[Her fingers drum against him as faux heartbeats. They don't pass through him, but sprout throughout his chest in a pleasant feedback. Yi Sang glances down at the unexpected embrace, momentarily taken by surprise before lifting his chin to meet her lively gaze. He remembers this, as well as what he said in response to her then.]
The words are my own.
[Whether they're romantic, fond, or redolent of "like-like," they're more than mere lines to be performed. Unlike back during the first ceremony, before which he'd turned the words over and over again in his head to verbalize a fraction of his thoughts, those that come in this moment belong to the present. They may be late, but they're here still.
Lifting his other hand, he tenderly curls his fingers around the side of Yingying's jawline and rests his thumb on her cheek. His are the hands of a researcher. They once created and shared his hopes and dreams before turning to ash, from which the roots of despair grew. Rather than a grave in bloom, however, the flowers that caress them are warm and sweet. These taxidermied hands now breathe with color, and they, too, are hers.]
The season turns as we speak. A harvest has arrived, and spring shall soon blossom. In the winter before then . . . what new wish do you have to make of me for the turn of the year?
no subject
The words are my own.
[Whether they're romantic, fond, or redolent of "like-like," they're more than mere lines to be performed. Unlike back during the first ceremony, before which he'd turned the words over and over again in his head to verbalize a fraction of his thoughts, those that come in this moment belong to the present. They may be late, but they're here still.
Lifting his other hand, he tenderly curls his fingers around the side of Yingying's jawline and rests his thumb on her cheek. His are the hands of a researcher. They once created and shared his hopes and dreams before turning to ash, from which the roots of despair grew. Rather than a grave in bloom, however, the flowers that caress them are warm and sweet. These taxidermied hands now breathe with color, and they, too, are hers.]
The season turns as we speak. A harvest has arrived, and spring shall soon blossom. In the winter before then . . . what new wish do you have to make of me for the turn of the year?