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(1) or 6
I find in myself the need to believe my own words when I tell Seokjin this is the last time. Fingers helplessly lingering over his sharp hip bones, I’m inclined to think that sunlight is a gift made especially for his skin (the way it glows and warms and sweats under my nails as his hips go up and then down, and then draw circles - or are they semicircles, I can’t tell - to go up and down again, delicate and greasy when sunlight catches his right side, cannot be real), so I tell him that with a hand floating from the curve of his waist to the back of his neck.
It’s a quarter past seven, and, touching my skin (I’m not sure where exactly, but the word “under” comes to my head like a shot now and then, and I allow it to stay sometimes), Seokjin is a complex of curves in the middle of the silent morning (a trainwreck), soft (his neck, his hands, his eyelashes, his mouth) and wild ones (his spine, his arse, his legs, the twin curves of his waist, his mind), changing their shapes when his body moves and tightens and tenses.
He looks like he believes me (he looks like he knows every time is the last time, and I’m not sure if it’s because he never thinks a next time will ever come or if it’s because he knows that the time that follows is always a new beginning. But every time is a last) and he kisses me. He believes me and his life becomes an arch so his lips can meet the ones of mine, as if those little sacrifices are a part of his physical self, like his bones and his guts (and his skin gifted by the sun that comes from the window).
His mouth is (obviously) wet and warm and (not so obviously) fresh, and he never goes further, but always invites me in and waits for an answer. I’m glad, because I don’t know what to say once the kiss is over (“I’m sorry” is far from an available choice, both because a) we’ve been here and now for too long and b) I am not. I moan under his body, between his legs - up and down - and “thank you” would sound polite and rude at the same time, and there is nothing to thank him for), and suddenly I realize that he kisses me to tell me something himself (and what is it, Jin, that you can only tell me in bed, when we’re over? Every time we are over, I wish I could tell), probably so I can say nothing at all, when my tongue meets his and he purrs.
Sometimes I wonder if, unlike me, Seokjin knows what to say, but won’t say it either. Possible. Not an entire impossibility. Still no proof of that, but, again, I have never dismissed the chance of not understanding some things myself. He holds me in his mouth for a while longer, breathing through me, hands on my shoulders when all that’s left from the ups and downs - and semicircles - is the sound and the smell of it, and my oily fingers still on his hip and his neck (and sometimes I also wonder if he will ever ask me whys - why is it like it is, why is this the last time, or why is it not. He does not, and my own questions surprise me more than that) as I shift and now there’s just his body under mine, a golden and warm mess of flesh and limbs.
His body is honest (of course it is, just like every single piece of his open and simple existence and language) when he relaxes and tells me today is just one more extension of forever. I ask him if it’s not the other way around, and he traces my chest to tell me it’s not. I don’t get it (and, for future information, I write a note to ask myself if it’s mostly because I don’t want to. I think it’s not, but he watches me like he knows it - what he says and what I do not). He runs his fingers through my hair: does not caress, but rests them there in my scalp, and that’s the moment I want to tell him not to believe me anymore. But he believes me (he always does) and sleeps for five more minutes tangled to my sheets and to the end of the two of us (one more. Is this how he says goodbye? “Goodbye” is maybe the right thing to say).
Seokjin believes me, all sunlight and last times, even when I don’t.
(2) or 3 or 4 or 5
“Yoongi...”
Seokjin has the habit of starting sentences with my name (and I, more often than not, consider it an invitation for me to break his heart at least once a day - a request of his, not a wish of mine) and never finding an end for them, which is endearing and washed out by the number of times he does that. I don’t bring myself to interrupt what he does alone, and I think that what hurts him the most is the fact that he does not need me to get hurt, in the end (I take that from the way he baits his lashes once then twice, and looks at me then looks away, but stays there and waits for me to finish him somehow - and, oh, he’s so predictable).
(Only, sometimes, I ask myself whether you really want me to finish breaking your heart or to stop you from throwing it on the ground, but I’ve never really seen your point here: why wearing it on your sleeve, Jin? Is there something you want to prove? Is that how it works? Or am I an excuse so you can finally cry?)
He sits at the couch, by my side, left knee brushing lightly to my right thigh. I don’t like it how he leaves me alone to carry the silence when his lips go perfectly still (at this point, I don’t know if what I see in his face is hope or expectation, but it makes me bitter and tired all the same, and I touch his hand so he can be the one to let go. Will you?) but it takes me to the day we met, Seokjin in this very same couch, the new guy that would not (does not) fit in a group of seven, and I try to remember how it all (we) started (I leave this plan behind in three or four seconds, because every time I pay a visit to this - our - story, I know I re-draw and twist it somehow, so I better let it be).
But we are still here, and Seokjin still said my name and nothing more, like it’s a code to something much more important now than it was before. This is not an argument, would never be, but his fingers are still with mine and it screams a question (a “what”, not a “why”, he does not ask “whys”. “What are we?”, would be the closest to the question he wants to ask, with all the other questions that come in layers after that: “am I the one?”, “should I be scared?”, “do you love me?”. And for God’s sake, Seokjin, are you? Should you? Do I?). Seokjin is not ordinary, though, and his heart is not broken (not yet, and that I can tell by the way it beats against my shoulder: hard, fast, wanting), so it’s not a surprise when he’s a step ahead on that matter too.
“What do you want?”
Generic enough so we can keep on dancing around each other for a while longer (he’s demanding, he likes his heart breaking slowly in front of me, wouldn’t accept any less).
(And sometimes I think that I lost something, and that the answer that he really wants from me is the one he knows I could never give, the one that won’t make him bleed. I wouldn’t know, he wouldn’t tell, and all I can think about is that he’s beautiful when he holds my hand like this, his ugly fingers curved around my wrist, feeling my heart too: hard, fast, wanting).
What do I want? Jin, this isn’t even a question. This is a demand, because if I tell you that I want you, it won’t be an answer either. You want to know what comes after that (me wanting you), and that I don’t know. You want to know if you’re enough (and I don’t really think it would bother you if I told you that you are or that you are not), and that I can’t tell. So you’re here, feeding me little reasons (still better than big excuses, enough for me to sleep at night) to hurt you, and sometimes I don’t even know why.
This is a question I should ask someday, but not tonight. Tonight, he does not let go of my hand, and it still amazes me somehow. Tonight, I can’t decide between breaking him through silence or answer, so I lay my lips on his knuckles, and it hits me hard: the sudden idea that he does this to break my heart too (the violence of the thought makes me proud of him and of me, and makes it hard not to unfold the memories that will tell me how we came to this). Tonight, I wish I knew what is it that you want.
But, Jin, this isn’t even a question.
(3) or 2 or 4 or 5
Every night, he leaves the bedroom window open, just a crack, and sometimes I wonder if he wants me to be able to see the shape of his body as he sleeps. Possible. Not likely. Probably just needs some air at night. But if it was true, would it be some kind of invitation? (I find it hard to admit that I am tired of his invitations. He is not playing mind games, that’s not what he does, he knows better than that. It’s just that, sometimes, when I come home and the light that comes from the window does not find him in bed, I get lost and I don’t really know how to come back anymore. That can’t be good).
I watch him, and Namjoon is inside my head telling me this will never work (I tell him to shut up for the lack of definition on concepts and conceptions like “this” and “work”. Is everyone always this dense? I think so), but the window is open, just a crack, and Seokjin shakes a little, and my mind shuts up as well.
I try to figure out what is it that gets my attention on the shape of his body (“everything” is not an answer, there is no “everything” in his muscles, not such a thing regarding people, and, was this even possible, wouldn’t it be meaningless? Pause here. Have you seen it, Jin? I caught myself hoping you are not meaningless), and understand that what amazes me the most is the way his hip bones break the curves of his waist (not sure if it’s because that’s something I can see no matter how he sleeps). The flesh under his skin seems soft and tender, and, for a moment, I forget the blood that flows under there too, and makes things wet and messy (and warm. From my bed I can feel the warmth that escapes from his blankets, and I know that he leaves the window open so I won’t suffocate on his heat.)
(But, Jin, I want to.)
His hip bones are what make him real, I get that now. Sharp edges on smooth skin, not enough for a paradox, but a welcome surprise for the languid forms of his (at some moments I don’t think Seokjin is human at all, and it scares the hell out of me and makes me hard under my trousers), and I know that that’s where my hands should be, printing fingerprints on his vulnerable meat, no blood, flesh and bones only.
“Are you cold?”
He’s awake. I try to read in his face since when.
He’s awake, but not really (just a crack), just enough to get me staring, probably since the moment I got him shaking. Can’t bring myself the decency of feeling ashamed of his beauty. He doesn’t look ashamed either (he is never). But I’m not cold, so I do not answer (mostly because a “no” is not an answer and a “yes” is not the truth, and I wonder what is wrong with the human race, for most of the daily questions in the world don’t really have answers) but I keep looking at him and he’s not looking for it (answers) today. So I watch carefully when he gets up and his blankets slide sleepy and slowly through his t-shirt and shorts, and the almost human shape of his entire body. I’m in love, undeniably in love, but with his bones first.
He comes to my bed, comes under my sheets, turns his back to me and allows my knees to touch the back of his thighs. Lets my hands crawl to his chest, my chest crawl to his scapulas, and his ankles touch my toes and there they stop. We are close, we are glued (and God, he is so warm, so unbelievably warm), and he quickly falls asleep again (not awake, not really), letting my hands melt in love with his ribs (and would I love them even more if they were broken? According to Namjoon, yes, but I pay him no attention, I have my own questions). His heart beats on my chest.
I don’t touch his hips. I wouldn’t dare.
But, was I cold, Jin, wouldn’t have been easier just to close the window?
(4) or 2 or 3 or 5
Namjoon says I always fall in love for pretty and broken things, and I try hard not to punch him in the teeth for this. Sitting on the cheap leather of the couch, he sips his drink and tells me this (Seokjin and I) won’t ever work (define “work”, Namjoon, and define “Seokjin and I” to save me the trouble, would you?). I don’t ask him why, both because a) I’m not interested and b) if it’s true, it’s not for the reasons his simple mind might be creating by now.
But, Namjoon, I also don’t know why.
From a distance, I can see Seokjin in the kitchen, destroying himself and an apple as Jungkook watches. On rainy days he is blue and swollen, like something that drowned, and his hands tremble to reach his dry lips and a plate. “Pretty and broken things” is awful and sounds wrong, and is far (so far) from the truth. “Pretty and broken things” (I’m offended, should I be?) is the reason why they will never understand, none of them, not even Jungkook (the young one that wants Seokjin so much it’s painful to watch - and how dare he).
His face is an odd mixture: his tongue is codeine-pink between his lips, but the grey of his eyes sparkle in affection (love, Yoonji, this is love) when he holds my gaze for (one, two, three) four seconds before dropping it slowly and carefully. “You could kiss me now”, they say. And could I? Would this bring a definition for “this” as “Seokjin and I”? Or would this bring a definition for how could “this” “work”? (And could this?) Let’s just be open about it: you are not hurt when I don’t kiss you. You are mostly hurt when I do, and I still find myself wondering if this is not the exact reason why you kiss me, when you do.
But now, with your eyes bouncing from my gaze to the sink and your lips cracking open in smiles for me (and just for me), I don’t really see why this (us) wouldn’t work (doesn’t it, already?).
“You could really kiss me, you know?” I know, and I want to, but does this even work for you? Sometimes, you look at the sink as if you lost your heart on the waste grinder, and I try to understand what’s the value you find on carrying it in your hands and bleeding everywhere. “Kiss me”, and do you want me to turn the grinder on or to take your heart out of it? “Kiss me”, and do you even need me at all?
I know (you don’t). You too (you know it. I need you).
Jungkook helps Seokjin in the kitchen, and that’s when I see that this (they) would never work, and why: Jungkook thinks Seokjin is a pretty and broken thing too. Seokjin knows that (“Jungkook is just so young”). Jungkook thinks Seokjin is a triturated heart (and, if I had a word about it, I would say Seokjin is, at least, all the violence and the love and the pain that comes before and after it. But not just it. Not it at all), and wants him for that (and Seokjin knows it, he always does, and “Jungkook is just so young”). What an awful way to put it, Jungkook. What an awful kind of affection (not love. Never love).
“You could kiss me now”. I will, if you want me to. “Kiss me”, your pink lips and your bloody hands, and all the rage and the lust and the calm and the love that comes before, during and after them, if “this” “works” for you by now.
Hearts are not pretty and broken things, Namjoon.
Not before they are. Not after they are not.
(5) or 2 or 3 or 4
“Dearest Seokjin”,
I kiss him (phalanges, metacarpals, carpals, radius, ulna, humerus, scapula, clavicle) and rest my face on the curve of his neck (a soft one) to feel him (phalanges, metatarsals, tarsals, fibula, tibia, patella, femur) under my body (sacrum, spine, ribs, sternum). I think about writing him a letter while we make love, but who am I trying to fool besides myself (certainly not him)?
He opens his legs (gastrocnemius, tibialis, quadriceps, soleus, gracilis, adductor longus, sartorius, pectineus, iliopsoas) and close to him everything is dark and warm (“Dearest Seokjin, the flesh covers the bone, and sometimes I wonder if could all that skin and flesh and bone of yours cover the soul and the heart inside: ‘flesh covers bone and flesh searches for more than flesh’”, scratch that, it’s called plagiarism) like it’s inside, at least until where I can kiss.
He moans under me (ribcage, pectoralis major, and “Dearest Seokjin, was I the source or the cure of your pain, would transfusing our bloods do us any good by now? I wish I could feel what runs through your veins, so you’d understand that the answers to all of questions are inside - under - my skin, with you”) and I can’t find my way back. “Dearest Seokjin”, I try to choose the words, carefully, not to scare him “If you could call it for a name and say that I love you, would that make any difference?”. I don’t think so.
But “Dearest Seokjin, what is it that you want?”.
He calls my name, tries to find my soul digging my back with his nails, tensing (rectus abdominis, “Dearest Seokjin, you could kiss me now, you know? That maybe could tell us what is it that composes something that goes beyond ‘you and I’ and becomes ‘us’, an ‘us’ that works. But Dearest Seokjin, why do you invite me so much when you don’t need me at all, whatever is it that you think is best for your heart?”) under my moves, and this is gonna end soon.
But
“Dearest Seokjin,
Let’s be open about it for a while and call it love for once.
I really, really think it works.
(Myocardium)
I think you can’t hate that.”
(6) or 1
Seokjin is introduced to us sitting on the couch, stiff as a rock, fingers closed around each other as if holding his heart in the palm of his hands, beating hard, fast, wanting, bleeding everywhere.
He looks at me at the same time I look at him, and holds my gaze for (one, two, three) four seconds before dropping it carefully, but not ashamed. Something gets my attention in the shape of his body, but I can’t really tell what it is.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Yoongi.” Generic enough so we can keep on dancing around each other for a while longer.
It’s pretty clear (I can tell by the way he moves through the house, like a pretty broken thing) he doesn’t fit, won’t fit. This won’t ever work, and he knows it. Again, he is not ashamed.
“Yoongi…” he starts a sentence with my name, but does not find an end for it, and I don’t like it how he leaves me alone to carry the silence that follows, as if he’s waiting for an answer.
But
In the bedroom, opening the window just a crack, he turns to me looking like he wants something. I wonder what is it that he wants (but I don’t ask: it’s not even a question, is it?), but, looking at his face and at his smile again, it really looks like he just wants to believe me (he looks like he believes in a new beginning, he looks like he wants to believe me when I say it’s nice to meet him).
He looks like he wants to believe me, even when I don’t.
I can’t hate that