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the bride @ georges hobeika | couture spring ‘17

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by  Yuan Fang

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in the dunes

parallel lines 1: post apocalypse | kwon soonyoung

~800 words | warnings: one swear.

back to start

the warm orange-y yellow-reds of morning appear like a halo around soonyoung’s head. he looks otherworldly, untouchable. for a moment, kwon soonyoung looks entirely like an angel, or a devil, or a god. in the perfect, dizzying moment before sleep leaves you completely and reality sets in, soonyoung looks perfect. perfectly fine, perfectly safe.

and then you’re awake.

 it hurts to look at him.

“you’re awake,” he says, tries to pretend he doesn’t notice the exhaustion in his own voice. there’s a smile on his face; you think it must be glued on by now. you’re not sure if it’s there for you or for himself. it hurts to look at him. you want to look away, to fix your gaze anywhere else. you don’t. you’re not sure if that’s for him or for yourself. 

“yeah,” you murmur, once you realize you’ve been quiet for too long. “why didn’t you wake me sooner?” 

soonyoung shrugs, drags too thin fingers through sun-bleached hair. “you looked like you needed the rest.” 

everyone needs rest, soonyoung, you want to tell him. no one has gotten any since the tracers appeared. there’s no need to, though; soonyoung knows. if anyone does, it’s him. the scar across his left eye serves as a cruel reminder of that. it looks redder and more infected than it did before you went to sleep. you hope it’s just a trick of the light. you know that it isn’t. 

it hurts to look at him.  

“thank you, soonyoung,” you tell him instead, and you hope that you sound sincere. it’s been a bit hard lately, having genuine emotions. easier to just shut down. “are you feeling okay?” 

soonyoung attempts to grin -- at least that what you think he’s trying to do -- but it ends up just looking like a horrible grimace. he winces. “yeah, just a bit sore.” 

liar, you think. liar, liar, liar. and at once, you’re angry. angry at jihoon for dying and at chan for falling asleep at his post and ringing the alarm too late. angry for wonwoo for betraying you to the masters and for yourself for tripping over a body in the chaos that ensued when the tracers found your camp.

soonyoung is dying. it hangs like a weight between you, an unspoken knowledge that neither of you want to address. with all the medicine, all the disinfectant and the bandages left back at a camp that is no more, there is nothing either of you can do to stop the poison from spreading. 

“you’re in your head again.” 

you bite the inside of your cheek, force your focus back into the present and away from fears about the future. you wish he couldn’t read you so easily. you want to tell him as much, but you fear that if you open your mouth, you’re going to fall apart. the sensation of teeth around flesh is the only thing keeping you grounded these days. 

“i told you, it’ll be fine,” he says, and you almost believes he believes it himself. “we don’t even know how lethal the poison is, and the thing barely even hit me anyways.” 

you don’t know what’s worse; preparing for disaster at every turn, or letting it take you by surprise.

but you know this; soonyoung is dying, and it hurts to look at him. you would do anything to make it go away. 

“well,” your mouth form the words before you can even think to stop them; a stray thought you’ve been mulling over for the last couple of days as you’ve been watching soonyoung deteriorate. “we knows who do know about the poison.” 

the sun is higher on the sky now, coating the barren lands with a sort of warm and comforting glow. shards of glass glimmer in the dunes like stranded stars. there’s a glimmer in you, too, now; one of a fragile and timid speck of hope. 

“i mean--” soonyoung says breathlessly, and he takes your hand once you see the tracers in the distance. “it’s a crazy plan. so crazy, it just might work.”

(they say that the masters live in a city of gold and jewels. that they have unlimited supplies of food and water. that they bathe in red wine and sleep on clouds. 

they say that they send the tracers to collect outsiders. that they’re sold on slave markets and harvested for organs. they say that to step inside golden palace is to sign your life away.)

if the masters want you that badly, you’ll let them.

you’ll take that whole fucking place down from the inside.

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Butterfly Wing Capes from El Costurero Real

☆ | ☆ | ☆

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georges hobeika | couture spring ‘17

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backstage at zuhair murad | couture fall ‘17

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Undercover Fall 2017

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parallel lines

a seventeen centric 100 AUs drabble challenge

INTRODUCTION sometimes you feel like you’ve lived a hundred lives. it’s hard to distinguish, at times, between the truth and the fantasies. 

you lie in a bed that feels unfamiliar, fingertips clutching at coarse sheets and neck aching at the uncomfortable position and you feel like you can’t move. it’s as if something’s pushing against your shoulders, forcing you down and whispering sweet nothings into your ears.

(you furrow your brows, force your eyes open.)

but then-- who’s to say what’s real or not anyways?

THE LINES more to be announced... 1. post apocalypse / kwon soonyoung 2. hanahaki / lee jihoon 3. soulmates / xu minghao

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Heaven Gaia