lorelei, lorelie
lorelei, lorelie
angst
I’d never sing of love, if it does not exist.
Up until now, I, Kim Kibum—had sworn to myself that I never believe in love.
Little Kibum learned how to lie; how to keep pretending over anything. Twelve years ago; when he was seven and old enough to encode the fundamental fact that life wasn’t all about sunshine and flowers (and Disney, he thought, was the biggest liar ever for making those stupid happily-ever-after fairytales), he began lying.
Home and parents. First victims. Being the only child was probably the last thing he ever asked to God. The overly-high expectations, hard pressures—how Kibum wished to turn into superhuman or just idiotic type one, instead. Not that he wasn’t gifted with brilliant brain (he was even majoring English); but everyone had their limits. And when his hands started trembling, shivering, shaky to the death (
I’m exhausted, save me, save me) at least home would promise some comforts. But it never did. It was so hellish that it could torn him away with fake smiley-face plastered on his mom’s, unpleasant low mumbles from his dad, anything.
Where is the love, the love, the love.
So the curtain opened. The stage was ready; and his dialogue would flow (
Hi Mom, hello Dad, I am fine). Steady like river, yet heavy like copper.
Friends, school, girls—fuck them all. Teachers sucked. His life was no more than blue sad—cheesy—film. Plain grey. Sure, leaves are green and sometimes red or yellow on fucking frigid winter; sky is blue, though everything flashed on his mind would simply mean black and white. And so, Kibum stopped believing. He got his time wasted by building fences around his tiny-mini heart; guarding it perfectly.
Keep a straight face, a comfortable distance.
But Kim Jonghyun succeeded knocking those down.
Kibum wasn’t really sure how it worked on him. He just entered Minho’s main ballroom (the blasting music, the deafening speakers, everybody danced, sang, laughed) while a pair of eyes were directed on him. There was something—chemistry, name it, and suddenly they both exchanged smiles, giggles, nervous laughter. When Jonghyun fished a way to him, Kibum knew he had already trapped under the spell; he couldn’t climb up, he had lost. He found no way out.
The worse part? He couldn’t practically lie again.
They ended up ignoring the party somewhere out there, sitting on and old, dusky sofa in Minho’s private library. Taking seats, didn’t bother to talk further. What topics. Weather forecast. Earthquake. Tsunamis. Disasters. Corruptors. Traitors.
Liars.
Minutes had passed.
You know something? Jonghyun leaned backward, flinging his brown bangs confidently.
You are gorgeous.
Kibum stuffed his hands into his pockets, holding back a smile, muttering,
Thank you. I know I am.
Oh, could it get any girlier than this.
And you know, I have a girlfriend. She’s so pretty, my Sekyung. Jonghyun added.
Kibum mentally stated, poking out his hands.
As expected. Why don’t you go back to her side? She’s looking for you right now, perhaps.
Their fingers brushed slightly.
Jonghyun grabbed Kibum’s hand this time, made him feel overwhelmed and unstable. Kibum stiffened a bit, constantly questioning his mind, asking
why why I can’t lie, don’t go, don’t go, stay, stay forever.
The older boy grasped it tighter without putting on a single glance on Kibum.
I already have Sekyung, he repeated.
Kibum nodded solemnly. One step closer.
Yes you do. Forever and always.
Then there they were, only an inch apart; hand-in-hand, parted with messy silence mixing with some crowds. Alone and prominent.
Call them drunkees, call it insane, whatever—of course Kibum didn’t want to be such backstabber (though he didn’t even have any idea who Sekyung was); Jonghyun wasn’t his from the very start.
Oh really. Somebody out there please tell him why their hands fitted like they were meant to be together or give him a rational explanation about how their heartbeats played on the same harmony, then.
Jonghyun rolled his head and it landed on Kibum’s shoulder. Squeezing their hands (
I’ll never let go, what should I do, why it feels so wrong yet simultaneously right, fuck I don’t know, Kibum—I don’t know), his voice squeaked;
I have her, and she’s beautiful. But you too.
La la lie, Kibum. La la la lie.
Yes, she better be. No, she must be much more gorgeous than me. Finally, he made up lying.
As if on cue, Kibum could only follow Jonghyun, their heads met. Closing eyes, they fell into ponds of dreams. And the fingers stayed linking, sticking, leaving invisible fingertips on each palms, drawing clueless words.
I’ve got a tight grip on reality
but I can’t let go of what’s in front of me here
I know you’re leaving in the morning, when you wake up
leave me with some kind of proofs it’s not a dream
God, if this is only a one night stand dream; so be it.
Up until now I had sworn to myself
that I’m content with loneliness
Kibum had promised—when he woke up later, brows furrowed with confusion as he stared down on Jonghyun who was sleeping peacefully beside him (the party had ended; like Kibum cared)—the poker face would back to the place it belonged. What are they? Acquaintances. Who is Kim Jonghyun? Nobody.
(No, Kim Jonghyun is some kind of bastard who holds his heart and hangs it up to the high, high sky—close to the moon and sun and stars until Kibum can’t pick it back.)
And that was how Kibum’s world worked. He examined the other’s features expertly, carefully; hair, eyes, chapped lips, arms and short legs, before giving off one last bitter smile, fixed Jonghyun’s jacket and went on.
Kibum never looked back. Because the mask was now on, while the lies kept coming and gone.
Because none of it was ever worth the risk
But you are the only exception,
You are the only exception
It was the first time he knew what love was. It was the first time he recognized that Jonghyun’s hair was auburn, not brown, how his puppy eyes dimmed and sparkling and Kibum found sea of stars and it was total dark, his skin was a bit tan, and all hues were there. But it was also the last time he let his guard shattered astronomically in front of somebody else.
And Kibum didn’t lie about that.Labels: fanfiction
0 Comments
This post will be unbelievably emotional.
I gotta emphasize the most fundamental fact: I'm glad those five sparkling boys coming over here (hello there, gantengs, enjoy tropic-ish indonesia and floody jakarta? :p) despite another fact that I have such bad luck so seeing them becomes something miraculously miracle (read: aka impossible dream) -- between reality and fiction, nevertheless, we're (I am) so close with them, and not being able to see them in person kinda makes me a bit dissapoint.
Thank God I can proudly say--I could stay rational during those chaos. All I wanna say is just keep healthy, do not force yourself too much, guys. See you next time :)Labels: another angst notes
0 Comments
assumptions
PG-13
various pairings
You need to spell it out.
i.
Key (being The Almighty Key, he is) is always known as bumpy-jumpy, but somewhat seems to distant himself from the other members (I’m just trying to keep sane enough; I live with those bunches of idiots for ungodly hours, thank you, he retorts. No offense). In some past interviews, he did even say the members were not his families, not his closest friends, they were just, plainly, members. Damn that kissable lips which could spit out random thoughts (and surely, cruel words) without noticing the way Taemin flinches, a low sigh from Minho (a perfect ignorance is bliss action), Jonghyun tightens his fist—holding back his soon-to-be-exploded anger.
And Onew completely drowns in silence. But he understands.
Jonghyun clenches his teeth, while Taemin plasters a confused face. What is it now.
Onew approaches Key right away after recording sessions. Key’s there, sitting two meters apart from the three—as if saying those boys are contaminated with germs by the looks. Or stuffs like that. Off-make-up face. Nonchalant gaze. Still no smile.
Maybe they did something stupid and it annoyed him. Maybe he got over fight. Maybe he is just tired. Maybe they’re practically not a family, of the entire years they’ve been together. Maybes.
Onew doesn’t need maybes. All he needs is an efficient solve.
There is a lengthy, comfortless silence filled by the sound of gossiping noonas, flick-click Minho’s PSP by the time Onew reaches where Key is.
“Need someone to talk?”
Key peers over. The leader quirks an eyebrow, waiting for answers.
Key takes Onew’s delicate, puffy hands, and nods. They walk, holding hands.
It is what a leader supposed to do. Right?
--
ii.
“We made it, hyung!” Taemin runs, shouting all the way, “We made it! We win the main prize—damn this quiz show is too easy, piece of cake—we did it!”
The youngest of the group runs toward Minho, stretching his arm. Generally, Minho’s barely laugh. He does smiling most of the times, in a way that makes every girls in the world would die from heart-attack (okay, that is quite exaggerating), but it’s no more than a thin line curving, fitting perfectly on his lips. Who knows; ask the concept, ask the management, they told him to do so. To stay cool, being an Ice Prince. Minho knows he gets nothing to choose except obeying the rules.
But when Taemin moves closer, laughing breathlessly, Minho breaks the spell. He grins hugely, almost dorky, his doe eyes stun amazingly. He catches Taemin, hugs back and spins him. The fangirls start ooh-ing, wondering what is happening between them. Choi Minho never burst like that.
Say it because of his over-competitive self, or he’s enjoying the six digits that blinking through the big screen too much, or it could be—it because of Taemin.
He wins. Taemin hugs him happily. He should be happy.
Right?
--
iii.
“Wow,” Jonghyun chortled, “third times lucky. We win again.”
Key sniffs, pulling his trade-mark smirk again. “Happy now?”
Somehow Jonghyun doesn’t seem satisfied this time. Instead, he looks nervous while flinging the reward upside down. A bit similar to Jinki when the leader makes constipated face. “Of course I am. But actually, I have to do something if we win. I’ve promised.”
“Do what? Sprinting around SM office in nothing but briefs?” Key snaps out.
Jonghyun doesn’t bother to give the answer; he tilts his head, jerk back, bringing a simple peck to the boy’s high cheekbone. “I have to do this.” he grins.
Key stops talking, stops thinking. He’s too busy counting how many minutes more until they back to the dorm so he can skin Jonghyun alive. It’s a valuable payment for him. Best friends don’t kiss each other. A best friend Kibum shall have doesn’t give him flutter feelings and butterflies flying in his stomach. A best friend can’t make him feels like a thirteen-years-old in a crush.
Right?
--
OMAKE
Onew : Okay, you lost the bet, Jjong. Because of my gentle affections, they like Onkey better. I found about 500 Onkey fanfictions.
Jjong : No hyung. You look pitiful, that’s why they wrote Onkey. Besides, Jongkey fanfictions are way too cool to compare with. They’re professionals.
Taemin : Nononono, you guys—lookie there? As far as I can see, only fanfictions tagged 2min which appear recently on the sites. It means I am the winner. Good job, Minho-hyung!
Minho : I don’t swing that way, oh God. Taemin, you start becoming like them. It’s horrible.
Key : GREAT. SO THIS IS A GAME, HUH? AND I’M THE GIRL, I ALWAYS BE. DO YOU GUYS WANNA DIE?!
Jjong : Easy, Momma. It’s fun, it’s just fan service. It’s not like you and I are really dating and, you know, do things like what they wrote—
Minho : Are you PMS-ing again, Key?
Key : YOU GUYS ARE GROSS. STAY AWAY FROM THE BEDROOM. SLEEP OUTSIDE—I DON’T EVEN CARE, JUST DIE FROM PNEUMONIA OR ANYTHING, BBANGKUS.
Onew : Hey but I’m leader—
Key : AND NO CHICKEN FOR A WEEK.
--Labels: fanfiction
0 Comments
