i trust you.

[.livejournal.com]

i trust you. [Xiuhan; r; au]
~1200w.

Warnings: suicide (which yknow, means character death), alcohol abuse, domestic violence

Minseok loves art, but he's no artist. So he lets Luhan paint stories on his skin.

Minseok sees the world in colours. He marvels at different shades of the same hue, trying to discern the differences between one pantone and the next, staring silently in awe as someone with far keener eyes than he picks out just the right shade, just the right intensity of something people simply refer to as ‘pink’ and blends it in just right. Colours entice him, a feast for his hungry eyes, and, he thinks, watching an artist arrange the right colours into proper shapes and using just the right amount so it bends and catches the light just so is a talent he will never possess, that he will forever be in envy of.


But watching an artist work, he thinks, is enough.

Luhan paints. His canvases remain blank in the daytime, mocking his genius, jeering at his talent until he falls victim to their jibes and reaches for a bottle, alcohol spurring his fingers into action, colouring the inside of his monotonous mind with bright splashes of every colour known to man, a kaleidoscope of chromas bursting forth just behind his retinas. It is then that his canvases and acrylics weave magic, it is then that Luhan paints a world he sees just beyond his reach, a world he longs to inhabit, a world other people long to see. When Luhan paints it’s like a hurricane sweeps through his studio in the form of the artist himself, limbs moving frantically trying to find just the right shade of blue, paint splattering walls in blotches of all shapes and sizes, paint water spilling on stained carpets, but his eyes – his eyes remain calm, his eyes help him focus on the vision he wants to create: his eyes are the window to his soul.

Luhan is only ever truly calm when he is making art.

There are times when Luhan doesn’t like the look of canvas, doesn’t like how paint seems so permanent on it, so inerasable and it suffocates him. He’s of the opinion that some art may be classic, but others still need to change – need to grow, need to evolve, need to test the fine line that separates the good art from the bad. He hates that a finished piece will look exactly the same for at least the next decade, hates the thought of having to look at the same combination of reds and greens and blues every morning when he wakes up until the next gallery show. He hates the monotony that is associated with the word ‘routine’, lives to mould beauty, thirsts to change things up as often as he can –

So sometimes he uses Minseok’s skin as the canvas to house his temporary craft.

Some mornings Minseok wakes up with yellow and blue flowers dancing up the side of his neck, stains on skin that hurt when he presses them. The red surrounding the bruises the night before fade, never lingering long enough for Minseok to fully appreciate the beauty of the tragedy Luhan imparts on him. He craves to be a part of the enticingly abstract world of art, longs to join in on something he has no talent to create – so he never questions the intensity of the blows Luhan lands on him, never stops his boyfriend from leaving red and blue and yellow and purple on his skin, never even entertains thoughts of leaving.

Violence paints every inch of Minseok’s being, the product, he thinks, of Luhan’s genius.

Minseok hides Luhan’s art from the world. They’re private, he thinks, intimate and only between the two of them, one of those things you share only with your lover and not with your friends. But when Luhan starts placing stars at the corners of his lover’s eyes, paints a river in deep red down his bottom lip, Minseok can’t hide Luhan’s art anymore, can’t stop his friends from seeing his battle scars. It’s when he looks so deathly white under blooms of bruises Luhan grants him that his friends stop politely ignoring his wounds: if he still looks like this the next day, still looks like he’d gone to battle without any sort of armour, they’re calling the authorities.

It’s not right, Minseok. It’s not healthy. This is not normal.
To hell with you.

Minseok races home that night to Luhan, catches him just as he drains his third bottle with a deep blush dusted over his pale cheeks. The words tumble out of Minseok in a panic, and though Luhan’s speech is slurred, though his movements seem slow and lethargic – he forms a plan. He walks over to his dresser and pulls out some paper and a pen, scribbling something down on it before he pulls out something else – something far more lethal, something Minseok’s never seen before – a gun.

Minseok’s eyes go wide but it’s not with alarm – it’s with reverence, because he doesn’t see a drunk man threatened with years of incarceration holding a deadly firearm – he sees an artist high on passion, brandishing a new variation of paintbrush with anticipation burning in his eyes. Luhan walks toward him, setting the gun down just by Minseok’s hip on the desk behind him, before yanking the older towards him to catch his lips up in a searing kiss. There’s tongue and teeth and Minseok’s still-split lip means Luhan definitely tastes blood, but he also tastes love and passion and all the things he sees Luhan pour into his art – tastes it all as Luhan pours them on him.

Luhan pulls away after a couple of minutes, eyes so tender and warm Minseok can’t help but lose himself in them. Luhan opens his mouth to say something, melodious words that sound so much like a swan song Minseok’s instant reflex is to reach out and grab them, to hold them close to his heart, to let his soul imbibe them.

‘I’ll make you my last masterpiece. So they can’t get to us, they can’t keep us apart.’
Minseok’s eyes never leave Luhan’s as he nods, and he doesn’t notice when the latter reaches for the gun, doesn’t feel the cool metal of it pressing against his temple because all he can see is Luhan, all he notices though his life hangs by a thread is blond hair and glassy eyes and a voice like honey and –

Bang.

Neighbours call the police at the sound of two gunshots, and ten minutes later the door to Luhan’s apartment is broken down by armed policemen in authoritative uniforms, who can’t help but stop and stare at the two men on the floor lying in pools of their own blood. One officer rushes up to the bodies and confirms the absence of their pulses, foot brushing a small piece of paper as he moves to get up. The officer kneels back down again, careful not to accidentally blow the paper into the blood surrounding it. His eyes widen when he reads the words scribbled in haste, blood running cold when he realises the magnitude of what he was seeing.

I trust you.
The last piece by, Luhan.

//

I TRIED HAHA I’M SORRY

Comments

[charliebnim.livejournal.com]

so angsty TT_TT gdi