[ exo : walls ]
Oct. 1st, 2015 12:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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kokoronashiwalls
fandom exo
pairing chanyeol/kai
style drabble
length 268
short pieces to try and get myself out of a week long writer's block coming up
Jongin never liked tattoos.
It wasn't as if he was so close minded to think tattoos meant you were a punk, a criminal, or something along that line. It was just that he couldn't understand how could anyone agree to something so permanent, marking their skin with needles and ink.
Nothing was permanent, he liked to say.
Nothing was, Chanyeol agreed.
And that was how they worked, perfectly. Their flat was signed to Chanyeol's name and decorated with Chanyeol's things. Jongin's own belonging fit nicely in two suitcases and a half-size bookshelf filled with torn books and decorated with a framed picture of his dogs back home.
This too shall pass. The nights they spent together and the warmth of morning with their bodies, ill-fittingly warped around each other.
And the way Jongin traced lines of ink that Chanyeol had done on his skin – the smalls ones he had gotten on impulse, the temple on his shoulder, five hundred won at a time into an empty soda can he kept over the fridge, the quotes and song lyrics Jongin learnt meant something to him.
Permanent, even if everything shall pass.
“I don't get you,” Jongin complained. Jongin claimed, but Chanyeol liked to prove wrong with kisses that tasted like homemade pasta – the same kisses Jongin's own tasted like because they had the same dinner that night.
And Chanyeol laughed.
“But I love you,” he said.
The laugh, the words – that was the only thing that would always last.
Even if it was only in the memory of the bricks that made their walls.
fandom exo
pairing chanyeol/kai
style drabble
length 268
short pieces to try and get myself out of a week long writer's block coming up
Jongin never liked tattoos.
It wasn't as if he was so close minded to think tattoos meant you were a punk, a criminal, or something along that line. It was just that he couldn't understand how could anyone agree to something so permanent, marking their skin with needles and ink.
Nothing was permanent, he liked to say.
Nothing was, Chanyeol agreed.
And that was how they worked, perfectly. Their flat was signed to Chanyeol's name and decorated with Chanyeol's things. Jongin's own belonging fit nicely in two suitcases and a half-size bookshelf filled with torn books and decorated with a framed picture of his dogs back home.
This too shall pass. The nights they spent together and the warmth of morning with their bodies, ill-fittingly warped around each other.
And the way Jongin traced lines of ink that Chanyeol had done on his skin – the smalls ones he had gotten on impulse, the temple on his shoulder, five hundred won at a time into an empty soda can he kept over the fridge, the quotes and song lyrics Jongin learnt meant something to him.
Permanent, even if everything shall pass.
“I don't get you,” Jongin complained. Jongin claimed, but Chanyeol liked to prove wrong with kisses that tasted like homemade pasta – the same kisses Jongin's own tasted like because they had the same dinner that night.
And Chanyeol laughed.
“But I love you,” he said.
The laugh, the words – that was the only thing that would always last.
Even if it was only in the memory of the bricks that made their walls.
