serasmores

[serasmores]

me when somebody actually likes my shit:

the first time you noticed his eyesight getting weaker was when he was reading a book.

he sat on the far end of the couch, leaning on a soft, round cushion behind him, a leg crossed over the other. his head rested on his knuckles while the other hand held the book by its spine.

even from the kitchen, you could hear him emit a low gruff under his breath. quiet, subtle, frustrated. you would've missed it from the way your mind constantly drifts from one space to another, swallowed by a void that leaves you with no thoughts to entertain yourself with — because home today had apparently learned how to be silent. eerily so.

and that's exactly why. in silence, you can hear everything. maybe the world decided it was best if you take a break from noise; since only then could you stop in your tracks and notice small, almost hidden details of your world. your home.

in silence, you began to wander. your ears drowned in on the ticking hands of the clock, relentless and irritatingly inconsiderate. yet it was lulling. then your focus drifted to how the fridge seemed to click then rattle, and somehow there was a persistent humming ringing into your ears that won't go away even when the pan clacked against the stove and you flipped the pancake with a wooden spoon. it reminded you of the old timed when the old television in your childhood home showed distorted rainbow and made loud static and incoherent buzzes when a lightning hits the antennae and your father had to climb up the roof to find the right angle to make it work again despite the chances that the lightning would hit him next.

luckily, that never happened. thankfully.

you heard him shuffling on the couch, how the pages fluttered when he turned to the next one. even when he ran his fingers through his scalp as a strand of his hair fell just enough to caress the skin below his eyes. just enough to irritate him. he did the motion once again, then another, until his mouth scrunched up to one side, and he pursed his lips and exhaled deeply.

you glanced at him, quite secretively, from the corner of your eyes, but your gaze must have lingered for a second more than what was comfortable; because he noticed and composed himself — shifting in his position so he could sit straight, shoulders tense, and the soles of his feet suddenly grounded to the floor — then he went back to read the book as indifferently as his facial expressions could muster.

you don't realize the pancake was burning already. it sizzled, the smell of cinder wafting through the kitchen and tickled your nose. there was ash creeping on its edges, the crusts thick and stiff, staining the pan with its residue. you turned off the heat and placed the pancake at the bottom of the plate along with the others which, in comparison, looked far less gloomy and more delightful in taste.

you walked up to him and plopped on the couch beside him, the plate served on the center table along with two cups of coffee served hot. he dropped the book on his lap and snaked an arm around your waist to pull you in closer. he puffed his cheeks and pressed a kiss on your lips. deliberate and brief but he dawdled. wanted more of you, longer, almost as if he tasted something sweeter in them, although you were pretty sure your mouth was dry and they reeked of something foul because of sleep. like expired milk bread, since that was the last thing you ate yesterday.

your head leaned on his shoulder, legs spread out on the couch as you shifted your entire weight on him. he didn't seem to mind, even adjusted his position so your back was against his chest instead. he snuck his head in the space under your ear, both arms now wrapped around you — one held the book so you could read it too while the other one gently tapping the side of your stomach with two fingers respectively. he was tapping in the same beats that your hearts did, or maybe he was singing in his head the song he sang to you before, that enthralled you into a lifetime relationship with him.

you love to hear his voice. whatever he sang, whatever he said. that much was true — but there was more to it than the naked eye could see or rather, your ears could hear. the tip of an iceberg. your love for him stems from more than just his voice or that he allured you into this. he's an enigma. someone who could make you withstand the flames of hell, and at the same time give you a taste of heaven. it's been years since he kissed your hands and (with an emphasis —because he often, if not always, found a way to kiss or adore every inch of your skin) vowed to god — “until death do us apart” — yet sometimes when you look at him, you wonder if this was all simply a part of a grander scheme.

he's the kind of dream you'd go into a coma for, if it meant seeing him even if they were simply fragments that your mind made up to console you. he could tell you that the earth is flat and you'd believe him without question. he could point a gun in your neck and you'd suck off his fingers before intertwining your own with his and pull the trigger yourself.

you held the book by its spine — or it was more of an excuse to hold his hand. he grabbed a cup on the table and took a long sip, before taking a spoonful of the pancakes.

“these words are too small,” you complained, “i can't read them.”

you could see them perfectly fine. just that you wanted to see if he would read them out loud. maybe you could kiss him out of the blue or even better, do exactly as the characters in the book did. although you would have to suggest him to read a different kind of book then.

“really?” he pondered, grabbing another spoon but this time it was for you. “i thought it was just me.”

you munched. the pancakes were soft, and they easily melted on your tongue. its sweet, buttery fragrance together with the bitter and strong aroma of the coffee — cozy, serene, and just… irreplaceable. hitting your nose in the most comfortable way possible. and this — nothing could ever replace quiet mornings with him. your days with him, life with him. home. with him.

he's home.

and he's home. where his shoulders could be slumped and your eyes could be drooped and your mouths be crooked at ease. not a frown or an overly-enthusiastic smile. just in peace, at ease. never forced.

“just you?” you asked. stirring your cup with a spoon before taking a sip.

“i don't know. they seem… clouded, i think,” he said, “like when you cry as a child because you can't solve 5+7, and accidentally wrote the answer below the equal sign instead of the blank next to it.”

“what did the teacher say?”

“my father? he was disappointed. so i cried louder.”

“oh…,” you chuckled, then pointed to a random excerpt, “can you try to read this part?”

he squinted his eyes, nose scrunched up, and he tilted his head. there were tears pooling in his eyes, not caused by sadness or melancholy. he wasn't about to cry, they were simply dry. he drawled on the longer words no matter how simple, which he could've pronounced better if he recognized the shapes or the outlines of the letters at least.

he read: “…‘well, i agree — that you definitely hated betrayals the most, traitors the second, and liars the third. i can't quite say the same thing for me though, now and then.’

she stood in place, back against him, unmoving. but the words she uttered next left him devastated, and… even more confused?

‘because i chose to fall in love with you even if you were all three.’

— then it hit him. that was the key to the pandora's box, that was himself before he lost his memories.”

(a/n: yes, i am promoting my wip here hahaha)

“that's… hauntingly beautiful,” you commented, “where did you get this?”

“a co-worker gave it me. said it was boring and too tragic for liking.”

you nodded, lifting your head to stare up at him. your forehead nudging his chin. “anyway,” you gave his neck a peck, “my highschool friends and i planned a reunion by the end of the month. i'll need to buy them some gifts sooo let's head out later — then we can get your eyes checked while on it. sounds good?”

“mhm,” his body slumped against you, one hand pulling you in impossibly closer. not quite gentle but his grip didn't hurt either. there was something more in the way he touched, something tucked away in his eyes — that want, that need, that urge to keep you for himself and himself only. but then he thought, would that make you happy at all?

so for now, he huffed. his breath warm against your neck, enough to send a shiver down your spine. and heat to your core. you squirmed. for now, he can only hold you in his arms, close his eyes, and drown himself into your scent.

“yeah, let's do that.”

you were already his, and he doesn't know it yet (probably) but you would gladly lock yourself and him in this house if that meant reassuring him you were only, has always been, and will always choose to be his.

—

[serasmores]

the first time you noticed his eyesight getting weaker was when he was reading a book.

he sat on the far end of the couch, leaning on a soft, round cushion behind him, a leg crossed over the other. his head rested on his knuckles while the other hand held the book by its spine.

even from the kitchen, you could hear him emit a low gruff under his breath. quiet, subtle, frustrated. you would've missed it from the way your mind constantly drifts from one space to another, swallowed by a void that leaves you with no thoughts to entertain yourself with — because home today had apparently learned how to be silent. eerily so.

and that's exactly why. in silence, you can hear everything. maybe the world decided it was best if you take a break from noise; since only then could you stop in your tracks and notice small, almost hidden details of your world. your home.

in silence, you began to wander. your ears drowned in on the ticking hands of the clock, relentless and irritatingly inconsiderate. yet it was lulling. then your focus drifted to how the fridge seemed to click then rattle, and somehow there was a persistent humming ringing into your ears that won't go away even when the pan clacked against the stove and you flipped the pancake with a wooden spoon. it reminded you of the old timed when the old television in your childhood home showed distorted rainbow and made loud static and incoherent buzzes when a lightning hits the antennae and your father had to climb up the roof to find the right angle to make it work again despite the chances that the lightning would hit him next.

luckily, that never happened. thankfully.

you heard him shuffling on the couch, how the pages fluttered when he turned to the next one. even when he ran his fingers through his scalp as a strand of his hair fell just enough to caress the skin below his eyes. just enough to irritate him. he did the motion once again, then another, until his mouth scrunched up to one side, and he pursed his lips and exhaled deeply.

you glanced at him, quite secretively, from the corner of your eyes, but your gaze must have lingered for a second more than what was comfortable; because he noticed and composed himself — shifting in his position so he could sit straight, shoulders tense, and the soles of his feet suddenly grounded to the floor — then he went back to read the book as indifferently as his facial expressions could muster.

you don't realize the pancake was burning already. it sizzled, the smell of cinder wafting through the kitchen and tickled your nose. there was ash creeping on its edges, the crusts thick and stiff, staining the pan with its residue. you turned off the heat and placed the pancake at the bottom of the plate along with the others which, in comparison, looked far less gloomy and more delightful in taste.

you walked up to him and plopped on the couch beside him, the plate served on the center table along with two cups of coffee served hot. he dropped the book on his lap and snaked an arm around your waist to pull you in closer. he puffed his cheeks and pressed a kiss on your lips. deliberate and brief but he dawdled. wanted more of you, longer, almost as if he tasted something sweeter in them, although you were pretty sure your mouth was dry and they reeked of something foul because of sleep. like expired milk bread, since that was the last thing you ate yesterday.

your head leaned on his shoulder, legs spread out on the couch as you shifted your entire weight on him. he didn't seem to mind, even adjusted his position so your back was against his chest instead. he snuck his head in the space under your ear, both arms now wrapped around you — one held the book so you could read it too while the other one gently tapping the side of your stomach with two fingers respectively. he was tapping in the same beats that your hearts did, or maybe he was singing in his head the song he sang to you before, that enthralled you into a lifetime relationship with him.

you love to hear his voice. whatever he sang, whatever he said. that much was true — but there was more to it than the naked eye could see or rather, your ears could hear. the tip of an iceberg. your love for him stems from more than just his voice or that he allured you into this. he's an enigma. someone who could make you withstand the flames of hell, and at the same time give you a taste of heaven. it's been years since he kissed your hands and (with an emphasis —because he often, if not always, found a way to kiss or adore every inch of your skin) vowed to god — “until death do us apart” — yet sometimes when you look at him, you wonder if this was all simply a part of a grander scheme.

he's the kind of dream you'd go into a coma for, if it meant seeing him even if they were simply fragments that your mind made up to console you. he could tell you that the earth is flat and you'd believe him without question. he could point a gun in your neck and you'd suck off his fingers before intertwining your own with his and pull the trigger yourself.

you held the book by its spine — or it was more of an excuse to hold his hand. he grabbed a cup on the table and took a long sip, before taking a spoonful of the pancakes.

“these words are too small,” you complained, “i can't read them.”

you could see them perfectly fine. just that you wanted to see if he would read them out loud. maybe you could kiss him out of the blue or even better, do exactly as the characters in the book did. although you would have to suggest him to read a different kind of book then.

“really?” he pondered, grabbing another spoon but this time it was for you. “i thought it was just me.”

you munched. the pancakes were soft, and they easily melted on your tongue. its sweet, buttery fragrance together with the bitter and strong aroma of the coffee — cozy, serene, and just… irreplaceable. hitting your nose in the most comfortable way possible. and this — nothing could ever replace quiet mornings with him. your days with him, life with him. home. with him.

he's home.

and he's home. where his shoulders could be slumped and your eyes could be drooped and your mouths be crooked at ease. not a frown or an overly-enthusiastic smile. just in peace, at ease. never forced.

“just you?” you asked. stirring your cup with a spoon before taking a sip.

“i don't know. they seem… clouded, i think,” he said, “like when you cry as a child because you can't solve 5+7, and accidentally wrote the answer below the equal sign instead of the blank next to it.”

“what did the teacher say?”

“my father? he was disappointed. so i cried louder.”

“oh…,” you chuckled, then pointed to a random excerpt, “can you try to read this part?”

he squinted his eyes, nose scrunched up, and he tilted his head. there were tears pooling in his eyes, not caused by sadness or melancholy. he wasn't about to cry, they were simply dry. he drawled on the longer words no matter how simple, which he could've pronounced better if he recognized the shapes or the outlines of the letters at least.

he read: “…‘well, i agree — that you definitely hated betrayals the most, traitors the second, and liars the third. i can't quite say the same thing for me though, now and then.’

she stood in place, back against him, unmoving. but the words she uttered next left him devastated, and… even more confused?

‘because i chose to fall in love with you even if you were all three.’

— then it hit him. that was the key to the pandora's box, that was himself before he lost his memories.”

(a/n: yes, i am promoting my wip here hahaha)

“that's… hauntingly beautiful,” you commented, “where did you get this?”

“a co-worker gave it me. said it was boring and too tragic for liking.”

you nodded, lifting your head to stare up at him. your forehead nudging his chin. “anyway,” you gave his neck a peck, “my highschool friends and i planned a reunion by the end of the month. i'll need to buy them some gifts sooo let's head out later — then we can get your eyes checked while on it. sounds good?”

“mhm,” his body slumped against you, one hand pulling you in impossibly closer. not quite gentle but his grip didn't hurt either. there was something more in the way he touched, something tucked away in his eyes — that want, that need, that urge to keep you for himself and himself only. but then he thought, would that make you happy at all?

so for now, he huffed. his breath warm against your neck, enough to send a shiver down your spine. and heat to your core. you squirmed. for now, he can only hold you in his arms, close his eyes, and drown himself into your scent.

“yeah, let's do that.”

you were already his, and he doesn't know it yet (probably) but you would gladly lock yourself and him in this house if that meant reassuring him you were only, has always been, and will always choose to be his.

—