...

Fast forward to a time after this one, fast forward to another dimension. This time there is nothing but the boy with the brown hair with his arm held out to the boy with the black hair, pleading, pleading wishing that there was another option, another way of doing this, both are wiser, both are still the same, the boy with the brown hair looks the same as he did a few years ago, trapped in the past with nothing to gain, threadbare shirts and acoustic guitar strapped to his back, his knuckles worn down raw and red bleeding, bleeding life while the boy with the black hair has stained it darker than his soul, sold it for a father’s love and a world with tall shiny buildings and the buzz of technicolour, something that emotions cannot buy, can’t buy happiness but you can trade it in for another life, apparently, apparently, maybe.

...

The last time you see him is before he leaves for the airport, his shoulders hunched and narrowed underneath his collared shirt. There is a tap and a turn and then you see someone else standing there, someone with the same glint in his eyes and a darker shade in his hair. It looks strange on him, unnatural, you are used to seeing reds and golds stained through his hair but this time you are watching his hair stained black as the suit he wears. There is something sadder in his walk, the way he smiles, the way his arm moves to clench onto his bag, his fingers stained white. There is something you want to say, but it does not come out, you stand there staring at him for what seems like forever and the words do not come, nothing ever comes so you do not say it and you are left there speechless, and he walks his way to another continent.

Love changes a person; you know it better than anyone. You find it hard not to get lost amongst the smoke and air of the city you’re in, the place where he lives is where you want to go but his heart resides someplace away from here. You talk sometimes, static induced phone calls when he’s on international trips and you read the lies of his speech. I’m okay. Life is alright. I’m still in love with you. He becomes what you have always hated in someone, always harder to find and never enough, never satisfying, his words are all half measures and part truths. He speaks in a code he doesn’t know that only you read and it is never ever enough. You wanted the fireworks and the laughter and a body pressed close to yours in the half nights you are up alone and you wanted something more. You have always wanted something more. You have wanted.

...

but hey: i don’t want that to happen anymore. i’m so tired of being weak. you know this time i’ll be stronger and faster and i don’t know why you chose me when i was bleeding cacophony all over your shoes, your hands, that space between your ribcage that some people call a heart. did you know that i used to dream about angels and satellites and a way to find someone else in the world with a soul shaken black like me, no i didn’t think so but now you do, now you do so hold onto that fact so you’ll be able to seek it out when you’re wondering why when we’re lying down together and deep breathing in out, i’ll tell you somehow. i don’t know why you chose me because your soul is streaked sober, white, anything that i’m not. i don’t know why you chose me when i nearly ruined it all.

- r.

...

And guess what, maybe it’s a season for second chances, this time April is falling down your back in a starshot night and there is something else in the air that is warming you, stepping you closer to a beating heart, there is something there, your heart is beating in the radio static because there is someone else standing there, he still has the same eyes and the same face, nothing has changed, nothing has changed at all. The trees are shedding, petal by petal like snowflakes, snowing in spring, what a funny sight, it is shedding something else out of you, something sadder, something quiet and he is standing in front of you and he is reaching forward and you reach out, you reach out and you-

Fast forward a few months and there is another thing that is flooring him, another thing that is tearing the boy with the black hair apart, that is tearing both of them apart slowly, like something akin to terror, the sadness of losing someone important, the only thing important. Love in the first place of important things, things to cherish, things to want. Fast forward again and now the boy with the black hair is someplace else, but the boy with the brown hair is pulling him back, slowly but sure and the boy with the black hair is not sure if he wants this and he is not sure that this is where he wants himself to be, he still sees himself in the tower with his technicolour dreams wrapped around him in the blanket of his father’s love, but this is something that he is learning to want more, this is something that he has dreamt of, two hearts beating in unison, a soul, a kiss.

[oneshot] falling at this angle (left you broken like me)

tharae — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 01:56:51 GMT

falling at this angle (left you broken like me)
jin wishes his pixy hands can save you.
johnny's entertainment.
jin/yamapi. 2,025 words.

a/n- this is basically my je_holiday fic which i just decided to repost for archive's sake.
and because i had no time to do it before. (:

falling at this angle
(left you broken like me)

'I think and think and think, I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.’
Jonathan Safran Foer, (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close)

zero degrees and it’s all pretty stable

The days you had wings were few but unforgettable. You tore down ocean spray with your lovely hands and when you smiled it was destruction. You believed in magic and you swore by fame, and you crash banged your way into eternity with a signature on paper.

We’ll look after you, they said.

You smiled and shook their hands. Okay, you said, okay.

A few months later you are a star already, as much as your tiny frame allows you to be, and you are there, in front, dancing your heart out and starring in dramas. The people out there love you, they think you are fantastic and they follow your moves, whatever you do.

He is a boy. Jin, he says, my name is Jin.

Hello Jin, you say, my name is Tomohisa. I hope we get along.

Oh no, Jin says, there’s something wrong already. Put a smile on that face, okay? Sad people are boring; I can’t have sad people as my friends. He grins at you, teeth tugging on his lips, and you can’t help but smile back. Five minutes and he’s already captivating you. (It’s a theme, you’ll learn later.)

10°: slipping, slipping

He shows up at your house unannounced one night, with promises on his lips, lets go stargazing, lets go skydiving, you know, celebration. I’m happy for you. Except that you know that he isn’t happy because really you know he deserved to be in that band right along with you. Except that you are going to be famous, going to debut. Except that he is not.

He is lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, his ankles crossed. You laugh loudly and say, Jin your ankles are crossed. You think to yourself that your sister crosses her ankles when she lies down, and you tell Jin that. Like a girl, you say. He hits you over the head with a pillow and his eyes smile wide.

Later he escapes to the balcony and you trail behind. He sits on the edge of one of the chairs and pretends to be super grown up, play acting at adulthood. You follow his lead, and watch as he sings out notes into the dark, wondering how many people Jin would disturb at this time of night. He says: it would be so easy when we’re older, our dreams would just slip into our hands. He stares at you seriously as he says this, one of those few moments when he says something and means it. You say: yeah, it would be.
Your heart twinges. He’s illuminated by stars, and his fingers flash pixydust. Your heart beats triple paced; knotted and bound. It’s harder to breathe. You’re drowning. Oh, you’re drowning.

You remember that moment later, much later in your life after twenty three years of living surrealism.
He doesn’t, but you’re not surprised.

fortyfive and you’re trying to keep balanced

take a step backwards. think. when did this happen. why am i here. there is a distance between the here and now. there is a distance between where you are and where i am. i know i’m on a pedestal, struck there by millions of people around the country, around the world. but you, you’re on a plane too, your wings streaking you a species higher than humanity.

i’m still wondering why you’re so loud but sometimes it feels like you want to be the quietest person in the room. i’m still wondering why even though we’re such good friends you won’t let me through. i want to be let through.

think. think again. junior photoshoots where i am in the middle, you off to the side. non-existent singles where you are the one who sings the most lines because you know you are the best, they want your voice up there, in the charts. days where i am noticed and you barely are.

but i swear, it won’t be that way anymore. i don’t want to hear your whitewashed words, because i was born an unbeliever, and i’ll die one too. because we were both born one and the same. because the universe threw me out of its backyard. i’ll come because you called for me.

you self diagnosed yourself with depression and smoked it all away. you thought the world laced you between it’s eyes and your heart, glazing away those pretty synthetic eyes belonging to wax dolls and coffins. and i said, i said: i swear. this time. this time i will-

i promised myself that i wouldn’t turn out like you but i did anyway.

ninety degrees, tripping and falling

Flutter flutter bang bang. That is the sound of your heart pounding when he is near. You want to believe in love like others believe in gods, without proof of existence but hanging on for miracles but you’re not sure. Not sure if that belief is something set in stone or something intangible that would fly away quicker than your childhood.

He invites you out to dinner and you say okay. He takes you to Disneyland with him, and you both stay there late enough to watch the fireworks explode over the castle. He drags you to clubs and takes you dancing (you have filming the next day and fall asleep between takes.) You don’t know how to say no.

You are who you are because he made you this way. Jin is the one who wrote your history out on a sheet of your forgotten homework and he’s the one that is pulling your marionette strings. Wherever he goes, you will follow. You’ll follow him into the dark.

an onehundredandeighty straight to your heart

You meet up at Yoyogi Park to exchange Christmas presents. It was his idea of course, to build a snowman and have a snowball fight. He is standing right in front of you, wind crossing his face like the remainder of winter. The snowflakes curl in his hair, catching on his eyelashes and he sticks out his tongue to catch them all, to proclaim himself victor and the king of the land.

You are, you say, you are-

The words don’t come. You aren’t surprised, not really, but his eyes shimmer and they catch on your face. He drops your christmas present into the snow (green, wrapped with red ribbons, the antithesis of your wrapping, how funny) and he steps up towards you. hey pi, he whispers. hey pi, i like you.

He pushes you down into the snow and kisses you hard.

He tastes like every promise you’ve ever broken, and this is the both of you: fleeting, constant, now. The both of you forming the bonds that would make this bitterer in the end, young lovers before despair. This is the way that it plays out, hands on cheekbones and lips on necks. Panting, praying, breaths fogging up the air. This is the two of you aching and in love. This is the two of you making snow angels on the earth, imprinting yourselves into the white.

two seventy degrees, your time is running out

You lie there, tangled in the night’s unrest. Jin is curled up beside you, and he is warm. You feel warm inside. Sweetness plays with his words as he twirls your hair around his fingers. The light is shining through the window, lacing his bones like an angel-complex.

He tilts his head: guess what, we’re debuting.

You smile, ruffle his hair: that’s great, you’re going to be big.

He smirks: we’re going to beat your band in the charts for sure.

You shrug: bring it on.

He tackles you and you fight him back, jabbing him between the ribs and then laughing and kissing him. This is the two of you, smiling, laughing, there. The sky is crashing above you and the universe is holding on with strings, the sun shining on with silhouette gold but you don’t care; why would you? You’re happy and in love. It’s what matters; it’s the only thing that matters when there is nothing left.

threefifteen and clinging onto hope

I’m leaving, he says.

His heartstring fingers are played over your hair, weaving in out with invisible threads to your soul. You’re yesterday’s effluvia and tonight’s broken boy, your eyes made up of soaked paper towels and Jin is death’s monster with a heart made out of inexperienced knots and burnished gold. He’s a wingless boy with crooked halo innocence and the way he moves is beautiful did he know, you know.

You look up at him and laugh, take me with you?

He snaps to seriousness, i’m going to LA. tomorrow.

You shift around so you can look into him, hope he is lying, hope he is wrong. You look into his core and find nothing but truth. It is quiet and it is sure and it scares you. The truth floors you, drowns you. Love is killing you.

You feel it assembling in your mind. What you’ve always dreamed of and awoke crying and feeling weak. The fear of him seeping out into the earth, dissipating into the hearts of oceans. The fear of him leaving you behind.

350°: all the heartache in the world

and stop. the first few days without you are quiet and painful, except i learn to bear it, learn to keep my head high. i tried to keep on running at life as i always did, except i fell short and was stumped for words and for inspiration because i had no idea how my life used to be without you.

so i sit in my band’s common room, a ploy to return to normalcy in my life, the phone in one hand and your number on the other. i dial and you pick up. hello, you say in perfect english. pause. it’s been a while, jin, i say. (four days, seven hours and thirteen minutes.)

fast forward to sometime later, before we speak again: it’s dark inside but the lights are all on. some things i will not remember and some things i will never forget. the sky outside is tangerine fresh out of thunderstorm colours, and i’m playing a cassette tape with our voices taped onto it and i play the recording over and over again.

i realize i have the potential to fall in love a thousand times otherwise. except that you set the mould for what i would ever love about anyone else. except that you are the person that will always set my heart aflame. i will never lose you: i swear to myself in an effigy of promise.

revolution, revolution

It’s time. Your ten billion heartbreaks are scrolled across your mind, and you wish, wish for it to reverse, rewind. To turn a full three hundred and sixty degrees into the past. You breathe in his cigarette smoke voice, lightly drifting and then disappearing. Jin is there. His voice is silent magic. He’s got a cigarette in his mouth but he is trying to quit. Except that he is not. You are here. You are here and your heart has to break from over a distance.

That is his life and this is yours. You pull out his face from a pile of ashes; try to conjure the exact cursive lines of his cheekbones. You try and picture the shade of his eyes and you are scared when you cannot. You try and phone him but the dial tone goes to static.

You remember the Jin that will be and that was. You hold him in your arms without him there. Firework maplines streak the path to your heart, exploding, sudden, silence. Jin is here. He is lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, his ankles crossed (like a girl, you say. you cross your ankles, i mean.) Jin is there. He is standing right in front of you at Yoyogi park, wind crossing his face like the remainder of winter and a christmas present in his hands (you are, you whisper, you are-) Jin is here but he is not.

(You are never, ever alone.)

[oneshot] regrettably yours.

tharae — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 16:12:16 GMT

regrettably yours.
ryo will never write you love letters
johnny's entertainment.
ryo/ueda. 788 words.

a/n- for the ryoda fans on my f-list. (: ♥
as;lfsfkd so uninspired these days. just something I wrote quickly, and a kind of experimental style :/

highlight for answers.

regrettably yours.

-

you dream of him, dream of his eyes.
(they’re beautifully broken.
& it might just be a little addiction.)

-

april mornings are forever, springtime love is sweet and untouchable and his eyes are smirking in his face, and you want to break something. he’s reading hamlet and smoking a cigarette and you almost want to laugh and ask him if he’s going to hold the universe in between his eyelids and capture the sun between your macabre eyes. ryo isn’t poetic and ryo isn’t an artist and reading shakespeare is completely ridiculous and you almost want to laugh with recycled words.
(you crouch down with him and talk about hamlet.
ophelia’s a tragedy, you say.)

you kick back sunday afternoons with him, dipping your toes into nothing and you’ve got beer bottles strewn around you, your cheap form of suicide. he splashes pool water over your head and you’re shivering to death and you collapse together and he plays you a song on his guitar. you point out his mistakes and laugh, short and sharp.

i want to be free, he says suddenly, and fingers the tips of your hair, and you wonder in silence. you’re content, happy and you wonder since when was it that he made you feel this way, and you live in a euphoric state with him by your side

(until pi rings, jin rings, uchi rings and he leaves, leaves you behind and you pick up his guitar pick to return to him next time round.
next time isn’t until a few weeks later where he stumbles into your house, drunk out of his mind and reeking of female and sex. you lie him down on your bed and sleep on the couch and wake up early the next morning to make him breakfast.

~~his apologies and promises are empty.~~
he’s back a month after that, doing the exact same thing and his guitar pick lies untouched.)

-

sometime later you kiss him with broken lips on a cold autumn night, you’re wearing your best smile and you swear his eyes can shatter the moon. they’re pale and broken symphonies and he’s growling and now you’re crying and fuck you, it’s just one damn quiet night and the stars are out and they sparkleshimmer like your heartburn. It’s something you can’t even describe, something you can’t even name anymore because damn, damn, his eyes are neon, a plethora of fluroescent highlights and supernova brilliance.
(& you can see yourself whisper to him, taking your quickslow breaths and staring at those heartbreak eyes and you’re whispering quiet words of i loveyouiloveyoupleasepleasejustletmeloveyouipromiseillbegoodandillcareforyouandsingyoulullabyfantasiesandohillgiveyoutheworldandshowyoulove.
fuck, ryo. i love you. pleasepleaseplease.

his eyes are cold.)

he doesn’t meet your eyes anymore and you’re frustrated and crazed and die for me ophelia (watch that willowtree snap), shakespeare is so overrated now and you haven’t touched a guitar in weeks, haven’t played in months. your piano is all too dusty and your couch is overturned but you just can’t bring yourself to care (you almost hate yourself). it’s so easy to be tongue-tied and the sound of silence has never been so loud until now.

(he comes over later and brings hamlet with him.
he leans in and kisses you and whispers, says i don’t love you and you say okay.
this is how the world begins.)

-

you have self inflicted pain scrawled into your skin and you spell it out for him (i-l-o-v-e-y-o-u) slowly, steadily, scribing it carefully onto his wrist, wondering if the words would seep into his soul ~~&hisheart.~~ you write your love letters in red ink because you don’t know how to speak in happy endings and your confession to him is slightly cliché, the words you speak are almost painful but somehow you think that this is the beginning, only the beginning.
(you wish you were right.)

he pushes you up against the wall and fucks you hard, it’s painful and needy and oh so very abnormal but it’s the way you both play this game i need you he would say and you know he is lying but you just don’t care anymore because you’ve had enough of waiting and so you let him and you know you’ve failed this game, you’ve lost inbetween it all. yep, just put a red cross next to your name, and lets move on, next concert, next life.
(winning is a ~~weakness~~ strength- but you’ve never believed.)

-

the next time you meet is in between your two cities.
his smile is forgotten and half-forever in your eyes (i-l-o-v-e-y-o-u-i-l-o-v-e-y-o-u-i-l-o-v-e-y-o-u.
such a shame that ryo’s a nonbeliever.) and the darkness you see in his is questionable.

i’m liberated, he says, and he fastens his own handcuffs.
(heneverpicksyou.)

FINIS. // 26.06.08 -->

[oneshot] asphyxia.

tharae — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 12:08:37 GMT

asphyxia.
and he is pale, pale, pale and porcelain perfect -- jin sometimes thinks that it is harder to take those longer, deeper breaths. they all come out so wrong. jin sometimes thinks that he is suffocating.
johnny's entertainment.
jin/kame. 2,025 words.

a/n- unbeta'd. (: there are no capitals for stylistic effect. whether it is actually stylish or not is another thing. also, general encouragement is good. concrit would be nice. flames are you know. not cool. :o

for chrissy. <3

asphyxia.

as·phyx·i·a

a condition of suffocation resulting from

restriction of oxygen intake and interference

with the elimination of carbon dioxide.

his: hands are cold and elegant and picture perfect and he is porcelain perfect- just like dolls with their pretty little hands and their pretty little faces and their pretty little anything and everything. his hair looks rough, is rough but is strangely smooth to the touch and feels like the burnished gold of corn fields, like fallen leaves in autumn. he looks like he might just be too close to his deathday, [thin and gaunt and his cheekbones a bit too high, his lips a bit too thin] but he is beautiful all the same.

there is something in his eyes that is hardened with fear and joy and they are so so dark and distant and hard to reach [and there is love and there is darkness and his eyes flash and there is still only an emptiness that makes you shiver]. you’ve never seen anyone like him, never met anyone like him and he makes you shiver to the bone, cold cold cold.

sometimes he can’t sleep at night and he laughs at the moon to fill the emptiness. you hear him from the next hotel room scraping patterns in the walls with his nails, sometimes. patterns that even he can’t recognize, distant hieroglyphics from a world long past.

he: wears each of his scars like fine satin, each with a story behind them all– each with a life, each with a lie. scars draped over his skin in long dashes, long lines. these stories decorate his arms, some deliberate, some not.

he wears his heart on his sleeve to midnight parties where he is the only one swaying to the music. parties in darkness, parties in shadows. parties with himself. he practices dance moves with a vigour, a spirit that you have long forsaken for routine that is shrouding your life. you watch him sometimes, watch him practising and moving to an invisible beat [and you don't know him, not like you used to, but you still think he is beautiful with his satin scars and plastic eyes].

he is dancing, filling the room with his presence and as your blinded eyes watch him, your heart still hasn’t realised that duct tape won’t save it, no, not this time.

sometimes: you feel like you’re dying, suffocating to the bone. sometimes you find it harder to take slow breaths, you just want to keep inhaling that air, that oxygen. you feel like you are starting to become sucked up into your everyday life, a life of pleases and thank yous and you should be dancing over there jin and why don’t you have your make up on jin and you’re living life, surrounded by boys who just.wanted.to.fuck and who didn’t care, at all at all at all. sometimes it’s easier to scream, to steam out your anger through plucking guitar strings.

it's kind of confusing, isn’t it-- you hate this business, this cheap way of living your life out, burning it out but then again you kind of thrive on this life, gritty as it is, unglamorous as it is. you kind of get used to this uptight schedule, this always giving, always giving, watching things get taken from you [concerts, the tassels of your clothes get torn and shredded through girls with angry hands]. it’s all kind of normal now.

your eyes meet sometimes, a brief measure of acknowledgment over the strands of guitar chords and heavy rock beats. his hands reach out to cover the stem of his microphone stand and you watch them curl their way around the mike, closing in on the end. those hands are smooth, uncalloused, the hands of a person who had never had to work hard in their entire life.

and his plastic eyes are the everyday kind, but his hands are special, oh so special.

like: lovers you blend together, his eyes brown [with suffocation] and his voice slick-sounding, like chocolate melting melting melting. melting like his eyes. he leads you along with a promise of faith and an intoxicating lie and this is not what you dreamed of when you wanted to be famous. maybe you were expecting a more vibrant world, one filled with admiration and adoring looks and instead you got adoring eyes and glaring eyes and eyes dark with lust scouring your body, searching your mind, trying hard to see what lay beneath your skin. and yeah, yeah, you also got him, him and that band [and he doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t mean anything at all because he is part of that band, part of that world, just another side affect of love].

his eyes are brown like suffocation and it's really in the way that when he looks at you, you want to lie.

you: should’ve stayed away from things you should not have had. dreams explode above you as you lie with him in the corner of nowhere, a place that didn’t feel real. just hell prettied up. prettied up into a world that makes you feel different, a world that makes you feel like a star. Except that these stars weren’t real and there is no time for love and there is no time for anything and there is time for anger, only anger.

those lovely hands were prettied up too, prettied up with diamonds and lace and all things precious in the world. you realise, just now, that his hands were not calloused, they were stained yellow and red from nicotine and blood and they were merging to make a sunset on his palms, and hey, hey, isn’t that the loveliest orange hue that anyone ever saw?

you watch him breath in his diseases [inhaling nicotine like incense, rolling joints out of pages of the bible and signing his name on the bathroom wall with ink so red that it seems like blood] and you kiss against his mouth so lightly, lightly and you almost taste poison. the decorations on his mouth are oh so subtle, tastes of cannabis and watermelons, the sticky heat of summer.

and so you watch him breathing in his diseases and pushing blades under his skin, under the skin of those precious looking hands and you mock lightly, mock subtlety –

– big veins, dollface, they make it all better.

and he would turn to you, piercing your heart with those eyes laced with emptiness, and you would just shiver.

he: whispers into your hair softly softly all the secrets in the world, all the knowledge that is stored in his pretty little head. he leaves you infatuated with his smile and his breath and of all the things on earth, you think he is most deserving of the world. and when it is night you whisper you’re beautiful so beautiful and he shifts over, staining sheets [red red red] and in the morning after there are smiles, smiles smiling smiled.

– and you were infatuated with his smile, infatuated with his love and as he whispered into your hair you felt something breaking. you needed him to fade to dust in the morning, but instead he swallowed your heart whole and left you gasping for air.

his: hands are cold cold cold and beautiful, you think as his fingers wrap around your neck.

FINIS. // 03.04.08 -->
1,212 words

[oneshot] the meaning of purple

tharae — Thu, 11 Oct 2007 14:14:36 GMT

the meaning of purple
it's hard to believe sometimes -- ueda dreams of frightening reality. of stars dying and being reborn. but mostly he dreams of ryo.
johnny's entertainment.
ryo/ueda. 862 words.

a/n- idk. written because i had this dream before, just not about ryo. for faito_oh because her birthday was two months ago and for being an awesome person. i was very late with this, i know. better late then never? i think?

my beta is on holidays and has no internet so feel free to criticise. comments are like fairydust since this is my first je fic. (:

the meaning of purple.

red.

To me, dreams are indescribable because I have the same dream almost every night. Of galaxies spreading across your face in pale pale lines and stars exploding in your eyes. You represented magic to me, in every kind of shape and form. Sometimes while I sleep (and in my dreams) I watch you and the stars and silently make wishes on the supernovas because you never had shooting stars in your eyes --

-- and sometimes I dream of you dying. The blood seeping through and staining your skin and spreading, spreading through your clothes and your everything. Strange, in my dreams your blood was always red. I never thought that it would be, because I thought you would never die. To me you seemed indestructible.

I guess that was never the case.

orange.

I see you in perfect clarity on good days, with the sunlight staining your eyelashes painting them golden. Everything about you is beautiful today. Your hair is on fire, highlighted by the red and orange hues in the sky behind you. You (almost) have shooting stars in your eyes and a brilliant light to your grin. You and your smile shining under the form of light makes you seem ethereal, even.

You feel foreign to me when the sun hits you like this.

yellow.

My dreams are always too stark, colours contrasting too much. (Too much red in your hair, too much yellow in mine). The stars in your eyes are yellow sometimes and they keep glinting and glinting and glinting. When I open my eyes in the morning they hurt because of the exploding stars. When your presence overwhelms me, my heart hurts as well.

-- To see someone dying in your dream signifies that your feelings for that person are dead or that a significant change or loss is occurring in your relationship with that person.

I hear you screaming when you die, sometimes.

green.

.and oh I started when I heard you crying in the night

(because I thought you were unbreakable).
.darling I found you beautiful when you screamed

and tried to fight away the fear (and only for you)

// so i dressed you up in silver and wrote a song for you ]]

.you felt like someone I had met before

with the laughter in your eyes

(and beauty on your lips).

.i had felt you breaking the first time I saw you

but I didn’t stop you (because I wanted to see

the death of something beautiful).

// i tried to live for you once before you fell

into every pore and ripped me apart again ]]

.so you told me one day

(i want to be set free)

but you never got that wish &

you are in pieces

staring at yourself in the mirror.

// sometimes you told me of how you saw me

disappear in front of your eyes

when you dreamt of eternity.

blue.

Dreaming is for people who can’t believe in the world. You had told me that once, when I was still writing love songs. I told you that to write love songs you needed to dream. You had countered me with a laugh, and that was that.

That time I was still in love with the notion of someone thinking that I was precious (because in the end the only thing which humans truly want is love). The notion that there was someone out there who craved for your existence was intoxicating.

I was in love with that idea as much as I was in love with the glimmer in your eyes.

Now I don’t write love songs, can’t write love songs anymore because it’s getting harder to dream ever since you started invading my mind.

indigo.

Essentially colours are all the same thing. Just remnants of a magnificent spectrum that we sprayed onto the huge billboard in the middle of town -- we have decided not to die -- when we still felt young and filled with hopes for the future. We had caught the train into an unknown country town and painted over our faces with red and yellow (and I had painted shooting stars in my eyes so I could be like you).

That night I dreamed of you, screaming and screaming covered with red, covered with all the colours of the rainbow. Save me, you were mouthing, save me and I looked at you, unsure because you had never asked me for help, not even in my dreams.

You were lying down on the floor covered with blood, so much blood and then you were standing and turning to walk away, your dark hair fluttering behind you. When I stared at your small back heading further and further away from me I almost felt something as my heart broke for the first time.

But I wouldn’t know that until I saw you again.

violet.

.i whisper to your form

on the ground--

--I thought you were for eternity.

.but you weren’t (and it wasn’t the
first time you had lied to me)

& i think i made you tangible when i lifted the blade and sunk it down.

FINIS. // 11.10.07 -->