Dongrang was fond of animals; Dongbaek, fireworks; . . . and he, the sky. Back in their hometown, he'd lie on the ground and gaze at the stars while dreaming of viewing them up close—to escape the confines of the City and soar instead to a place where he'd no longer have to take from anyone, and be free. It was, and still remains, a cherished dream of his.
The days they shared their playthings and laughter, and the twigs he'd burn for warmth in the night. The light blue sky of day in an estate bustling with activity. The wisteria whose blooms persist in the darkness, and the warmth in Yingying's bright eyes. He reminisces them all fondly, too. Fond is a feeling he knows and treasures.
His countenance eases in spite of her avoidant gaze. He's puzzled it out now—this feeling that brews in his chest when he's with her, accompanied by the sweet fragrance of wisteria. Finally, he can give voice to the thought that puts him at ease.]
. . . And I, you.
[With a few short strides, he closes the gap between them. Tenderly, he brushes the back of his fingers against the apple of her cheek before leaning in to press a soft kiss there, as she did for him not long ago.
"When someone says you're mine . . . they mean to communicate their love.
"With this kiss . . . my lips are yours, too."
She has already said enough over the course of three weeks; she needn't say any more unless she wishes to do so. And so, here beneath the wisteria, Yi Sang stays in place as he pulls back with a gentle smile.]
no subject
Dongrang was fond of animals; Dongbaek, fireworks; . . . and he, the sky. Back in their hometown, he'd lie on the ground and gaze at the stars while dreaming of viewing them up close—to escape the confines of the City and soar instead to a place where he'd no longer have to take from anyone, and be free. It was, and still remains, a cherished dream of his.
The days they shared their playthings and laughter, and the twigs he'd burn for warmth in the night. The light blue sky of day in an estate bustling with activity. The wisteria whose blooms persist in the darkness, and the warmth in Yingying's bright eyes. He reminisces them all fondly, too. Fond is a feeling he knows and treasures.
His countenance eases in spite of her avoidant gaze. He's puzzled it out now—this feeling that brews in his chest when he's with her, accompanied by the sweet fragrance of wisteria. Finally, he can give voice to the thought that puts him at ease.]
. . . And I, you.
[With a few short strides, he closes the gap between them. Tenderly, he brushes the back of his fingers against the apple of her cheek before leaning in to press a soft kiss there, as she did for him not long ago.
"When someone says you're mine . . . they mean to communicate their love.
"With this kiss . . . my lips are yours, too."
She has already said enough over the course of three weeks; she needn't say any more unless she wishes to do so. And so, here beneath the wisteria, Yi Sang stays in place as he pulls back with a gentle smile.]
With this, I am yours.