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Prompting is currently open. Prompting is open from 28 December 2024 to 19 January 2025.
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"the poem begins not where the knife enters, but where the blade twists"
"beauty is terror"
"you'll just have to taste me, when he's kissing you"
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 a hit tweet.
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[FILL] Re: they sit together on the porch
Major Tags: character death, manslaughter
Additional Tags: implied infidelity, that scene in gatsby after myrtle’s death (daisy and tom with a plate of fried chicken) but modified, implied jealousy, complicated relationship/marriage dynamic, marriage as a contractual thing for financial and social security
Permission to remix: Yes (wonwoo pov very welcome!!)
***
Through the gilded square of the window, the sun is setting guilelessly over the curve of the bay, the leftover fried chicken is going cold on the table, and sirens are streaming down to the person they’d just killed on the highway.
The air is dense and cool inside the house, a fine layer of dust on all the fine china, the silver cutlery. Minghao swipes a crystal whiskey glass off a shelf, coughing through the dust motes, rinses it, and downs a glass of tap water. Metallic bitterness coats his tongue in one fluid gulp. Minghao winces. It’s still better than the oily aftertaste of the dinner he just managed to get down.
Wonwoo’s face is turned out the window when he sits down again at the table, one hand cradling his chin. In the faint reflection of the window, his eyes are blankly thoughtful.
Minghao sets his glass down with an unceremonious sound. It’s enough to get Wonwoo’s eyes back on him. Minghao crosses his arms on the tabletop.
“Well?” Wonwoo tilts his head. Minghao does not elaborate. He watches Wonwoo’s shoulders shrug.
“Well, that’s the end of that,” Wonwoo seems to settle on, tone unrevealing. Flat. Light, even. The line of his mouth isn’t hard, but Minghao detects the faintest quiver at the corner anyway.
“You’re not…sad?” He asks, a little carefully despite his best efforts. He fiddles subconsciously with the ring on his left hand, watches Wonwoo’s eyes zero in on the motion.
Wonwoo shrugs again, looks back out the window. Dusk is bleeding down to the horizon. The last of the sun splashes a faint blood red over the water. A muscle in Wonwoo’s jaw jumps. Minghao notices the lack of a wedding ring on his left hand. “What use is there in being sad?” Wonwoo murmurs, after a while. “He wasn’t ever going to mean anything, really, in the first place.”
Minghao slides his own ring home and stops fiddling with it. There’s a little bit of relief sliding down his throat, although in response to which piece of information, Minghao’s not too sure.
“I’m sorry, still,” Minghao says anyway, feeling obliged on some level. Compelled not by morality but by the hint of darkness lingering in Wonwoo’s eyes, the set of his mouth, the grip of his hands. The words feel laughably useless, and insufficient in honesty.
“Don’t,” Wonwoo says, short, suddenly pushing away from the table in one swift motion. The chair screeches over the tiled floor, knife against a sharpening block, and Minghao barely manages to hide his flinch. Wonwoo billows into the kitchen, snagging another whiskey glass and turning for a cabinet all in the same breath. He navigates the bottles with a familiarity that startles Minghao, somehow, as though a death should have wiped away Wonwoo’s memories and habits in this dim tomb of a house.
Amber liquid wells into the cup, and Wonwoo tosses it back carelessly. “You don’t mean that anyway.”
“Mean what?” Minghao deflects, knowing full well Wonwoo means the half-hearted apology. The truth is, he’s not sorry about Mingyu’s death. But Wonwoo’s pointed remark withers him a little anyway.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Minghao tries. Wonwoo remains staring into the depths of the liquor cabinet. “If he did or didn’t mean anything, it’s all in the past. We can walk away from this now.”
They’re not going to come after us. They never have. It goes unsaid. It’s the least of Minghao’s concerns.
He walks over to Wonwoo, lays a hand on his elbow, and thinks briefly about coaxing his husband’s face toward him. It has been so long since they’ve touched. Since he’s touched anybody.
“Come,” he says, as Wonwoo remains stone-still beneath his fingers, “let us prepare to leave this all behind.” He does reach out a hand then, flicking fingertips over the smooth slope of Wonwoo’s cheek bone. He keeps his hand calm as it collects a singular tear. As calm as his hands had been when they’d let go of the wheel. As gentle as his foot had been when it had floored the gas pedal, in the looming shadow of Mingyu’s wobbly, lanky figure on that grey, cold highway.
He hadn’t seen Wonwoo’s expression then, and wonders about it now—wonders if Wonwoo might crack open again, might let him inside, now that Mingyu’s gone.
“I thought you weren’t sad,” he whispers, cupping both hands around Wonwoo’s face. Wonwoo says nothing. His mouth shakes. His head leans into Minghao’s hands. It feels like the final acceptance Minghao has been waiting for.
No one’s going to come after them. That is not the issue. Wonwoo is going to keep choosing Minghao. That also isn’t the issue.
“We make for Manhattan tomorrow,” Minghao says, once the tears slow to a stop, and Wonwoo is breathing silent but slow and measured. In Columbus Circle, there is a penthouse waiting for them, and here is the issue: there is also Junhui.
Wonwoo has always held revenge closer than he’s ever held Minghao.
Re: [FILL] Re: they sit together on the porch
Re: [FILL] Re: they sit together on the porch
(Anonymous) 2025-01-01 09:43 pm (UTC)(link)Re: [FILL] Re: they sit together on the porch
i loved reading this so much it made me look silly <3
Re: [FILL] Re: they sit together on the porch
Re: [FILL] Re: they sit together on the porch
Re: [FILL] Re: they sit together on the porch