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Sep. 22nd, 2021 01:47 am
there is a last time for every thing
follow up to the city is on fire and stick + poke
It’s funny how quickly things can fall apart. For all the things Mark is good at, he seems to be best at making things break. Some twisted part in him must find pleasure in watching good things shatter because time after time he finds himself pushing things off of the ledge.
The tiny pieces of porcelain slide across the floor like tiny stars. The shards twinkle as the bounce along the hardwood.
He doesn’t have an excuse, he never has an excuse, not when he broke that window, or kissing Dejun, or pushed the vase off of the counter. If anyone asked, and they wouldn’t, he would just kind of shrug. He didn’t have an excuse, he just wanted to know what it felt like.
His chest feels tight when he thinks about it. The radio silence had been going on for two weeks and Mark has done nothing to combat the hollowed out part of his chest Dejun had made himself home in. Things were supposed to turn out like this, but first kisses were always mistakes in Mark’s book. He takes to sleeping on the couch because every time he closes his eyes he pictures his best friend’s frightened face looking back at him.
Time passes differently alone, especially during the summer like this. Mark wastes his days going between his living room couch and the beach down the road. He likes the feeling of the sand between his toes and the salt water wears down the feelings of abandonment left over on his skin. It isn't perfect but the sun is a salve.
No matter what he does though, he wishes he could be doing it with Dejun.
Loneliness doesn't suit him very well, it paints him in an ugly picture in which Mark doesn't recognize himself. He considers calling other friends, some of the ones he knows Dejun won't hang around, but he can't bring himself to pick up the phone, especially if that means having to answer as to why he isn't with his so-called best friend in the first place.
The problem is that Mark doesn't really know either. Or, he thinks he does but not entirely. In the morning, had pretended the kiss hadn't happened, or maybe he forgot. Either way, they had breakfast as usual and spent their day playing video games in Mark's room. Everything was completely normal. Until Dejun biked home, at least, and it's been radio silence ever since.
Dejun haunts him like a phantom. He lingers, even two weeks absent. He stays around, in the guitar he'd gifted Mark for his birthday, the one he usually played anyways. He stays in the stray sparkly eyeshadow he had left behind on Mark's desk, in the jacket he'd left in his closet, in every single piece of sheet music Mark had secretly written for him. Looking around the room that is supposed to be his, Mark wonders when he stopped being indistinguishable from Dejun. He thinks about it for too long, then decides he doesn't really want to know.
But the thought lingers; he wonders less about his own alikeness though, and more about if Dejun misses him too.
That's what this is at its core isn't it? He misses Dejun, he doesn't know if he feels the same.
He can't just ask him anymore, can't handle the same nonresponse he's been getting for weeks. No, not with a question like that. He couldn't handle it if he didn't answer. Even less if he says no. So, he wallows in it all by himself.
Sometimes he finds himself looking forlornly at their idle private chat. His last three messages lay unread. When he catches himself, he pulls back, closes iMessage and goes back to counting spots on the ceiling.
His bike looks strange laying in his front yard by itself. His mother points out as much when she comes home from work to find him in the same place she left him. She doesn't say it but he knows she has questions; he has never spent this long away from Dejun of his own accord. It's nice that she doesn't ask however, because he doesn't think he has answers.
It all goes up in flames when Ten stops by. He arrives as he always does, in a flurry of bubbly anticipation and kindness. He lets himself in, as he is often apt to do when he knows Mark is home alone and he finds him surrounded by shards of broken porcelain.
He doesn't say anything as he helps Mark pick up the pieces, just goes to the hall closet and takes out the broom. He even brought the trash out to the bins in the garage, saving Mark from having to acknowledge his own destruction.
Ten doesn't mention the vase, or Dejun, or the fact that Mark hasn't left his house in three days. Ten, kind as he always is, gently pushes him into his room and tells him to get ready.
Mark knows better than to ask but he does anyways.
"Where are we going," he lets himself ask as he locks the door behind them. Ten doesn't answer, just shrugs. They start down the streets.
They're halfway to the beach when Ten answers.
"He'll be there," he says nonchalantly. Like Mark hasn't spent the last two weeks giving him space, giving him breadth, giving him whatever he can to not break. "He knows you're coming."
Ten is always quick to drop the second shoe. He doesn't like to let things linger. He likes to solve problems, give solutions. His solution to their strange dance around each other is another bonfire. His solution to Mark's panic is weed. He passes him the vape without question and Mark thinks that he really shouldn't be getting high around Dejun after what happened last time. But his hands are shaking and he needs something to ease his head, even if just a little bit.
The bonfire is more casual this time. Mark doesn't know a lot of Ten's friends but they are all nice. It's different from the beach parties he goes to with his own friends, everyone here is less desperate to get fucked up, more trying to enjoy the summer weather while it lasts. It's nice though, to be surrounded by this much serenity. It makes Mark forget about what is yet to come, just for a moment.
It takes a while before he spots him but when he does, Dejun is already looking at him from across the fire.
Time stops.
Or, at least it feels like it does. To Mark it does. He’s stopped dead in the middle of this get together while he stares back at his friend. He isn’t sure if he’s even breathing, so caught up in the panic and the uncertainty. He forces himself to look away.
He doesn’t notice that Dejun’s approached him until he’s right on top of him. He turns around before he gets the chance to speak and Dejun just smiles.
“Hi Mark,” he says and Mark feels himself melting. “I think we need to talk.”
It’s funny how quickly things can fall apart. For all the things Mark is good at, he seems to be best at making things break. Some twisted part in him must find pleasure in watching good things shatter because time after time he finds himself pushing things off of the ledge.
The tiny pieces of porcelain slide across the floor like tiny stars. The shards twinkle as the bounce along the hardwood.
He doesn’t have an excuse, he never has an excuse, not when he broke that window, or kissing Dejun, or pushed the vase off of the counter. If anyone asked, and they wouldn’t, he would just kind of shrug. He didn’t have an excuse, he just wanted to know what it felt like.
His chest feels tight when he thinks about it. The radio silence had been going on for two weeks and Mark has done nothing to combat the hollowed out part of his chest Dejun had made himself home in. Things were supposed to turn out like this, but first kisses were always mistakes in Mark’s book. He takes to sleeping on the couch because every time he closes his eyes he pictures his best friend’s frightened face looking back at him.
Time passes differently alone, especially during the summer like this. Mark wastes his days going between his living room couch and the beach down the road. He likes the feeling of the sand between his toes and the salt water wears down the feelings of abandonment left over on his skin. It isn't perfect but the sun is a salve.
No matter what he does though, he wishes he could be doing it with Dejun.
Loneliness doesn't suit him very well, it paints him in an ugly picture in which Mark doesn't recognize himself. He considers calling other friends, some of the ones he knows Dejun won't hang around, but he can't bring himself to pick up the phone, especially if that means having to answer as to why he isn't with his so-called best friend in the first place.
The problem is that Mark doesn't really know either. Or, he thinks he does but not entirely. In the morning, had pretended the kiss hadn't happened, or maybe he forgot. Either way, they had breakfast as usual and spent their day playing video games in Mark's room. Everything was completely normal. Until Dejun biked home, at least, and it's been radio silence ever since.
Dejun haunts him like a phantom. He lingers, even two weeks absent. He stays around, in the guitar he'd gifted Mark for his birthday, the one he usually played anyways. He stays in the stray sparkly eyeshadow he had left behind on Mark's desk, in the jacket he'd left in his closet, in every single piece of sheet music Mark had secretly written for him. Looking around the room that is supposed to be his, Mark wonders when he stopped being indistinguishable from Dejun. He thinks about it for too long, then decides he doesn't really want to know.
But the thought lingers; he wonders less about his own alikeness though, and more about if Dejun misses him too.
That's what this is at its core isn't it? He misses Dejun, he doesn't know if he feels the same.
He can't just ask him anymore, can't handle the same nonresponse he's been getting for weeks. No, not with a question like that. He couldn't handle it if he didn't answer. Even less if he says no. So, he wallows in it all by himself.
Sometimes he finds himself looking forlornly at their idle private chat. His last three messages lay unread. When he catches himself, he pulls back, closes iMessage and goes back to counting spots on the ceiling.
His bike looks strange laying in his front yard by itself. His mother points out as much when she comes home from work to find him in the same place she left him. She doesn't say it but he knows she has questions; he has never spent this long away from Dejun of his own accord. It's nice that she doesn't ask however, because he doesn't think he has answers.
It all goes up in flames when Ten stops by. He arrives as he always does, in a flurry of bubbly anticipation and kindness. He lets himself in, as he is often apt to do when he knows Mark is home alone and he finds him surrounded by shards of broken porcelain.
He doesn't say anything as he helps Mark pick up the pieces, just goes to the hall closet and takes out the broom. He even brought the trash out to the bins in the garage, saving Mark from having to acknowledge his own destruction.
Ten doesn't mention the vase, or Dejun, or the fact that Mark hasn't left his house in three days. Ten, kind as he always is, gently pushes him into his room and tells him to get ready.
Mark knows better than to ask but he does anyways.
"Where are we going," he lets himself ask as he locks the door behind them. Ten doesn't answer, just shrugs. They start down the streets.
They're halfway to the beach when Ten answers.
"He'll be there," he says nonchalantly. Like Mark hasn't spent the last two weeks giving him space, giving him breadth, giving him whatever he can to not break. "He knows you're coming."
Ten is always quick to drop the second shoe. He doesn't like to let things linger. He likes to solve problems, give solutions. His solution to their strange dance around each other is another bonfire. His solution to Mark's panic is weed. He passes him the vape without question and Mark thinks that he really shouldn't be getting high around Dejun after what happened last time. But his hands are shaking and he needs something to ease his head, even if just a little bit.
The bonfire is more casual this time. Mark doesn't know a lot of Ten's friends but they are all nice. It's different from the beach parties he goes to with his own friends, everyone here is less desperate to get fucked up, more trying to enjoy the summer weather while it lasts. It's nice though, to be surrounded by this much serenity. It makes Mark forget about what is yet to come, just for a moment.
It takes a while before he spots him but when he does, Dejun is already looking at him from across the fire.
Time stops.
Or, at least it feels like it does. To Mark it does. He’s stopped dead in the middle of this get together while he stares back at his friend. He isn’t sure if he’s even breathing, so caught up in the panic and the uncertainty. He forces himself to look away.
He doesn’t notice that Dejun’s approached him until he’s right on top of him. He turns around before he gets the chance to speak and Dejun just smiles.
“Hi Mark,” he says and Mark feels himself melting. “I think we need to talk.”
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