hoseok doesn’t like bukowski. he doesn’t like cynicism pouring out of every word, nor pessimism filling pages after pages, nor burnt out cigarettes and scarred flesh. he doesn’t like ugly, but truth is often that way.
hoseok doesn’t like bukowski, but when namjoon recites the poems in the crook of hoseok’s shoulder, his lips soft against hoseok’s skin, his breath warm, bringing comfort, easing tension, hoseok finds himself getting lost in the words that so reverently leave namjoon’s mouth.
when namjoon says them, they’re poetry in its purest, distilled form, the very essence of humanity. hoseok finds it hard to breathe.
“i will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love, and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me,” namjoon says. a ghost of breath against hoseok’s ear, a touch of tongue, a barely-there kiss. warmth.
hoseok throws his head back. the pillow is soft, full of feathers. his hair spills on the satin pillowcase because cotton is too hot for summer. namjoon mouths at the column of his neck, leaving wet kisses behind. then he follows hoseok’s pulse line, sucks on it. bruises it. red and purple in a million different shades.
“i will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books,” namjoon says.
hoseok’s hands are tangled in namjoon’s hair, strands curled around long fingers. he draws him in, pulls him closer if that were possible. but with namjoon nothing is ever close enough. there’s a gap between them, as big as the grand canyon and as small as a needle at the same time. something like a fracture, a cut, a scar. a reminder of turbulent times when they weren’t we but you and me, when life wasn’t this sweet, like cherries.
“our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever,” namjoon says and hoseok doesn’t know if he’s still reciting a poem, breathing life in it with every word or has he moved to something else. something more intimate. more sacred. something just for hoseok. a secret for them to share.
goosebumps rise where namjoon’s touching him, his hands are leaving invisible imprints on hoseok’s skin. his fingers pressing admiration and love into every pore of hoseok’s being. it’s better than sex, it’s better than sloppy kisses and passionate kisses and good morning kisses. it’s adoration and hoseok wants to do the same, but he was never good with words, not the way namjoon is.
“your leg my leg, your arm my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again,” namjoon says and hoseok knows this is the end, there’s nothing more than to pull namjoon up for a kiss.
he does just that and together they melt into each other.