#hunched so you can't tell. i'll have to draw him in this fit again then. been wanting to draw maudern law and his fits a bunch too.

[sualne]

doing a lil redraw

[snow-143]

Water Coloured Tears | Jeon Jungkook

six- late night inspo (1.7k words)

'You're late.' I say without looking up at him.

'And you're as blunt as usual I can see.'

Finally, looking up at him, I squint my eyes before replying, 'Don't change the topic. Why are you late?'

'I had something to take care of.'

'Look, if you aren't going to take this project seriously just say that from the get go. At least that way I can prepare to pick up your slack, so I don't fail.' My voice is a little more accusatory than it could be.

'I'm only 15 minutes late. Chill.' He's finally sat down, across from me, levelling us out.

Managing to soften my voice, I return to my previous point, 'You are going to take this seriously, right?' 

'Yes, y/n, I'm taking this seriously. I really just had to deal with something.'

'Okay. Then lets get to work. I was thinking we could both brainstorm on our individual pieces today. I have a couple of ideas, and I'm sure you do to.' I can't help but smile thinking about the art we could make together. We used to always come up with the craziest ideas together, they may not have always come out as we imagined, but we always had fun.

'That sounds good. What do you have in mind?' He's smiling now too.

'Get your sketchbook out, and I'll tell you. That is if you remembered to bring it.' It was meant to come off as harsh, but it came out far to soft, as if I was joking with him like old times.

'Shit...'

'Jungkook, I swear to god if you tell me you've forgotten it again I will shove this eraser down your throat.'

It's silent for a minute before be bursts out laughing, retreating his beaten up book from his bag. 'Not funny.' And with that I fling the rubber off his head, hitting a perfect bullseye.

This does nothing to sober up his laughing, if anything it made it worse. He's now hunched over the bench making a massive scene out of it all. 'God. You're scary when you're angry, you know that?'

'I've been told once or twice.' I let out a little laugh at this.

When he finally straightens up it's my turn to laugh at the others expense. A massive red mark has formed right in the centre of his forehead. 'Damn I have an extraordinary shot, maybe I should've gone with sport. My talent is obviously being wasted here.'

'Very funny.' He rubs the red splotch on his head cursing, 'How bad is it?'

'What? Worried it'll put off the flock of women always surrounding you?'

'Oh, trust me, It'd take a lot more than this to deter them.' He's smirking now, and It's putting an end to my fit of laughter.

'Right, sorry. Forgot you were like some sort of Greek god here.' I scoff.

'You jealous? Because you sound jealous.' He's still smirking, god do I wish I could slap that smirk off of his face.

'Jungkook, I've seen you playing Barbies with your little sister. Trust me, I do not see in you whatever every other girl on this campus sees in you.'

As soon as I'm finished talking it's like his whole demeanour has changed. He's not smirking any more, so I guess I got my wish.

'So about the individual pieces, how exactly do you think we should go about it?' Is all he replies.

Ignoring the lump in my throat I open my sketchbook and show him what I've planned so far. They aren't very detailed, but they show the overall message I'm trying to put forward.

By the end of my little presentation he's smiling again, and I can't help but feeling a little shy. We've spent hours showing each other our art but after all this time I feel like I'm laying my soul out to him.

Art has always been the way I express myself, and I'm always worried that maybe I'm showing too much.

I've only done sketches for 3 pieces. Technically 4. One that I'm planning on making out of stained-glass, it'll be made up of multiple different parts that hang from the ceiling to make an overall image. The second one is a drawing of a man, that may or may not resemble Jungkook, comforting a little girl, who may or may not resemble me as a child- representing someone healing your inner child. Of course, I'll have to find a way to incorporate the photographs, but I'm sure I'll be able to make up some pretentious explanation.

And lastly there's a sketch of 2 sculptures, both resembling me and Jeon. I must say I enjoyed drawing him far too much, and I'm sure I'll enjoy sculpting his face even more. They count as 2 pieces as we will make them separately, but they also fit together. I've drawn them, so they have cloth covering their eyes that can be removed. I'm also planning on having LED lights in their eyes, so we can change the prospective of them. We can arrange them in many different ways; with them facing away with the fabric covering their eyes, them facing each other with different colour settings on the lights to represent emotions, etc.

I've explained all of this while showing him the drawings. Him adding a little hum here and there, never interrupting me.

The sculpture is the only one of his that I've planned as I wanted it to be a joint project and for the rest I don't want to control his creativity.

'I know I've planned ahead a lot, and we still need to incorporate the pictures, but I'm sure we can think of a way to incorporate them. And for the others we can centre it more around the pictures. It's okay if you don't like the sculpture idea it's your project too, but I just thought-'

'This is amazing, y/n.' He cuts off my rambling. Closing the book I look away from his gaze.

'It's just a rough idea. You can put in any input you like.'

'Actually, I have a couple ideas myself.' Looking over at him, hinting at him to elaborate, I notice he's still smiling. It's gentle, admiring almost.

After a moment he breaks from my gaze, focusing on his sketchbook instead. 'There not as detailed as yours but... I just had a burst of inspiration last night and this morning.'

He's rubbing the back of his neck now, a nervous habit of his. I'm the one smiling now, he always did get inspired at random times. He'd go months without even picking up a pencil sometimes and then seemingly at random times he'd get 'inspiration' and then you'd never see him without his face buried in a sketchbook.

'Is that why you were late?' Glancing at me, he gives me a shy smile.

'Sort of.' He says before opening his book.

While he's flicking through his drawing, trying to find the most recent drawings in the unorganized mess I decide to try and get a look at his other drawings. It may be an intrusion, but I'm curious on how his style has changed over time.

'What was that?' I ask after he rushes to turn the page.

'Nothing. It was nothing.' That was definitely not nothing. There is a high chance I have lost my mind because I can't believe what I just saw.

It was a drawing of me. A drawing of a picture I posted on my Instagram over a month ago at least. Except the background was different.

In the actual photo I'm laying on my bed, but in his drawing I'm in a field of flowers. One that looks suspiciously like one next to his childhood home.

And surely that can't be right. It makes a lot more sense that I've finally lost it.

Deciding that I did infant hallucinate it, I focus on the drawing he's stopped on instead.

It's a beautiful drawing. If he hadn't told me that he only started on it last night I'd easily believe that he spent hours on it.

It's a drawing of a girl. Me. This I can accept as the whole project has to revolve around the other person. Except it's not just a regular drawing of me. I'm sat in a dark room with my legs crossed and my arms up in the air, looking more carefree than I truly have felt in months. My smile is bright, blinding.

But the thing that catches my focus the most are the angel wings I've got. They almost look like they're shining in contrast to the dark background. There's a bright light coming off of me lighting up the surrounding space.

'I um, I already have a photo to represent this one.' Looking up at him, we lock eyes.

I don't even know what to say. It's beautiful. I look beautiful. He truly is an amazing artist if he could show someone he clearly has some sort of disdain for in such a positive light.

Before I can even compose myself to ask any questions he's clearing his throat and looking away. Getting one last look at the drawing, I watch as he turns the page.

The next sketch is one where we are hugging. I'm basically a rainbow incarnate, full of colour. Whereas he looks like the storm clouds that hide the prism of colour away from sight. There's a bright light in both of our chests. But where we're connected in the embrace my colour is leaking into him. At first, I think it's a beautiful concept until I realise that where he's gaining colour I'm losing it. He's draining me of it. Leaving those parts of me a dark void whereas he's being filled with my light.

'I also have a picture for this one.' This time I don't look up at him. I don't think I can.

'These are insanely good Jungkook.' Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ask what we should do this Wednesday.

prev | m.list | next

///////////

a/n: first saturday i haven’t been at work in like a year so i figured i’d write last night instead of sleeping :)

[larissa-the-scribe]

Terrarium Lights, pt. 3.14

Previously on Terrarium Lights: two ghosts say goodbye to each other. (Next part >>here)

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur, though that might have just been Gail's missing hours of sleep catching up to her.

After Gail made sure she knew where Samuel lay, they left. Jonathon did not say much. He let Gail lead now, following with his head down, the speed and urgency drained out of him. He was braced, resigned, with the air less of someone who had made a difficult decision and more of someone walking themselves into a courthouse to be convicted.

Once they got to the main road, Gail stopped. To one side lay the path that would meander its way back to Gail’s house. To the other, the road going almost directly to the lighthouse.

"Which way?" She asked.

He was crying again, shaking with the silent force of it—but still no tears fell from his eyes that Gail could see. He sucked in a breath. "It's time for me to go back," he said.

"You're quite certain?" Gail asked. "You don't need more time?"

"If I take more time, I don’t know if I’ll ever work up the courage again," he said, hunching his shoulders.

Gail nodded. "I know it's not much, but, I'll come by and see you. And someday, when you're ready, I'll tell you the whole story. I'll bring the notes by, and read them to you if you can't do it yourself."

He nodded, smiling in that embarrassed, half-happy way that crying people can have. "Thank you.” For a moment, he looked out towards the road and the woods that lay beyond. “I wouldn't want to lose everything."

"We still don't know for certain if you will."

"I think we both suspect which way it will end," Jonathon said. "You yourself said that I can't live unless I die, and, well, I know you meant it symbolically, but there'd also be no surer death other than… than what… what happened to Samuel."

Gail reached out again, trying to rest a hand on his shoulder. He sniffed. "I can't do much one way or the other," she said, "but I can walk with you."

"That's the best I could ask for," he said, and took a step forward.

They walked slowly. Though the day was bright, Gail could tell that Jonathon could not see the sun very well right then. Part of her considered talking throughout the rest of the journey, giving him something to fill his ears and mind with beyond the distance vanishing at every step. But now did not feel like a correct time for empty words. This was a vigil, in its way, a pilgrimage, for Jonathon passing on to a life that he did not know. Silence was as fitting a mode to walk in as any.

Gail kept pace beside him, until the bend in the road that concealed the front of the café, and with it the house and lighthouse.

When she stopped, Jonathon looked back at her, paused, but did not say anything. She nodded at him, and gave him her best smile.

"I'll see you on the other side."

Drawing himself up with all the strength of a paper puppet, he nodded back, smiled a feeble smile, and rounded the bend.

Gail stood there, praying quietly.

If she walked with him further, she'd likely only be an intrusion on the moment and the family. She decided she'd come back tomorrow with the news about Samuel. Too many shocks in a single day might be too much for Mrs. Seward to have time to process.

And so Gail went back to the house, prepared herself a cup of tea, and took a nap. Whatever came next, she’d need rest; and to put the house in better order after abandoning it to scramble through the woodlands. So she tidied up what she needed to around the house, and sat down for some quiet thought and prayer. It didn't take her long to reach a decision. Winding her apron strings around her again, she got to work

*

As expected, the next few days passed in quick infinities. As soon as it was light out, Gail dressed herself in black and went down to the water to talk briefly with Samuel, and get his permission to borrow his necklace. He was very solemn, but smiled at her as best he could. Gail took a moment to pray with him, in person, before going off on her trek.

It was a harder task than she was expecting. Every step towards him, every moment talking, every step away, Gail was burningly aware of what she was doing. This boy was dead. His mother was going to find out now, and Gail would have to tell her. Samuel’s necklace was a heavy thing indeed by the end of the road, seeming to pull a hole in her pocket as Gail knocked on the door to Mrs. Seward’s house, throat aching with tears that spilled out when her mouth open. Somehow, the necklace was heavier still as she dropped it in Mrs. Seward's hands. It felt as though it continued to weigh her down at her as she led a party out to where Samuel lay.

And then the preparations for the funeral, for taking care of a newly awoken and drastically disoriented Jonathon, for comforting Mr. and Mrs. Seward—though they bore it all with a dignity that Gail could not help but respect. David swam in her mind, constantly, old aches buried deep inside her wrapping around her bones.

Gail hadn’t really thought about it. But some part of her had secretly dreamed that, some day, David might come back. Maybe he had been shipwrecked somewhere, maybe he was captured by enemies, maybe he had been trying to get home this whole time. But now—it felt like this was a will and testament slipped under her door, David’s much more metaphorical ghost buried with Samuel’s very real body.

This was her son’s funeral, too; and Gail wept like it.

"It is almost a relief," Mrs. Seward told Gail in confidence, pressing Gail’s damp handkerchief to her eyes. They had been sharing it. "A terrible, painful relief. No more waiting for the possibility that maybe he is okay, or that he is still out there but hurt and lost—but such an end is still such sorrow. I just… I hope he didn't suffer too much."

The bone-wrapped aches echoed in her. I know what you mean was what she meant, but those words to weak and shadowy.

Gail gripped her hand. "I don't think he did. His body was lying down, as if to sleep. I think he is at peace." She didn't mention that Samuel himself had told her that he had fallen asleep and woken up dead, quite literally drained from the "journey back,” with more exhaustion than pain; nor did she say that she saw Samuel at his funeral, waving a goodbye as he turned and walked into the church and disappeared. She didn't know how to explain any of that, any more than she knew how to tell Mrs. Seward she felt her pain. But Mrs. Seward seemed to read the unwritten letter in Gail’s actions, and as they spent time together, Gail knew they understood each other. Not about Samuel—that was still a puzzle of communication that needed time to come together.

But Michael could, perhaps, help. She intended to tell him when he got back the next day. And she hoped that some day she could tell Mrs. Seward. Gail knew that she would have wanted to know.

These past three weeks had been exciting, interesting, heartfelt, sad—and now she was exhausted, in a blood-thick way. Once she was home, alone again in the silence and stillness, the problem solved and her new friend gone, the homesickness she had for Michael welled up again like a stream in spring rains. She wanted to tell him all about everything that had happened, get his perspective, his insight and responses, and several much-needed hugs. When he got back the next day, she grabbed him in a hug before he was even fully through the door. Now that there was someone physically with her, she was hit with a hunger for physical touch, for someone warm to hold and hold her back.

"Well now, what's all this?" He asked, chuckling, returning the hug. He was twice as tall as she was and five times as dark, and with a laugh that shook the floor.

"Nothing much," Gail replied, pulling back and wiggling past him to help bring his luggage in. "Just a few ghosts,"

"Literal or metaphorical?" He replied, stealing the other bag before she could grab it.

"Both, I suppose," Gail replied. "Come in, come in. I just finished baking. There's fresh bread on the stove, and I'll put the kettle on, and we have the rest of the day to talk."

Previous

Next