.𝟏𝟎

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ℑt's a bit like a drizzle of a dream.

the diaphanous lights dance above him, as he sways under their ribbons, worshipping every curve of his starlets-dusted skin—and delicately kissing on his edges to leave entrancing shadows at his feet.

you're infatuated.

the cameras' flashes only effect his jewelry that winks at you (luring you with its glow), do his job and tell you about his night habits whilst tiny explosions of light and dark meeting in his eyes distract you a bit.

you're stuck.

you don't know if you want to withdraw from what only looks like your end, an ambiguous dream of yours you've always been warned about— or step closer, with your heart clacking, to those vortexes that swallow everything around him and you're simply left to stare him numb.

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ℌe's totalistic.

midnight eyeliner and moonbeams rimming his eyes with your hours of fine work glimmering on his skin— he poses proud and confident before all the eyes and lenses.

he's sizzling.

always tall, thriving and never has a problem with dipping his words in sugar and nectar before answering questions or holding a conversation.

you're not much of sweet tooth so that fancies you about him.

you're both the fire and its cold flames.

too different, but the same in heart.

he's made of cynical plastic and crystal, polished off all his human flaws and sculpted with two-syllabus prands you can't pronounce. he's not the life of the room, but everything in it; always heard and seen.

you're made of burned flesh and bones. always too quiet, reserved and alone in a hazy reality. you're that guy that's always in a corner, a blandish existence, with a glass of martini to keep you going.

he's the stolen art, a blurr of beautiful messes, that everyone comes to see, capture in pictures and talk about—

—while you're the frame, a golden shield, that keeps it all together but never acknowledged.

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𝔓ower of unorthodox starboys.

he melts the walls of the room to his feet, bend the roof under his fingertips and whenever he walks, it's only him; too bright to blend with the background.

you stick to this one corner, trying to fix as much of the damage he causes as you can, but—

—he's a growing hurricane so, with some liquor burning in your throat, you let him be.

again, you're both too different; a fallen star that rests in its wreck peacefully and a blasting rocket that's meant to reach outer-space, you know that well and he does too.

but, sometimes, just sometimes, when he stripes you down with his tongue that peaks like a sun in midnight and those eyes of raging seas— you think maybe you both want to meet in the middle. maybe speeding has tired you both and you wish for a pause, for it all to slow down so you can escape.

but does he fit in a static place?

you don't know.

he's too conflicted, you read it in his eyes. at times, he wants a break, a quiet space he can breathe in. but at others he's too fast, out of reach—racing his youth as if it'd all be gone by dawn. as if he's only a mortal.

perhaps, he fears death. or he fears you.

both sound the same to you, and maybe to him too.

but it's your turn to fear him now.

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𝔜ou drink your fourth martini.

not to get yourself drunk, but because it's getting harder to keep up the act as the night stretches lazily, still holding hours on its side.

“by the fifth, i'll probably have to carry you home.” you're struggling to swallow the sip you just took, maybe a bit embarrassed because you got caught abusing the mini bar, or maybe it's the way he's too close so suddenly.

“'m not lightheaded, though.” you dismiss him and he eats you up with that knowing smirk he flashes you, call you on your lie and bring up an unpleasant memory to both of your minds.

“oh, fuck off.” you blush, “those drinks were spiked. you know they were.”

he parks a laughter that dances it way to your ears and shakes you just a little bit, “they sure were, sweetie.”

fourteen, he's called you sweetie fourteen times today— yes, you're counting and god, you're not sure what the fifteen would bring so you turn to face him.

the edges of your thoughts lose their clarity to the intensity of his stare upon you. you're not sure what he's thinking so you lock the sight of the melton stars on his lips and take a step back.

“got bored of the reporters already?” you ask and he's claiming his spot back where he's by your side, before he answers with another question.

“got bored of me already?”

as if.
“you won't go away, even if i said yes— so no.”

“aren't you just the sweetest,” his laugh at his own words is short for its usual loud and cheery sound. something weighs his eyes, puts off the flares of surrealism there, and he's a bit distant for the inches between your sides.

“'you good?” you kill the worry inside you to sound casual and just checking for the hell of it, because you know, and he's told you that feelings are for losers.

“of course.” his kiss-shaped lips has almost mastered the art of fooling you with pink lies. almost. “i just came to tell you that you can go home. mingi and i are gonna' go out party. no cameras are allowed there so, i'm good.”

“'you sure? i don't mind—”

“—yes, yeosang. i'm sure.” he holds your cheeks, joining your eyes. "take the rest of the night for yourself— sleep, eat, have fun with your boyfriend, just whatever. you deserve it!”

before you can mutter a word, he's squeezing you in a hug that's too familiar, but still clog up your windpipe with butterflies, and fuck—

—he's the honey sweetening your black coffee, the pink topping of your favorite cupcakes and the cotton candy he buys in your birthday; a dream melting sweetishly on your tongue-just always leaving a burn of sugar on all of your senses.

god, you're so weak.

“don't party too hard, seonghwa.” not sure if you're envying the next body he'll touch and sketch, or thankful for keeping your heart safe behind friend-zoning ribs, you tell him over your shoulder when he starts walking back to the spotlight.

“no promises.” he's too beautiful when he smiles at you genuinely, his framed emotions dropping for a second to show the starboy you knew from years back.

“yeah,” you're still falling, but,
“no promises.”

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𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔

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a/n; tell me what you think!