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In the mirror. {June - The Ssum}

Description:

A fic in which June struggles to paint a self-portrait.

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Tags: angst, suicidal ideation, panic attack, of sorts; i didnt want to paint too heavy of a picture of one, not betad, not edited, the ssum, the ssum june, june the ssum

Word Count: 2,197

A/N: Written on: June 8, 2024

I love june i promise you i swear i can be trusted with june please if you just give me one chance just put him in my pocket just one chance i can be trusted i can be--

(i love june but i just couldnt not go angsty first i mean its *right* there) (i also wrote this before his last season i havent played yet shhhhh)

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Monet’s brush brings landscapes to life, lighting capturing the purest of emotions. Colour, composition, breathtaking stories—all of which June had spent most of his life admiring, studying, mimicking.

June had taken it all-- his knowledge, his studies—made it his own. To be like Monet, he thought, would be one of the best feelings in the world. The release of emotions, the longing for connection, the deep-rooted need to be perceived just to make his life mean something—they all flowed through him, through his brush, through the paint on the canvas. However, June knew he’d never be Monet, nor would his life hold any real meaning to the world around him.

That wouldn’t stop the brushstrokes.

A self-portrait, he thought, something new. Monet made a few of his own—he didn’t like them, though. Monet thought them to be limitations, pieces that refused to work with the level of talent he knew he could produce. What could he do, though? There was no time left in his life to do them any justice, to truly show how his talent could grow; time that June also didn’t have.

He knew his life wouldn’t be very long, with this sick body of his. All he could do is tough it out, do as he was told, and hope for the best—he didn’t even know if he wanted to fight anymore. So today, he will simply paint.

A self-portrait, he thought, something to leave behind. A mirror sat at the table beside the easel, a layer of paint freshly dried on the canvas, filling the room with a nostalgic smell. To paint his face, he thought, shouldn’t be too hard. He thought he were good looking, it shouldn’t be too difficult of a task—a nice learning curve, he thought. Expand his repertoire, get a change of pace to further develop the skills needed for pieces he liked doing. He’d have to leave something behind, after all. Might as well make it beautiful; might as well give it all he’s got.

The mirror sat there, waiting for his eyes to fall within it. His gaze travelled over mundane parts of his appearance; the drab hospital wear, loose around his neck. The sharpness of his jaw, the sickly flush of his skin. He swept his gaze over his lips, nose, the lack of luster in his hair and no life in his eyes. He stared at himself, tried to look for the missing sparkle in his eye—staring too long as the rest of his appearance in the corners of his vision were starting to twist and distort. Snapping his eyes shut, shaking his head, he rid himself of the sensation and turned his attention back to the canvas his wrist rested upon.

He could do it; it was fine—don't overthink it, don’t get hung up on it. The brush dipped into the paint, mixing colours among the palate. Start slow, start easy. The loose collar of his shirt started to take form on the canvas—drab, monotone, familiar. A break, a breath. Carefully, the shape of his neck, head, face started to appear—no details, no features. Then, the individual strands of his hair, all messy and unkempt, no matter how hard he had tried to smooth them out in the mirror. Blonde, bright—not like the sun, encompassing others and providing light and happiness, but gentle, muted—like a distant star, far away and long gone by the time it reaches your eyes. Perhaps that meant his whole life should be considered a star—maybe his paintings would take to the sky and paint their own constellation of his life for someone else to see, since he had nothing else to offer.

A person with no face, the canvas housed. The details were going to be the hardest part, he thought. Might as well take his time, study hard, give it his best shot. His eyes drifted over to the mirror once again, following the lines of his features while the sound of the scratching of a pencil followed along. A curve here, his beauty mark there, he was a little afraid to look at the penciled results and closed his eyes before turning back to his work. Sitting back, peeking just slightly, he took a look at the level of his skills. Not bad, June thought to himself, it could just be... better. It was fine, he thought, not that it would matter; he wasn’t going to make waves in the world that required a good representation.

Another break, another breath. His health was starting to slow him down; he’d fight it until he couldn’t. He’d rather finish this portrait, toss it to the back, and try not to think of it again. Slowly, carefully, the brush danced across the surface, his face taking shape. The curve of his nose, the lines of his lips, the dark circles beneath his eyes. Hours had passed, the sun had set, but the eyes made of paint were as lifeless as the ones that looked back at them. June sat back with a sigh, wiped the stray paint from his face, and took a long look at the acrylic mirror in front of him.

What had happened? His hair seemed far too grey compared to his blonde, his eyes seemed to curve differently; his features seemed too sharp, too sunken, aged. His beauty mark had still been there—maybe he was getting tired and simply made mistakes. June took another look, staring so hard that the paint version of him started to morph further, seemingly looking more and more like his father rather than a portrait of his own likeness.

Is that who he was? His father? Longing for the freedom of the wind and the sea, wanting a simple life with simple means. A life with a more holistic approach to his illness, a life with less dollar signs attached to material means. Was he his father? Maybe he was meant to be; the need to hate and distance himself from wealth or those who have it, the need to be so organic he couldn’t tell himself from the soil he would be buried in. It was a scary sight, to see his father in place of his own presence; who truly was June? Was this him?

His heart started to race, a slow panic starting to bubble up. He rubbed his eyes, trying desperately to wipe away whatever fatigue must have been doing to him. The image of his father kept staring back at him, no matter how many times June had tried to rub his eyes, blink it away. He brought his brush back to the canvas, slightly shaking; he started again, painting quickly, a little rougher, over previous lines to attempt his own image again. He worked quickly, his heart starting a slow crescendo into his ears as the world around him began to muffle. The corners of his eyes started to grow a bit blurry, tunnel vision focusing on the acrylic sitting in front of him that fueled an impeding pit in his stomach. A little paint here, a shadow there; a new colour here, a messy line there. June tried to fix his image in record time, not worrying about the sloppiness or potential of drop in his skill. His body temperature started to rise, a bead of sweat dripping down his face; he wiped it away and sat back with a sigh of relief, hoping his work would be correct this time. He turned to look out of the window, a break full of unease. The moon was now shining down on him, reminding him just how small he was in the dark. He turned back to the painting.

What had happened? His heart truly started to race now, the rapid thumping echoing heavy in his chest and all throughout his veins. His body shook as his eyes darted around the person staring back at him. Dark, longer hair, feminine features, eyes holding no lust for life—a broken image of stage lights and nightlife. June’s panic started to rise, the image in front of him morphing further into his mother, no hint of his own likeness left.

Is that who he was? His mother? Simply falling into line with what is told to him, what is expected of him. A life full of longing for luxury and status; a demand for respect. A life with a price for everything, without bothering to look at the bill. Was he his mother? Maybe he was meant to be; the need to indebt himself to others, to fight tooth and nail in a harsh world to look good but never be truly happy; the need to be known, recognized, safe in a small box like a puppet on strings. It was a scary sight, to see his mother in place of his own presence; who truly was June? Was this him?

The air felt far too heavy, a weight on his chest. June started to feel like he couldn’t breathe, taking in and letting out heavy breaths, all rapid to match the speed of his heartbeat. It was a downward spiral, the world had felt like. His body had gotten far too hot—or maybe it was cold? He broke out in a cold sweat, shaking profusely, leading to him dropping his paintbrush onto the floor. What was going on? Why couldn’t he get his portrait to look like him—why was it looking like one parent or the other? The painted mother had seemed to move, turning to look June in the eye and call out to him.

“June?” He could hear her voice echo in his head, as the painted lips did not move. “Who truly is June?”

His limbs felt heavy, stiff, tied up in string in a neat little bow. He would dance, nod, open the jaw strings to answer with an unfought agreeance. Who truly was June? Was June anyone? Was June anything? Was June truly real?

What would June leave behind in this world? Nothing, nothing at all—for he was not June. He was a puppet, a doll, an empty shell for his parents to place pieces of themselves in and silence any portion they didn’t agree with. Any original thoughts, wants, needs, desires—nothing of June’s would be respected or acknowledged. He took up quickly, knocking the stool he sat upon over with a loud bang. He threw his hands into his hair, tugging at it slightly while he tried to hold the pain in his head—to keep the thoughts from spilling out. He could hear his mother, his father, swirling around him and reminding him that he was not his; his life would never be his own, for he was sick, weak, needed to be taken care of and indebted to the world. He was nothing extraordinary or special, let alone something unique—let alone someone free.

The room started to spin, June’s body in a full-blown reaction. He started crying out, strangled noises, anything that might stop the pain of realization—anything that might stop the pain of subjugation. The painting in front of him mocked him, teased him, berated him—shut it up, shut it up!

June dipped his fingers into black paint and swiped. He swiped, scratched, carved, lines across the faces in the canvas; covered eyes could no longer scrutinize, covered mouths could no longer command. His chest hurt, his body hurt, his soul hurt. Why? Why had a simple portrait turned out this way? Why had a peaceful night turned out like this? Why did he ever think he could leave a mark behind in this sea of stars?

Who truly was June? He knocked the easel over, splattered paint creating the portrait’s crime scene. He had never been particularly emotional, certainly never to the point of a spontaneous melt-down; why did it hurt? Why did it hurt so bad to see his parents in place of himself? Why did he only see them in the first place? He held his face in his hands and broke out into a sob, standing in place as the room spun around him. He sobbed, cried, trying to expel the pain from his heart and his head and return to a point where he didn’t reflect on his life, he simply lived as he was told—as he was expected. It was a mistake to try, to even think about following Monet’s footsteps—even worse to create a portrait after Monet himself would shy away from his own.

Something beside him called out softly, vile. Slowly, cautiously, he let his tears hit the floor as he removed his hands, looking towards the voice that called out to him.

In the mirror held June—was it June? With black paint smeared across his eyes and teardrops staining his face further, making him unrecognizable. The person in the mirror gave him a wicked smile, putting a finger to their lips and hushing him—telling him to be a good boy and listen, though June himself had not moved.

Who truly was June?

#um #KILLING MYSEKF #hes so relatable im gonna sob #you wrote him sl good 😭😭🩷🩷 i love how you describwd a meltdown hes so dear to me #june the ssum #the ssum june

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