Status: Closed
This round has closed. It remains open for fills, comments and remixes, but prompts are no longer accepted.
About
"Someone will remember us, I say, even in another time."
"How inconvenient to be made of desire."
"It's me, hi, I'm the problem its me."
Calling all readers, lovers of poetry and music, screen and stage. Quote collecters and lyric hoarders, unleash your archive. For this round, every prompt must contain a quote - you can combine them, add commentary, link to articles, do whatever. Steal from a literary classic, or copy WeVerse drama.
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no subject
Major Tags: Complicated relationships
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None
Prompt:
hourglass
Major Tags: complicated relationship
Additional Tags: established relationship, realizing that it might be too late (or maybe not), ambiguous/hopeful ending
Permission to remix: please ask!!
ao3 version here
op, this came out a little more emo than i intended. but i hope it fits!!
***
When Minghao closes the door behind him, the apartment goes completely dark. It blocks out the single light right above the doorbell, the one that flickers and homes a collection of fluttering, bulb-infatuated moths.
He was supposed to switch it out months ago, put in something new and vibrantly white rather than a lackluster gold. That was in October when Junhui first pointed it out, when the moths were few and far between, finding sanctuary in a place that was no longer one. Now it’s January and cold.
Junhui had said how it made their apartment look uninviting and not lived in, but Minghao can’t help but believe that’s due to other reasons, not the dying bulb.
It’s something else, deep inside their apartment, beyond the dust-hemmed curtains that speak to the floor more than Minghao and Junhui do to each other. Something hidden behind their doors, that all remain perpetually shut, creating a barrier between them that could be broken down with a set of curled knuckles, a simple knock. Something that could easily be discovered by Minghao’s side of the bed, which has been made for weeks, pillow fluffed, sheets tightly tucked and untouched; the body-shaped dip in the couch that’s been molded by the weight of Minghao’s body.
Junhui has yet to mention the light since. But Minghao’s reminded of the exchange each time he gets home, late at night, when the flickering bulb is the only thing that welcomes him in. He has started whispering good night to it.
He drops his bag by the front door, slipping off his loafers and setting them on their rickety shoe rack. The laces of his shoes touch the ones of Junhui’s, crossing over each other. Minghao can’t seem to remember the last time he and Junhui shared anything similar, close together, fingers intertwined, legs tangled. He’s not sure if they’ve been in arms reach since fall.
The box of lightbulbs he bought a few days after Junhui mentioned the light by the door is still sitting where Minghao left them. The cardboard is shiny and glazed over, and the box shows no attempt of being opened. It reminds him of their bedroom door. He opens it then, pulling out a single bulb.
Minghao’s calves are aching, pressing into his skin, as he holds himself up on his tiptoes, shooing away moths, and apologizing to them for his disturbance. Their wings brush against his knuckles, over the tattoo needled into his skin that both he and Junhui have.
Everything goes dark again, as he unscrews the dying bulb. And everything goes bright, brighter, when he twists the new one in. The front door opens as he does so.
He turns his head, finding Junhui in the doorframe. The light casts a spotlight on him, showing the creases in his forehead that could be folded in by either late-night perplexity or finding Minghao — by just seeing him, even. Minghao still has the urge to reach forward and rub the wrinkles out, to maneuver Junhui’s skin back to where it belongs. Does he still have the right to touch?
“What are you doing?” Junhui asks, croaky. Minghao wonders if he was asleep. He wonders, too, if Junhui was up waiting for him. But that possibility seems less likely.
Minghao’s feet lay flat. His calves thank him, but it makes him feel small, uncomfortably so. “I changed the lightbulb.”
Junhui squints at him, then the light. He looks at the light longer than he does at Minghao.
“It’s late, Minghao.”
“I know,” Minghao says, swallowing. His throat feels tight, from lack of uses like this, and his feet grow antsy below him. “You can go back to sleep, I’m done now.”
Junhui looks away from the light then, his eyes meeting Minghao’s. His eyes look similar to the bulb that Minghao just unscrewed, losing their illuminance, but still homing a come-and-go glint deep inside. Minghao wonders if the shine is there on its own, or a reflection of the blinding light between them.
Whatever it is, Minghao wants to catch the shimmer between his palms like a firefly and never let it go.
“You should go to sleep too,” Junhui says, voice soft, caring. His tone makes something ache in Minghao’s chest.
Minghao nods, throat closing in around his words. “I will, soon. You go ahead.”
Junhui brings a hand to the door frame, fingers wrapping tightly around it. The bones are pressing into his skin, making it go pink before going white. Minghao realizes it's Junhui’s way to gain stability, as the next thing Junhui says tumbles from his lips in a wobbly, unsure rush.
“Come with me, Minghao.”
Minghao feels his lashes flutter like newly-birthed moth wings. “What?”
“Come to bed with me,” Junhui says, quieter.
He can barely look at Minghao now as if this is the first time he’s ever invited him to do so, to crawl under the same sheets, share the same space with hardly any extra between them. Junhui has asked countless times, for years now, but it’s been months since an inquiry such as this has slipped off his tongue.
And it hangs in the hair between them, buzzing like a cloud of bugs. Neither of them moves to swat the invitation away.
A thousand different questions swirl around in Minghao’s head, but he fears, that if he lets them out, Junhui will repeal his question, retreat back into their once-shared room, and never find it in himself to ask again. With Junhui, Minghao feels like they have too much time alone, to ponder and retrace every step they’ve taken that brought them to where they are now. Together, but not quite. They have all of this time, hours within the days, days within the weeks, weeks within the months, yet it doesn’t feel like enough to figure it out — figure them out.
Minghao isn’t sure when their hourglass will run out; if he’ll be able to predict when the last grain of sand drips before he can scoop it back up with his hands and try again, for a grain more. A moment more.
They might already be out of time, glass empty. Maybe they can find a way to flip the hourglass again.
“Okay,” he says eventually, fingers tightening around the lightbulb in his hands. It’s hot in his hand.
“Okay,” Junhui says back, lips twitching. Minghao wonders if he could be the reason for a smile to form there, even now.
Minghao’s side of the bed is cold and the pillowcase smells like nothing but a sheet, unused. Faintly, Minghao catches a whiff of Junhui’s shampoo, citrusy and clean, as he shifts on the opposite side of the bed. Minghao’s skin feels taut and prickly, stretched over his bones, unsure of how to lay and simply be here. He bought this bed, this mattress, the tan, linen sheets, all with Junhui, but it feels so unfamiliar, rather than something of his own.
Junhui’s body heat beside him is running hot, even with the empty space between them. But the space isn’t all that much — Minghao could bend his wrist, stretch his fingers, and have Junhui’s hand in his own if he wanted.
Junhui moves on the bed suddenly and Minghao can feel Junhui’s gaze on the side of his face. Minghao dares to look, holding his breath.
“Come closer,” Junhui whispers, half to Minghao, half into his pillowcase. Minghao does, without much thought. The sheets rustle beneath him, sliding against his skin, until his face is close enough to Junhui’s that they could share each other’s breaths. Minghao’s is still stuck in his throat.
A thumb presses into the inside of Minghao’s wrist, soft and without callus, exactly how he remembers it feeling. His heartbeat thumps against the pad of Junhui’s thumb and he wonders if Junhui notices it.
“I’m sorry,” Minghao says, although, he’s not sure for what exactly. Everything, maybe? There are too many things to apologize for, too many things that he is probably unaware need an apology. But he means it.
He knows it’s not enough, too little, but it’s a start.
Junhui blinks at him, thumbing into where Minghao’s wrist and palm meet. “Me too.”
Minghao slides his hands down and into Junhui’s because he wants to. And he hopes that he can.
Junhui doesn’t pull away.