whosafraidofmarklee

[whosafraidofmarklee]

but if the story is over, why am i still writing pages?

pairings: anton x yn

genre: angst.... fluff, if u squint

wc: 1802 words

summary: 25 footnotes meditating on the failing relationship between anton and reader

notes: was seriously thinking about the form of footnotes as part of my own research...ending up conjuring this homunculus of a beast instead. not proofread, sorry lawls

1 Footnotes. I think that they can be poetic, if you let them be. When you first heard about footnotes, you laughed and said that it's so funny to visualise it. Yes, the foot of the whole page, notes relegated to the bottom of the paper. The superscript almost like the toes, spread out beyond the demarcated line. You always told me off for writing long ass footnotes at the end of my essays because: “nobody ever reads them, YN.” Because to you, all there is to know is in the main body of the text. But in our story, I think there is much to revisit for me to retrace where we begin falling apart. It doesn’t really do justice for me to go back into our main story to pick it apart — i’d like to stay in tact. I’ll revisit us through these notes. An afterthought. An undoing of our tapestry at its seams. Maybe then I can find out why you decided to leave me.

2 Correction: you used to tell people that we met because you saw me first, headlonging toward you after I tripped on my shoes. The truth is that I saw you first and felt like the entire universe condensed itself into this singular moment. Hence, my falling. I saw you first, not the other way round. I saw you first, and last.

3 Your laugh used to puncture through all my worries, no matter the day. Now I am puncturing our story with these words.

4 I still remember you stumbling over your words when you asked me out for dinner for the first time. Your voice soft, as if you were trying to  loosely stitch together all the words of this stupid language to present it to me. Your words floated in the air for awhile before tumbling down in the space between us. I said yes. Not because I felt bad that you embarrassed yourself in front of me. But because I saw you sitting next to me years down the road, having breakfast in our all-green kitchen, tired from a night of laughter and domestic silence.

5 We used to fight over which side of the bed we wanted to claim. Unlike normal couples that have a designated side, we kept each other on our toes when we snuggled into the other’s side when the other was in the bathroom. Never out of malice, no. We just couldn’t choose. The bed became a wrestling ground of space, and so became our dreams. We had always been slippery, perhaps. 

6 Are you finally reading this, Anton?  

7 I think the smell of chlorine is permanently infused into my nose’s DNA now from the days I spent sitting in that frigid swimming complex for you. I still remember your smug smile everytime you emerged from the water, droplets cascading off of your Greek structure. You used to doodle illegibly next to my notes on Greek sculptures: “hey thats me”; “tis me if i was greek”; “is this sculpture named anton”; “do u see me in dis yn”. It fascinated you. To answer your question, yes, I do see you in these sculptures. But not because of the similarities in physique. But because you withstood the test of time in the pantheon of my mind. 

8 Did you realise that the spark in your eye began dimming everytime I brought up our future? 

9 Was it here? When you came home late one day from an afterparty and couldn’t hold a proper conversation with me, complaining about being too worn out. When you used to barrel straight toward me after every victory, no matter the circumstance. But you begin spending more time with your team instead of coming home after your trainings. Unanswered texts, unoccupied spaces. I used to wait by our lovechair until my head lolled to the side. You never walked through on time.

10 You did apologise. Multiple times, in fact. And said that we could try again. And so we did.

10 There was one morning we went to the farmers’ market bright and early. Not that we had anything in mind to do there, you just wanted us to spend time together again. You had an obnoxiously huge baguette in your arms and I had bags of apples – the kind you loved – stuffed deep in my bag. Our hands were sweaty from holding onto each other through the crowd, as if the heat itself was trying mould us together. You were happy and I was too. “I wish everyday was like this”, you said. 

10 Something particularly devastating about two people who could just not get it right, no matter how many fresh starts we got. Did we use up all of ours in the span of two years? Was there an expiration date somewhere that I missed that you scrawled out on your own in the dark when I was fast asleep? 

11 Eleven footnotes too many.

12 I was the first person you always played your songs to. Even at the clunkiest, when your fingers would hesitate against the strings, or when your tongue couldn’t find it in itself to move. We went back to your papers and pen and started over.

13 We went on a trip once. You always slept in through your alarms and I was always an early riser. We got used to our rhythms by now, me with a book nestled next to your sleeping body, waiting until you stirred. The words on the page didn’t interest me anymore. I was watching you. Your fluttering lashes, how your chest expanded with every inhale, a merciful reminder to me that you were here. Even though we were 1268km away from home, you were here. 

14 Oh, or was it this time when you came home late again and I stood by the door, eyes scarlet and dry from waiting up. You did not text me or anything, but the moment you saw me standing by the door, it was like something clicked in your mind. “Did I make you wait again?”  

15 But the truth is, I would have waited forever. Even if it meant sitting through my grief, my petulance and my impatience. I would have rather sat behind that blue door we shared, knowing the exact way the floor creaked below your feet leading you back home to me, than to have not known it at all. Somewhere in between all this waiting, you decided to not make me wait anymore. 

16 You thought of it as an act of grace. You, being merciful to me. But time had always been merciful to us, we just had to bend it toward us and not let go. 

17 After you left, I wondered what I could do with all my waiting. All the time used up, waiting for you to come back to me. I prayed that the road we were heading down had a bend that we did not know of, or a roundabout where we would eventually bump into each other again at the same intersection, and we would laugh like we always did after mornings of badly-made coffee, our hands would naturally suture themselves together and we’d let our feet take our memorised route home.

18 Was it really mercy, Anton, that after you left, I saw your wide smile constructed through pixels, your elated eyes looking at someone else instead of me? That you seemed so fine when I am here writing my afterthoughts, combing through our story, as if I could fix language in itself. I can’t fix it. I know. And you’ve always hated my footnotes. I know that too.

19 But a part of me still hopes that you stayed and read through the bylines with me. That a part of you lay awake in the middle of the night, writing your own footnotes about us like I am doing right now. That perhaps your ultimate act of mercy is realising that you let time win and you’d finally decide to swim out of the circular ocean of unchanging numbers and not make me wait anymore.

20 Footnotes lay dormant, only coming to life when someone decides to read them. It is a form of waiting too. I am trying to resurrect us, even from the sidelines, can you hear me?

21 And if that is the case, I guess I can say anything I want as I hide in here. I miss you. And I love you. I’d throw away all the clocks in the world if it meant you don’t have to worry about me waiting anymore.

21 Doodle next to this note. Please. Anything at all. In your usual jagged writing. Even a dash of black ink from you would reignite every cell in me.

22 Is it ever possible to finish a story without notes? How can a body of literature ever be fully perfect and complete without the writer wanting to add? Do notes then provide structure, in addition to the predictable plot? Or do notes present itself as fragments? Fragmented thoughts amid a complete story. How do you even structure love after it has waned? Our love liquified at the very temperature that kept my heart beating and before I could gather it into a makeshift mould, hardened itself in the cracks of these letters. 

23 Anton, do you remember singing me to sleep everytime my insomnia punctuated my nights? You’d cradle me and tell me that everything is all right. Your sacccharine voice dulling all my bittersweet dreams. Sing me to sleep one last time, please. 

24 Have I bore you enough with my words? Did I keep you waiting?

25 Twenty-five footnotes for the twenty-five months we spent together. I can taste the ink on my tongue when I articulate the numbers. Twenty-five. I still miss you, at twenty-nine. I am beginning to think that there was never fault to begin with. Just like how numbers are chronological, letters naturally fall after the other, seasons come cascading without prompt, nothing I did could have stopped time from moving. Blame is easy when everything has already happened. Reliving our love through notes did not help, I was resurrected with every new comment I had but nothing more. None of these conjured you. I should put my pen down and walk away, I know. Resistance against what had been written cannot be fought alone. I’ll continue living our love through these scattered, pulsed ashes. Maybe you’ll find me here someday and we can tear up these pages and start anew. Continue writing the story without ever needing these afterthoughts. One complete story, one complete truth. I’ll continue waiting. It was the only thing I was ever good at, anyway. 

[whosafraidofmarklee]

crosswalks in my mind are shaky, so please hold on tight

pairings: sungchan x yn genre: angst.... missed chances.... all the works...yada yada... wc: 1565 words summary: sungchan writes a letter to YN, reflecting on their relationship and what could have been.

Dear YN,

I am sitting here at your favourite bench by the park that we used to walk in daily 10 years ago. All I can hear now is the shrilling drills of construction because they are repurposing this space for something else. I can hear your voice — or at least, the memorised voice of you in my head — bemoaning the construction if you were here, and how you’d threaten to write to the authorities to stop this construction from going ahead. And I'd sit here and listen to you, like I always do. No matter how ridiculous you sounded. If they keep changing this park, will our memories fade with it or will the stain on this bench from your orange juice 9 years ago still conjure the same you that I fell in love with? 

You chose this bench because it is right next to a bright red postbox. “That way you’ll never get lost when finding me here. Oh, and I like red.” Yes. It was your favourite colour but you did not have to tell me because everything you owned was the shade of crimson that flooded my cheeks whenever you were even an inch closer to me. And now I am writing this letter, next to your chosen postbox, 10 years down the road, addressing you in hopes of letting you know how I truly felt. Whether I will end up dropping this piece of paper into the slot, is another question altogether.

When you called me a few months back, I left an important meeting just to hear the inflection in your voice again. The same old voice that reverberated my very being, but with a tinge of maturity that kept me on the edge. You called me to invite me to your wedding. “Oh, congratulations.” was all I remembered saying. Honestly, I did not know what else I was expecting to hear from you, given that we’ve not spoken in over a year. Was I expecting you to tell me that you wanted to rewind back to 8 years ago and that you saw the spark in my eye that one night we were out here, sitting on this bench? Or that you missed the irritating way that my voice’s pitch changed when I am talking to you? I told you that I could not make it for the wedding because there’s an important meeting keeping me in town. I did not tell you that it was because I could not bear to watch you look at Anton today, up in that altar, with the same glistening sheen of your eyes that you once looked at me with. With that same smile that I see everywhere around me now: in the seashells, in the park bends, and in the curve of a tree branch. While you walk down that altar, I pace around this rerouted park, my paths endlessly blocked by stupid red tape. And there is no one else to blame here but me.

“Walking is poetic,” you told me. That was how we came to our daily walking ritual back when our lives revolved around crack of dawn lectures and midnight trances from energy drinks. “It’ll help with your writing, I promise you.” I had to go. Not because I was a subpar creative writing major with a waning motivation for my art, but because it was you. I did not realise it then, but all the words typed out or scrawled over those 4 years were driven by you. You hid in between the letters, weaving in and out of it, barely escaping the grasp I tried to have over you through my sentence construction. And so we walked. We walked when the orange glow of the sun landed on your face, so goddess-like, it made my speech stutter; we walked when the world offered us nothing but muddied yellow; we walked when we had to wear snow boots to prevent the snow from seeping into our already frost-bitten feet; and we walked when the flowers were gesturing their first salutation to the earth. Only through our walking did I know that you always wore shoes a size bigger than usual so that you would not get blisters. I knew that to match your pace meant walking less than half of my average speed, in hopes that our synced up footsteps meant that your heartbeat could sync up with mine. Yes, walking was poetic, if poetic meant that I got to pass the doomed ticking of the clock with my memorisation of you. 

I should have told you that night, and I know that you can identify exactly which night I am talking about because I still remember the way your eyebrows softened. How your eyes were brimming with affection that could not be anything short of love. It was 11pm. We had an assignment due the following day. You needed a break and I could not say no to you. And so we went. When it would usually be the flickering washed-out white streetlights caressing your face, that night, it was the rainbow fluorescent lights carelessly hung around the travelling fair. I can still feel the stickiness of your fingers from the overpriced caramel popcorn we got, clinging into the very fabric of my palm, infusing you into me. We never ended up taking any of the rides, of course. But we walked, we laboured through because that was the only thing we were good at. We eventually found ourselves on this bench, staring out onto the silhouette of the fair as distant laughter and chatter choked up the silence between us. 

None of us said anything for a long time. But when I glanced at you from the corner of my eyes, you were already looking at me. And that was when I saw it, I saw my own visage carved out in the shape of your pupil. There were no words needed because it took us all those steps over the years to get us to where we are. Our love was encased in our silly daily ritual. What are rituals anyways, if not to devote ourselves to a higher being, in the same way my body devoted itself to yours throughout all those nights. God, Y/N. For a writer, I was inept at finding the words to tell you how I feel; would you have said yes if I had spewed inarticulate jargon and carefully wrapped it in the paper of ‘I wish we never had to stop walking’? 

It has been years and I see you in the brief flicker of cheap string lights; I hear you in the constant whirring of the airvent right above my desk; I feel your warmth even in the bustling 5pm crowd back home. You made me feel bigger than myself, that all those times we were walking were leading us to a destination, a destination where I found who I was as writer, and subsequently, who I was to you and myself. All our superfluous teenage tears culminated in our hope for a future for ourselves, and I always assumed that that future consisted of me and you. After all, how lucky was I to have found someone that made me want to be a good person? It is an ineffable kind of ache to want to surpass oneself, to make oneself seem shockingly visible as a declaration of wanting to be loved. I wanted to dominate all the headlines, to become a world-renowned philanthropist, to solve a decades-long crisis to profess and convince you: look at how you made me feel. Your love changed me, inside and out. It is a blessing to wake up everyday, knowing someone out there believes in you, like how you believed in me. 

It eludes me how we ended up walking away from each other after our solidified ritual. I will admit, sometimes I come to this bench praying that you will emerge from the mass of strangers. I think a part of me still completes this route everyday, in hopes that you would appear one of these days. Or perhaps this was a ritual of death after all, and my — our — continuous walk was a meditation toward the sobering fact that you were to fade away simply because I could not conjure the words to get you to continue orbiting with and within me. That was a failure on my end, and it is my punishment to watch our cosmology become one of many in the wider galaxy. To watch it slowly become absorbed into a black hole we were warned of since its conception, but refused to do anything to save ourselves from it. I will atone this for as long as I live. There is no use harping on failure. I should have told you how I felt about you that night, and that is final.

Maybe life would have been different for us if I did. A million anagrams left to be rearranged into three simple words. 

I am sorry, and I hope that you are happy. 

Please, be happy. 

There is nothing left for us now in this ever-changing place anyway.

Sincerely,

Your Sungchan

—

He slid the letter into a maroon envelope and dropped it into the postbox; it was missing a stamp and unaddressed.

He turned and walked away.

[whosafraidofmarklee]

just tell me it's too late to drive

pairings: college anton x reader inspired by: promises by luke hemmings genre: childhood best friends to ???, slowburn.... summary: reader contemplates their relationship with anton. wc: 400 words a/n:  hi.....i disappeared, yes. but know that i've been thinking about writing for sooooo long........ and i reappeared with a super shot riize one-shot hehe. been too into them lately...might turn into a problem. we shall find out. the nct to riize pipeline is very natural, i fear. originally wanted this to be a full-fledged series - still thinking about it but lmk if you want it!!!

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“can I stay here tonight?” he asks. 

the ends of his chestnut hair falls on my shoulder as he tilts his head towards me, his eyes lit by the warm glow of lights scattered across my fortressed room. i could feel his fingertips roaming my calloused hands, carefully finding for a spot to nestle in; his very web of touch intertwining itself into mine permanently. Inches away from him, all my senses are arrested: his musky scent reminds me of the salt air that marked our countless august evenings spent together, the air further oppressing our losing race on the sand below us; his laboured breaths remind me of the sharp breath he takes in before releasing my favourite laugh, so melodious it escapes every single bar that i have ever known; his parted cherry lips reminds me of the bruised sweet taste that lingers in the crevices of my mouth every time he calls me beautiful, always flustered when doing so; and his sweatpants-covered knee against mine reminds me of his subconscious need to touch me always, twirling any fabric worn out of the way, completing the maze of uniting his skin with mine.

at the very sight or thought of him, only one word echoes in my mind: “create.”

create the painting that we are going to hang over our beds one day. create a stunning lego sculpture that our grandkids will ask about years down the road, built from all of our lego pieces accumulated since our very first box at 8. create that pastel-coloured picket fence that will guard our cozy little home we laboured many adult nights away for, keeping us safe from all the dangers that we have and will encounter from the world beyond our snowglobe together.

but actions elude me, or shall i say, us. we dance around each other, too afraid to declare our memorisation of each other’s rhythm to the tee. in my hesitation, a glimmer of the harsh, cold city lights outside barrelled its way through the curtains that he persuaded me to get when i first moved in, the city and my room lights tussling each other on his visage. as he slightly winced at the surprise, I felt my fingers tighten around his.

maybe all we can offer each other are words on the discounted aisle. 

“yes, ton,” i hear myself speak, “stay however long you’d like.”

[whosafraidofmarklee]

about you

pairings: photographer! johnny/ arthistorian! reader

genre: established relationship, loads of fluff but also angst...

summary: johnny has successfully opened his first solo photography exhibition. however, he is secretly hoping for someone to walk through the gallery doors all day. intertwined with love from five years ago, his photographs speak louder than words.

wc: 6250 words

a/n: 

hey all!!!! here's a wee bit of a johnny fic heavily inspired by the 1975's new song, about you. that song is so good it got me weeping for days as i concocted this story in my head. enjoy, don't cry :')

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"Aren't you excited?" the curator beams, patting his fuzzy felt blazer down, composing himself.

Johnny turns his head toward the dimmed gallery behind him, the frame reflections catching the glimpses of streetlights outside. Each photograph sits nicely on the wall, proud and tall, waiting for visitors to be voyeurs into his life. He purses his lips, letting out a small "Yeah" before turning round and heading out the steps.

"Get ample sleep, alright! It's your big day tomorrow - your grand opening. I am telling you, everyone would be buzzing over your photographs. They hold so much emotions, that's precisely why I chose you," the curator closes the door behind him and spins back toward Johnny. "Be proud of yourself, your exhibition is going to be spectacular."

"Thank you so much, I appreciate it, really. I'll see you tomorrow then?" Johnny turned his heel and waved a short goodbye before speed-walking to his car. He could not take it anymore, all this holding it in. 

He sits at the driver's seat and shuts his eyes. Finally, some peace and quiet after a whole month of crazy preparations. His chest expands and contracts, the warmth of his breath countering the frigid weather he just walked through. He gathers himself, or so he thinks.

"Yeah, Johnny. You'll be alright. It's your big day tomorrow, don't fuck it up," he whispers to himself.

As he places his hand on the wheel, his eyes flutter open. Under the starless winter sky, the amber streetlights embrace the white flurries falling aimlessly. One, two and suddenly, a whole gust of them make their descent onto Johnny's car. His eyes trail the flurries’ every move as they softly land on his windshield, eyes capturing the delicate intricacies of the snowflake before it begins to fade away into nothing. 

In the tiny gaps of the melting snowflakes, he saw her again.

—

“So what is your new years resolution, my love?" she giggles as she wraps their thick, Rudolph-printed blanket around her body.

Johnny catches her gaze and smiles back tenderly. She looked absolutely marvellous, her hair falling all over the place having just woken up. Their curtains are fully opened, revealing the expansive city below them while the winter sun breaches its way into their abode and whose light finds refuge on her hair, illuminating her figure. He watches as she goes back to scribbling her goals onto her tattered journal, occasionally looking up and whispering to herself to perfectly articulate her desires. 

“To keep loving you, of course," he replies after awhile.

“Don't be ridiculous, i already know that," she puts her pen down and reaches towards him, "we are going to be by each other's side forever and ever and ever. That's our eternal january 1 wish."

He leans forward and gives her a quick kiss, lingering over her lips as she pulls away. He does not have to look, he feels her lips curve into the same smile he fell in love with 4 years ago, the moment he walked into his introduction to art history class and saw her sitting at the end of the room. He knew from then on out, she would be etched into his life for years to come.

“Well… since it is our last year of college, I was thinking of doing a year long project where I document the events that make me feel tumultuous emotions. Sort of like cataloguing my life…into photographs…as photographers do….” Johnny finally answers her question and trails off, his hand finding the waves of her hair and habitually running his fingers through them.

“Yeah? A great big project before you get pushed into the real working world?” She asks smugly.

“Definitely that.”

She shifts under his touch and leans towards his embrace, letting herself fall into his arms. Johnny pulls the blanket over their bodies and lets himself melt into her. He could do this all day, intertwining himself with her. She was his life-force, his sun and moon.

“For me,” she breaks the silence in a whisper into his ears, “it would be to get accepted into a post-graduate course.”

“Why’d you have to whisper it like someone’s going to come running in and stop you?” he buzzes at her lingering lips on his ears, giving a little laugh.

“Because if I don’t get in, it is embarrassing. I’d rather whisper it to you so you can pretend to forget it if I don’t get accepted.” 

“Are you kidding me? You are the best art historian I know, you can name every artwork off the top of your head, you’re like a walking museum,” Johnny assures as he holds her tighter under him, placing a quick kiss on her forehead.

She looks back up at him, gazing into his hazel eyes that bore into her soul. The very eyes that comfort her in her darkest nights, envelop her every morning and the one that showed more love in its little reactions to her presence. Letting her fingers trace his features, she grins slightly as she feels her heart grow fonder and fonder with every sight of him. 

“I best be in all your photos this year then,” she jokes and snuggles into his warm neck.

Truly, waking up next to each other on the first day of every year has become a norm. They were renewed, rebirthed with every passing year, but they feel  just the same every time their hands graze each other. Between them both, time slows and speeds but never halts. They were orbiting together, their love powering the cycles of many lifetimes.

—

The lamp switch clicks and Johnny’s room brightens. He is acutely aware of the silence in the house. Bending his head slightly, he roughly dries his wet hair on the towel. When he looks up, his eyes fall on the paper by his bedside table.

THE COMEDIAN

A Solo Exhibition by Johnny Suh

31 December-31 January

The golden text bounces itself off the sheen of velvet blue cardstock paper. His name seemed unfamiliar to him, a jumbled up word from the array of alphabets. Then again, he never felt like himself the past five years. 

An inaudible sigh escapes his lips as he throws his towel to the side, climbing into the left side of the bed. That was always his side.

He turns the paper over and extends his body to turn off his lamp. Rolling over the bed, his eyes slowly adjusts to the darkness of the room.

A pillow rests untouched beside him, the white space demarcating the absence in his life. The blanket creases over his side but straightens itself as it passes his body. He takes in a sharp breath but he feels the oxygen running out. The air is heavy, damp with memories that flood to the forefront of his mind. As he blinks to compose himself, he sees her brief silhouette laying there, as it should be, as it always has been. But a silhouette could be a mirage. The brain tricks itself, as Johnny has tried to trick himself for years. 

She is not there, she has not been for awhile now. 

His fingers run along the cotton bedsheet, imagining the weight of her next to him as he lulls himself toward the door of dreams. 

— 

2:03 AM

Johnny looks up from his crumpled notes, scratching his head. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he pushes his glasses up his nose bridge and squints at her direction. There she sits, opposite him, legs tucked under her, biting her lips in anxiety while she mumbles the notes off of her laptop screen. He beams as he notices the way his sweatshirt hangs off her shoulders, too massive to fit her frame. 

It was midterms season and they were cramming for an exam the following day. Well, technically, that day of. On his desk lay his scrambled astronomy notes. It is ludicrous in hindsight, that Johnny would take the time off of his photography classes to take it as an elective. But he tells no soul about the fact that it was simply because he notices her contemplating the sky every night, searching for the different stars and planets that appears with every passing season. Compelled by her devotion toward this habit, he took on the class in hopes of piquing her brain.

He pushes his notes slightly and stands up from his chair, groaning as he twists his crammed up body. He notices that she did not take her eyes off of her screen and with pursed lips, slowly walks towards her. He carefully carries the nearest chair, placing it silently next to her and sits on it, eyes on her screen too, curious to find out what she was reading about. 

“Hey, that’s pretty cool,” he comments, skimming through the page, matching her speed of reading. 

“What is?” she asks offhandedly, not moving her gaze one bit.

“The artwork.”

She stops scrolling and turns her head toward him, looking all frazzled. Her hair stood at weird angles and her blue-light glasses precariously on the tip of her nose. He chuckles and gently pushes the glasses up for her.

“That’s some intense dedication there, to walk from the ends of the Great Wall of China for 90 days just to meet each other in the middle. That’s such a romantic way to propose,” he muses and raises his eyebrows, “should we do that? Walk along the wall, meet each other after 3 months and I will go down on one knee?”

She laughs at his proposal and untucks her legs beneath her.

“I stopped scrolling at the wrong time then. They managed to pull off the performance but instead of getting married, they broke up in the middle instead.”

Johnny’s eyes widened, a little too invested in this, “why?”

“It started out as a passion project, they were both highly regarded performance artists whose practise involved testing the limits of the other. They had ambitions to get married but approvals from the Chinese government to walk along the perimeters of the wall took too many years to be cleared. By the time the approvals were passed, their relationship had slowly fizzled out. They had affairs and were unhappy with each other, but for the sake of their art, travelled the wall.”

She watches as his face softens at her explanation, his lips puckering slightly, a habit she noticed him doing every time he is in deep thought.

“Oh, that sucks,” he blurts out in response.

“I guess you could put it that way… I still find their dedication toward their art very fascinating. If it is of any consolation, they met years later in another performance artwork of hers.”

He takes her hand in his and shakes his head slightly. “That’s good, no? Reconciling.” 

“To a certain extent, yes. It rocked the art world for months and years on end: the greatest love is back again!” she dramatises, sticking her arm out like she was in a performance, gaining a laugh from the boy in front of her.

“Now I don’t know if I should make us walk a historic wall before I pop the question, it seems so silly,” he strokes her ring finger subconsciously and traces the creases on her palm. She notices.

She leans in, kissing his cheek, “continue brainstorming then, my love.”

Johnny grins and imagines himself walking over battered bricks to get to her. The ground shifts below him but the running hills circle in around him, as if giving him comfort to persevere on. She was at the end of the wall, slowly walking toward him too. It did not matter how long it takes, where it happens or what season it was. 

He knew he would walk across endless walls just to get to her.

—

Walking into the metallic frame of his hanging mirror, Johnny puts on his emerald coloured sweater, fixing his white button-up collar in place. His eyes were sunken in, tired from imagining all the possibilities of today. He sighs, proceeding to grab all his belongings and throwing them into the bag strewn on his floor. 

It was his big day, he knew. But he cannot help but wish for the morning to turn out differently. His eyes catches the perfectly shaped pillow on his bed and his feet quickens its pace out of his home.

“God, it is freezing today,” he mutters to himself as he exits his car, tightening his coat around his body. Every breath of his turned into vapour, clouding his view of the gallery right in front of him. He looks up toward the sun, seeing only an obscure ray of yellow hanging in the air. There was no warmth, not even in the atmosphere and definitely not in his heart.

He checks the street for cars before dashing across, finding himself at the doorsteps of a gallery he knows too well. In the glass door, he sees his languid figure obscured by view of the gallery inside, his photographs and him merging into one incomprehensible figure. 

Putting on his best smile, he opens the door and walks in.

—

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, here it is!” 

She muffles a squeal as she grabs onto Johnny’s hand, pushing him into the crowd. Fishing their way through, they land in front of the very painting they were there for. 

She could barely control her excitement. Bits of tears pool around the corners of her eyes as they land on her most beloved painting. It was real, in front of her, in all its delicate brushstrokes. The warm spotlight of the gallery was nothing but a halo to this painting, so she thought.

Sensing her bewilderment, Johnny wraps his arm around her waist and scoots them closer to the work, shielding her from the mass of crowds around them. He recalls her screaming when the news came in, her favourite painter of all time had a travelling show and they were miraculously showing in the gallery closest to their house. He grins every time he sees her shared calendar countdown to the number of days until the exhibition opens in the notification tab of his phone, silently counting down with her too. He made sure to purchase two tickets for the opening day, to which she kissed him tenfold when they landed in her hands, and he could still feel her hand on his chest waking him up at 6am this morning to beat the snaking queue into the gallery.

Now, they stood in front the very work they came here for. It is a little bit smaller than I thought, Johnny mused to himself. He had seen the painting countless times whenever she showed it to him on her phone screen and he felt that the years of seeing it in pixels made him grow fond of the artwork too. His breath hitched as he is pulled into the black mass of the painting, his eyes gaining refuge from the darkness with the two figures standing on the stage. He knew them by the back of his hand. The two figures stood by the stage, wearing Pierrot and Pierette costumes, in the midst of bowing toward an imagined audience. The delicate brushstrokes of the painting arrested Johnny’s gaze as he stood in awe of the piece of canvas.

“It is so beautiful,” her voice croaks, breaking the bubble of silence between them. They stood side by side, eye-level with the figures, staring so intently into the heaps of paint that they could almost see themselves in the obscurity of the figures’ features. 

“Out of all his paintings, this last painting of his is arguably the most striking as it is the only time we see two figures accompanying each other but not alone in their own world. In his other paintings, even if the figures were interacting with each other, their expression still signalled isolation. But this painting is an outlier. Their hands suggests their union against the loneliness of the world, their white costumes as a resistance to the fading darkness behind them. They are in tandem, in the same performance, in the same space, sharing the same moment. How poignant that he chose to paint him and his wife as his last legacy,” she reveals in hushed tones, gesturing at the painting.

Johnny listens intently, nodding as he follows the trailing of her fingers, leading him furthering into the work.

“I love this painting because they are fools. Their quirky garb appoints them to the roles of a Pierrot and Pierrette, infecting the world with their joyous art,” she continues. “Historically, the fool is known to be the bearer of all binaries; the divine and profane, power and destruction, morning and night. Due to their ties with those in power, they enlighten others with the truth through their little whims, being the only one to merge the truth and absurd laughter, just like Hopper does with his works. The position of the fool reveals the significance of being more than ourselves, discovering our potential through such a limitless figure. That’s why this painting is called Two Comedians.” 

“Most importantly, the painting reminds me of us.” 

Johnny’s train of thought snaps back into reality at her words, shifting his wonder from the work to her. In this moment, as they stood in front of this timeless piece, they held many possibilities for the future. Their lives were intertwined like his hands around the hem of her skirt, their legs under the blanket after a long day apart and their riddled words of affection. They are painted in white, staring into the abyss of their future. 

—

The wine in his glass sloshes side to side but never disappearing into his mouth. It has been at the same level since two hours ago, when the scarlet ribbon decorating the entrance was snipped off and people trailed in to discover his works. The wine dissolved under him, morphing into the torn ribbon, morphing into her lips, morphing into the her favourite book on his shelf, morphing into th-

“Johnny!”

His head whips upward and the curator was staring back at him, wide-eyed. Next to him stood a guy donning a navy suit, his blonde hair slicked back and his hand gripped on an empty wine glass. 

“Meet Taeyong, he’s an art critic,” the curator subtly raises his brows at Johnny,” and he has expressed great interest in your work thus far. Thought I’d introduce you two.”

Johnny extends his empty-hand and gave the well-dressed guy a tight handshake. Taeyong has a wide grin on his face, returning the handshake with near excessive shaking. 

“I am a big fan of your work, these photographs are extraordinary. What would you say is your inspiration for these works? I believe it was a year long project, yes?” he chides, leaning toward the artist, enunciating his questions.

Johnny lets his hand go at the word “inspiration”. He purses his lips and could feel the curator beside him anticipating a brilliant reply. It is your big day, remember that Johnny, he reminds himself.

But the only words that left his lips were: “just foolish things throughout the year.”

Throughout the entire conversation, his eyes went over Taeyong and the curator’s head. They were instead set on the rectangular door frame of the gallery, assessing every person walking in and silently praying to notice the same rosy lips he had last kissed years ago. 

—

She flips through the pages of her book, aware of the dissipating feet shuffles around her.  Her fingers grazes against each page, imagining each word in her mind. 

This was her weekly routine, waiting for Johnny to finish his shift at the cafe while she finished her reading in one corner. By then, she has pavloved herself to associate the fragrant smell of coffee beans to this place and nowhere else. As such, Johnny too became her coffee lover.

Fleeting her eyes between the pages and her watch, she notices that he is running slightly behind time today. In her peripheral view, she sees him wiping the coffee stains off of the counter. Though it is so mundane, she fixes on this sight, scrutinising every detail of his face that she has memorised by now. She believes that love is inherently non-corporeal.  But whenever she lays her eyes on her lover, she thinks about how his every physical detail is filled with so much to love. His cupid's bow draws the same curve as the back of every chair she sees. His eyelashes appear in the labryinth of twigs above her in her daily route to her classes. His hair's texture remains in the crevices of her fingers, forever part of the stitches of her hand. Everything led her back to him. 

She gathers her stuff when she sees him untie his apron and disappear into the back room. Unbeknownst to her, a small smile is plastered on her red face while she was doing so. 

The moment she heard the backroom door open, she turns around and watches the strides her lover takes toward her. Five, she counts. Five too many. 

She reached toward his neck, bringing his lips down to hers. She feels his lips curve into a cheeky smile as he pulls away, shifting the position of his bag behind him.

"Why was your shift extended today?" she asks casually as he holds the door open for her.

His hands naturally finds their way around hers, their feet turning toward the direction of their home. 

"I ran a little late because my previous class ran over," he replies her, taking a quick glance at her curious expression before focusing back on their path.

She notices that while he is holding her hand as tightly as he always does, his other hand occasionally tugs onto his bag from time to time as if making sure that the bag was there at all costs. 

"Why are you holding your bag so carefully? It's not like anyone is going to steal it" she jokes, earning a nervous chuckle from him. There and then, she knew.

Johnny never answered her question. He knew better when he ran into the ring shop because his class ended earlier than usual. Occasionally, he would walk past this shop and casually survey the different rings on display but this morning, one caught his eye. Sapphire green, her favourite colour. 

He talked to the jeweller and his hands trembled as he opened the velvet box to see the ring destined for her. Entranced by the beauty of it, he realised he was late for his job. Even after sweating buckets from running blocks to the cafe, his heart never faltered.

When he saw her seated at the edge of his cafe, engrossed in her book and with the warm lamp light softening her features, he knew he made the right choice.

—

Slowly, visitors filtered in and out. But none of them contented him.

His mouth hurts from forcing a smile and his feet shifted back and forth, aching from standing too long.

He listens to the hushed whispers of those viewing his work. He watches as they encounter his work, first glancing at his statement before their eyes fall on the work on the wall. After a minute or two, they turn to the person next to them and tell secrets while side-eyeing the work.

Johnny wonders if perhaps they saw his pain through the photographs. Granted, these photographs were taken 5 years ago but he wondered if they saw right through him when they look at the prints. Could they read his every thought? Could they see how much love he had? Could they sense that this time was then truncated, smashed into pieces and reglued to be the pictures they see right now?

Photography offers a look of love, he used to tell her.

He wondered if they could now see the world through his lens. If that was the case, could all their love accumulate and transcend the gallery space, bursting into the frigid air outside and somehow find their way to her, give her a little pat on the back and usher her into this gallery? 

He sits and wonders.

—

"I just received exciting news!" Johnny exclaimed, hand clutching onto a ripped open envelope addressed to their address.

"What is it?" she could barely contain her excitement, the red neon light of the diner reflecting on her face outwardly expressing her anticipation.

His eyes were sharp, twinkling at her as he pulls out the letter, pushing it toward her.

"I just got accepted into a photography residency programme here, the best one in town," he grins.

She did not even skim through the letter. At his words, she lunges forward and hits her waist against the table.

"Ouch!" she exclaims as she tumbles forward clumsily, hugging her lover as tight as she could.

"I am so fucking proud of you, John," she says, "You deserve it."

Johnny pulls away and kisses her tenderly, melting under her touch. He applied the day she found out about the residency, continuously bugging him to apply every hour. She knew his ability best, knowing that he could grow better in this environment and never once did she doubt his success. 

"When are you starting? When did the mail come in? Are you getting paid? Are there any other names accepted? Do you know who your mentor is going to be? God, I am asking countless questions but I am so happy for you," she feels tears welling up but blinks it away at the sight of his lit up face.

"Nothing's decided for sure yet accept that I got in, the details will slowly come in in the weeks to come" he states, "how about you? have your acceptance letters come in yet?"

She feels her face slowly fall, just like the silence between them. Slowly, reality began to dawn on her. 

"No... but if they do, I am going to be halfway across the globe," she trails off, a hint of doubt in her tone.

Johnny catches it and replies, "that's not a problem, I will travel back and forth for you even though our original plans to move there altogether might not happen… I am sure we can find a way around this..."

She glances out the window for awhile and watched the sun glare down on the walking passersby. The heat was unbearable at the height of summer. She watches as people struggle under the heat, occassionally waving a paper fan on themselves to alleviate the heat.

Brought back by the sound of the diner's bell, she notices Johnny's gaze still on her. 

"Yeah, we will figure it out," she smiles and feels guilty. This was his big day, there was no use worrying about her acceptances and their future. All that matters is this moment.

"I love you, John."

He opens his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the waiter bringing their food, clanking the dishes against the cold marble table. The retro music drowns her words out and she stares into the hashbrown on her end of the plate, picking on it until it falls apart.

—

Johnny's stomach rumbled loudly, breaking the silence of the gallery. His eyes widened as he awkwardly shifts himself away, finding himself a chair in a hidden corner to nibble on some snacks.

From the glass door, he gathered that it was late into the night. He watched endless cars pass by this street and the disappearing winter sun. 

Hope is scary. It manifested in everything he saw that day, creeping up on him with every ding of the doorbell. 

As he looks at his watch, he sighed. It was 5 minutes before closing and still, his wildest dreams were not realised.

He watches as the last visitor headed toward the door, silently bowing to him and opening the door to the world outside. 

A gust of freezing air rushed into the gallery, penetrating through Johnny's exposed fingers and straight into his heart. He shudders.

It was about time he gave up. It was never going to happen. He had hoped endlessly for the past years but to no avail. It was selfish of him to expect more, to want her right next to him like nothing ever happened. He was the one that sent her off, he knew that all too well. 

Leaning against the wall and closing his eyes, he relents.

A second after, he hears the sudden ding of the door.

—

"We could try, but I do not think it is particularly feasible," she thinks out loud as she paces around their living room.

Johnny is sat on the couch, head heavy in his hands as he ran through many solutions. In front of him, her acceptance letter lays bare on the table.

While the initial reaction to the letter was utmost joy, the two of them slowly came to realise the prospect of the future ahead of them. Where they were previously of the same bubble, with every passing second, each of them could feel the glass breaking.

"Yeah, we could do long-distance," Johnny voices out, reaffirming her thoughts, only to be met with her sigh.

"But I will be gone for 4 years, John, that is a.. ho- horridly long time," she chokes on her words and stops her pacing. Her hands were placed firmly on her hips as she tilts her head back to prevent her tears from falling.

"That's no worry, is it? I will fly to you every time I have a break, and you could do the same for me, we could keep this apartment together and we could still be together," he tries to convince her, hands shaking at the thought of them possibly separating. His words hung uncomfortably in the air.

He looks up at the home they have built together for the past 4 years. Their books are mixed on a single bookshelf, their selves undiscernable from the other. His camera collection sits on the floating shelf above the tv, right next to her gigantic painting she first finished the week they moved in. Her pink and blue pillows rests against his grey striped ones, creating a disjunct of colours in their mint green living room - but it was intrinsically them.

Everything they have built in the past 4 years was slowly crumbling. It seemed irrational, it seems. Long-distance could definitely work out. Many couples have done it and it was successful, what makes them different?  

Despite desperately trying to rationalise their decision, each of them felt it deep in their hearts. The inevitable rift. The intimacy that gets lost in the endless flights. The conversations that get lost in timezones and sleep schedules. The love that gets jumbled up in the array of their pursuits.

"You know that we have to," she says finally.

Johnny doesn't meet her eye. He would love to live in denial, reject this all and suddenly wake up to find out that this is just a dream but he doesn't. The overwhelming pain in his heart grounded him in reality, with nowhere to run.

"We could always find each other again, right?" he manages his words out, concealing the quiver in his voice to not scare her.

"One day."

Their bodies are turned away from each other, their gazes fixed on different things. The place that they came home to everyday for the past few years suddenly feels constricting. The walls were collapsing onto them and the oxygen was being pumped right out. But both of them stayed, watching the walls slowly crumble, crackle and disintegrate. 

They sat and stared, waiting through the whole duration of the damage until their house was unrecognisable and turned into bits of ashy rubble. Amidst the dull ruins and dust, a glinter of sapphire glows.

—

She walks in. Her hair was cut shorter than when he last saw her, shaping her face perfectly. Her cheeks were the shade of freshly planted roses, matching the mauve tint on her lips. Her neck that he has kissed time and time again was wrapped snuggly with a red and blue plaid scarf, shielding it from his view. Her hands slowly untucked itself from the deep pockets of her black coloured coat, revealing the veins that used to course through her body with her endless love.

Johnny felt his breath knocked out of him. There she was, in flesh and blood. She aged, as he did, but she looked more beautiful than ever, he thought. She looked better than when he last saw her, she looked like the person he knew yet not at all. She looked at him with rekindled fire behind her eyes, letting the warmth of the gallery welcome her into the space.

"Y/n."

Her name left his lips for the first time in years. It sounded, felt and tasted unfamiliar but the moment the word lingered in the air, he remembered why it was his favourite word.

"Hi Johnny," she responded, managing her breaths between each word, controlling her emotions at the sight of her beloved.

He did not know how to react. He was overcome with many conflicting thoughts and emotions. He wanted to hug her tightly and never let go. He wanted to shun her away for showing up so late and letting him wake up alone this morning. He wanted to kiss her eagerly and remember the taste of her mouth. He wanted to spit out all the pain he felt throughout the years, letting her know exactly what he struggled with all this time. He wanted to ask her a billion questions about the years that eluded them.  He wanted to curse her for never reaching out even once, even though it was the pact made, he supposed that she would somehow break it but she did not.

She lets her eyes fall on the photos scattered around the gallery. Every photo, a sight too familiar to her. 

"So this was your one year project, hm?" she hums, eyes landing back on the bamboozled Johnny.

"Yeah, it was" he manages out.

Silently, they made their round around the gallery. She led the way and he trailed behind her, occasionally smelling a whiff of her perfume that used to sit on their dressing table. He watches as her face barely changes with every passing photo. She remained silent, her lips pursed together and her eyes non-judgemental.

They made their way through photos of their empty bed, disordered bookshelf, dusty shelves full of collectibles, colourful tupperwares of food in their fridge, brown oak front door, creaky silver chair they found near their garbage disposal, frayed bohemian carpet and the mismatched sock pile in their drawers. All scenes that are engraved in their memory. As they walked further, the sight of the last painting halted them in their tracks.

Finally, Johnny watches as her eyebrows twitch and fall. Her eyes softened. Her lips steadily parts.

"Was that the ring?"

Johnny remained silent. He remembers taking the photo, the day he bought the ring. After they returned from the cafe, she rushed off to bathe and he sneakily took the box out, quietly opening it and marvelling at its sight. He grabbed his camera when he heard her shower stop running. Taking a quick shot, he buried the box behind the shelf full of art books.

"Yeah."

"It's beautiful."

Silence penetrates the room once more. They were turned away from each other, bodies drawn toward the photograph. They could hear each other's laboured breath bubbling up the room until Johnny pricks it.

"Would you have said yes?"

She lightly shifts toward him, meeting his eye for the second time since she entered. The same eyes that he looked into every morning and night. The same eyes that saw him in the lecture room years ago and the same eyes that bade him goodbye in the departure hall.

"Of course, John."

Her response washed over him like flowers blooming in place of melted snow. He held her gaze.

"Well, we've made our journey across the wall, haven't we?" she chuckles, making Johnny reveal a slight smile.

She takes a step closer.

"After looking at endless artworks the past few years, I came to realise something. I see you in all of them. The greats, the worsts, the ones portraying the highest moments of humanity and the lowest. The ones encased with grief, anger, fury and the ones with joy, love and fondness. Beyond every frame, form, brushstroke or performance, you were there. You were everywhere."

"I realised after awhile that just as I am cataloguing these works and granting them significance, I was doing the same for all our memories. I have never, not for a single second, forgotten you."

Outside, people were gathering and gearing for the year end fireworks. Screams of excitement filled the streets, anticipating the looming new year. They huddled together, their bodies emanating warmth that the night could not offer. They wait, staring at the sky.

Inside, two figures stand beside each other, framed by the dark photograph. They bow forward, stumbling on each other’s shoes as they clumsily announce their musings of each other, stepping forth from the peeling curtains. Their clothes glimmer in their pure whiteness, illuminating their path into the unknown.

At last, the clock struck midnight. 

[whosafraidofmarklee]

all we are is skin and bones

pairings: neighbourandcollegefriend! johnny/ cynical... y/n

genre: loads of wistful pining.... but overall angst :-(

a/n: sorry if the formatting is a lil weird... my tumblr app is being a heathen rn

--------------------------------------------------------

"that's jupiter right there!" y/n proclaimed, gesturing at the vast blanket of stars above.

"yeah?" johnny grins slightly, entranced by the way her eyes seem to inhabit all the brightest stars instead.

with her, the solar system follows suit. she brings love and fury, mercy and vengence, wind and air, birth and death, planets and universes. it was like walking into the olden day Pantheon, greeted by endless immaculate statues that harness the grandiosity of humankind, but the pathway leads him to her in the end - standing at the end of the marbled floor, chiseled to perfection and with a thousand suns kept in her heart.

"johnny?"

the crash of the wave against the seashore brought his fantastical thoughts back to reality.

realising he stared a little too long, he turned away at the sight of her gazing back at him. he fiddled with the camera in his hand before suggesting to lay on the sand and stargaze together.

he could clearly feel her right next to him even if they are not directly touching. his breath still hitched at the movement of the sand under her weight and as he watched her finger trace the different constellations in front of them. her other hand, though, sits unpertubed next to his, just one pinky finger away from intertwining.

he knew what he was getting into when he asked her to go on a spontaneous weekend roadtrip. he was stressed from assignments, pacing up and down his room as he yearned to escape. glancing briefly at the clock: 10:21pm. each ticking of the minute hand sent him into a frenzy, he knew where he could go to to calm himself down but he did not realise he wanted more than a place until he found himself at her doorstep, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights, asking her if she too wanted to join in on his rendezvous.

now here they are, 3 hours away from their college town apartment building, hastily packed clothes spilling in the backseat of johnny's car and feeling miniscule compared to the infinite sky.

it's working, he thinks. he feels his stress dissipating from his thoughts and heart as she and the seaside landscape ease his anxiety. his eyes slowly flutter shut as he listens to the lulling of the seawaves and her breathing next to him.

at the peripheral sight of johnny closing his eyes, y/n turned her head ever so slightly and watched as johnny's chest lift and fall. the glinters of autumn moonlight lands on his face, outlining his sculptured features and she feels the sudden urge to bring her finger from the stars down to his face. she could trace the different constellations with her eyes closed and she was sure she could trace johnny's features the same, after years of memorising the careful brushstrokes of his profile. she used to seek glances everytime her best friend, mark, brought him around, and once he moved in next door, she caught herself staring a little too often, recounting the little reactions his face subconsciously makes in conversations. that said, she could never articulate the sheer hold he has on her. the word 'enamoured' does not do her feelings justice. she feels the stirrings of her heart but could never act on it lest he does not feel the same.

all she could do then was to inch her fingers closer to his and slowly envelop his left-hand to close the gap in her heart. to her surprise, he instantly interweaves his fingers through hers and lets their union settle into the present space and time. both have their faces turned upwards, toward the sky, eyes shut, hands clapsed together as if in some eccentric ritual, uttering some secret prayer into the night sky. secrets that only they know and recognise, unutterable to the other.

but we know all great things must end. even if they last for a second. y/n knows this better than anyone else. the birth of a star comes with the death. it is inevitable. in this case, she does not even want to take a risk with johnny in case their relationship turns sour and she loses him forever. so she chooses the path alone, as she always has been. she lets this collusion end, peeling her fingers away from johnny's and resting her hand on her stomach instead.

johnny feels his hand burn the moment she left his. instinctively, his hands clench as if grasping whatever was left in that moment. in the midst of rumbling waves, he hears her utter - "you know, mark really loves this view too, we used to come here all the time".

at the mention of mark, johnny's heart sinks and his eyes open. no, he does not see the same constellations she does. he does not see jupiter anymore. they all get lost in the swarm of hampered hopes.

their hands scorch at the absence of the other. their hearts could never soothe them as the other does. their souls intersect at once, and not again.

under jupiter, two potential lovers fade into nothingness. they could have harnessed the strength of jupiter as the god of the sky and let their love be known across many lands, people, time zones and languages.

yet, they lay waiting, desiring and dreaming for the other. their wishes puncture through the ether, never to be seen or heard ever again.