○ music room

@Kai Kyungsoo hasn't been here in a long time.

It's wrong, really, for him to be back. It was wrong of him to walk into this building as if he still has a purpose for being here. It was wrong of him to to even glance in its direction, because Kyungsoo knows that he's only punishing himself. He walks by the former establishment almost every night, hands tucked into the pockets of his blazer, even though he knows that there are quicker routes home. But despite how he insists on torturing himself with hopeless longing, Kyungsoo hasn't done much more than simply look at the club in a long time.

But tonight he saw a light and he desperately wants it to mean something.

The club isn't what it used to be. It's empty. Everything that once drew Kyungsoo in to its bright, pristine halls is now everything that it lacks.

Dust. Everything has turned to dust. It's as if the life that once filled these halls has completely disintegrated and left its mark on every visible surface. It only serves as a reminder of how lonely Kyungsoo really is, even if he spends his days surrounded by people. But he supposes that there's nothing to be done about that. The loneliness is self-imposed, and he'd only been kidding himself when he told himself that he'd be happy leaving this place. He left the club willingly. He left everything behind because he couldn't bear the intensity of how he felt for the one person that he wanted only for himself, but belonged to everybody else.

But tonight he saw a light. The club has been dark for so long, but as Kyungsoo walked by, he saw that one of the rooms was lit up. It had to mean something.

Of course, it probably didn't. There were plenty of reasons for someone to turn on a light. But Kyungsoo needed a reason to justify his walking into a building that in no way belonged to him. He needed a reason to return. He'd been unknowingly searching for one since the moment he'd left.

The sound of an out-of-tune piano drifts through the air. Kyungsoo follows it, even if he knows in the back of his mind that it's a terrible idea. This can only turn out badly.

The first note is shy, the second less so, and the third is as angry as a sound can be. The fourth is a sad cocktail of piano keys and choked sobs that Kyungsoo can hear faintly from the stairwell. He doesn't know why he keeps moving. Maybe it's because he's looking for trouble. Maybe it's because there's something familiar about those sobs, even if he's never heard them before.

He has a sick feeling in his stomach as he moves closer and closer to the source of the noise. He contemplates turning around and hurrying back down the stairs. He wants to get out as quickly as possible and forget about this completely. He'll take a new route home from work from now on. But he doesn't turn around.

And when he's finally standing in the doorway of a room that he still remembers all too well, his heart sinks. It's too much of a coincidence. He knew that this could only turn out badly.

The first thing that Kyungsoo notes is that Jongin's hair is longer. It's no longer styled neatly, and his clothes are no longer perfectly tailored and completely free of wrinkles. He's not who Kyungsoo remembers, but Kyungsoo knows him. He's spent so long trying to get away from him, even if he only lives in Kyungsoo's memories.

He's not a memory now, though. He's right in front of Kyungsoo and Kyungsoo doesn't know what to do.

"Jongin?" he whispers, before he can stop himself.

He shouldn't have said anything. He should have turned around and left. But Kyungsoo has never seen Jongin cry.

(I really wanted to reply way sooner but this week has been busy beyond belief
anyway, I tried :,(
these two are just too much for me to handle otl)

@Kyungsoo Kai sits. He inhales, holds his breath, and blows.

The piece starts with that sound, of Kai blowing the dust away to reveal black and white keys. He creats a cloud of dust, swiveling in different currents around him, swallowing him, hiding him. When he reemerges, he is no longer Kai. He is Kim Jongin. Tonight, he sits here with a bended back and hair falling over his eyes, inexperienced hands layed precisely on black and white keys. Tonight, he sits here, his shirt not tucked and not completely buttoned, dishevelled. Tonight, he sits here with downcast eyes and a lazy tilt of the head, a lazy posture altogether, as if he had completely given up on looking impeccable. Tonight, he sits here and he doesn't know.

He doesn't know why he's back, and neither does he know how to play the piano. Still, he moves a finger over to the side, as if deliberately choosing a key, and presses. The show has only begun.

The note is soft, tinkling. A small, sweet sound. Kai closes his eyes and he remembers the figure he'd met so long ago, hiding, hesitant. He remembers his sideward glances and his little trembles and how his breath stuttered. He remembers feeling so protective -- like he had any right at all to feel that way.

(Like he had any right at all to feel anything.)

A snicker. Kai moves his hand again and presses another key. The sound is slightly deeper, but still pleasant all the same. The sound lingers. Kai exhales as the sound disappears, as though creating it had given him some sort of pleasure. But it hadn't. His eyes are still closed and he remembers the warmth he'd felt with every little touch -- all the way from retrieving a cup of hot tea that had seeped through a certain someone's pressed shirt, to firm little hands adjusting his scarf and scurrying away shyly afterwards, to the feeling of his chest pressed against Kai's as they danced and glided over wooden floors.

(He had no right -- yet here he is. Just why did he come back?)

Kai's eyebrows furrow. His fingers begin to tremble. This time he moves both hands and presses all his fingers down, hard. It is a cocophony of sounds; deeper, angrier. And Kai remembers. He remembers falling deeper and deeper and it was suffocating but it was perfect and it was everything he'd wanted. He was everything Kai'd wanted. All Kai can see behind his closed eyes is his face and Kai wants him still. After all this time.

(He knows why he's here. He's always known. Maybe the moment Kai'd layed eyes on him he's always known he'd come back to him.)

Soon Kai is running a one-man-show. He collapses forward; his head in his arms and his arms on the keys. It's loud, deafening almost; the type of sound that shakes him. The accompaniments join in soon after, solely composed by trembling shoulders and choked out sobs and a whisper of a name upon his lips.

("Kyungsoo.")



( i tried. sorry. i shoul've warned u sooner. )

@Tamaki Haruhi digs crescent moons into the cover of her book. Tamaki is definitely acting strange today, there's no doubt about it. And another strange thing is Haruhi is more intrigued than afraid. There is something else in Tamaki's eyes today, something that looks a lot like desire and Haruhi can only wonder what.

(But she's not a gullible girl. The desire is directed towards her - but not really.) Haruhi sighs something that sounds a lot like what a pain in the , but she doesn't really mean it, because she's well past her Tamaki hating days. She takes his hand, her palm against his.

But Tamaki is cold today, too. And Haruhi's guts are telling her to run away again, but something else tells her it's too late. Something else wants it to be too late.

( tbh wtf is this sorry )

*an arm

@Haruhi The book drops just as the temperature drops; everything drops - his heart to the pits of his stomach, his head to the void all that is him. Tamaki regains equilibrium but he doesn't regain his sanity, regains composure but not himself. Still, hosting has done him well. He extends an arms, extends the fingers, opens the hand, opens an invitation.

"I meant, we dance. Dance with me." The eyes could be deceiving. Whoever said about anything regarding the eyes as windows to the soul knows nothing of the capabilities of mists and hazes and glazes. Tamaki stares at Haruhi dreamily as he sees her in different lights as if under simultaneous strobes.

She's green, she's orange, she's blue, but she's always red. Red dripping from a slice on the skull? Seductive. Very seductive.

Something uncoils and stirs within him. Impatience maybe? Arousal? Probably. Need? Most certain.

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@Tamaki Tamaki says a bunch of words. Haruhi hears her name and the rest is gibberish. She only hears her name, his voice, in her head, over and over. And she's not sure what really happens then, but the more it echoes in her mind, the sweeter it sounds, the more it actually sounds like Tamaki.

And then, Tamaki Suoh. This is him. It really is, Haruhi persuades herself because she doesn't want to be afraid anymore. She doesn't want to be afraid of him because this Tamaki, the first who has ever been there for her. The first to protect her.

The book slips from her fingers and falls onto her foot. She blinks away, away from his eyes. Those are very dangerous eyes. A cough, then she leans over and picks her book up, hugs it to her chest. More uncertain than uncomfortable. More yearning than despising.

"Come on, senpai. You know I have no idea what you just said," she says, laughing that unsure way of hers.

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He notices the backward movement, notices how the questions are twins of hesitation and maybe confusion. Tamaki dismisses the latter. What's so confusing about calling out a familiar name? He isn't confused, is never confused whenever Haruhi calls him senpai. In fact, Haruhi's the rain, her words the water tapping on his face, clinging unto skin, and sinking in the soul. And it's the pluviophilia that makes him recall the whys of his adoration for the lady.

"Haruhi, allez-vous danser avec moi?"

What Tamaki doesn't notice: Kyouya.

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@Tamaki There's something churning in Haruhi's gut when she sees Tamaki's blue eyes. They're not bright today. She has no idea what they are today and it frightens her. She has no idea how to feel, what to think, what to do. Her chest says help him but her mind prods, from what. Her gut screams run away.

And it's strange because Tamaki has always been strange, but Haruhi has never felt like running from him. She staggers back one step when he moves toward her. He's weird today; stiff, not graceful. The closer he gets the more frightened she feels.

"Senpai," she whispers, half an order, half a question, half a plea. His shadow engulfs her. Her nails dig into the withering cover of the book. She holds hear breath, but Tamaki only glows with her name upon his lips.

She hesitates, "Senpai, are you alright?" But she knows he isn't. This isn't the same Tamaki. (This isn't her prince.)

@Haruhi The word doesn't reach his ears. What reaches him is the question and what trails behind it. Is Haruhi watching him fold himself seven times seven? Is Haruhi finding this scene frightening? Oh, tell me she doesn't - he pleads to himself.

His fingers uncurl and he looks up to smile but he doesn't smile because there's Haruhi with a book. There's Haruhi. Eventually, his legs straighten and he goes for languid and nonchalance but fails miserably. He's stiff. He's trembling.

Kill...kill...kill...

Who would want to kill sweet, sweet, innocent, poor Haruhi?

Me...me..me..

Tamaki drowns and the surface glazes in crooning images of seductive poisons to the mind: a knife stuck in between her chin and throat, his lips on her quivering mouth maybe, and...

"Haruhi!" His voice brightens. Practice does make perfect.

@Tamaki There's a book in her hand and distress over her shoulders. It's when Haruhi finally has time to go over at least a few pages when she can't find a quiet place to stay. (Or maybe she just doesn't know where to look. Maybe she's just lost.) She roams around long, empty halls, her sighs echoing off the walls. She's tired. She likes to stay positive but today she's just. Tired.

There is a door at the end of the hall and vaguely she remembers it's the music room. There are warning bells in her head, voices telling her don't do it, there might be a group of insane narcissists in there ready to ambush her. But strangely she doesn't mind. It's just like the first time.

There's a book in her hand, this is the music room, and when she opens the door, there Tamaki is. Except this isn't like the first time. Not at all. The room isn't bright. Tamaki is alone and, worst of all, he's not reaching his hand out to her. Haruhi is, for the first time, scared.

"Senpai?" Because what else is there to say. Haruhi has never seen anything as tragic as this star burning out.

( idek either )

[why do i always post here? srsly. i've no life.]

Not many know that Tamaki's a pluviophile; Not even Tamaki knows it.

(Maybe he does but the word doesn't hit him like the raging familiar unlike how the piano keys do.)

He sits there, staring at white, at black, and beyond. What he yearns is the rain, really, because a pluviophile can only find peace in the rain. A set of ellipses and of unintelligible calligraphy resides in Tamaki's head and he wants them out. Only rain could wash them away, he tells himself. Music is not much of a companion. It doesn't sit well with shaky fingers and trembling hushed wishes of 'kill...kill...kill.'

Moments more, Tamaki finds himself panting, hands on his head, fingers tangled with his hair, knees on his chest.

[idek]

Daehyun pushed Himchan's body off of him and dusted his pants. He beheld the work of art lying lifeless and almost cold on the carpeted floor. Daehyun sighed. The sight was divine.

He was an artist in progress.

Non progredi, est regredi.

Thus, he moved on. He picked up his knife stuck on Himchan's nape. He had to exert effort to pull it out but the effort was best rewarded with the sound of sloshing liquid, more squirting blood, and squelching flesh.

And without much of a sideway glance, Daehyun marched out of the room to go to the casino.

[To the Casino]

The lack of blood had made his eyes slowly flutter close as his skin turned into a sickly jaundice color.
( a one liner because I'M DEAD JESUS CHRIST)

@Kai [why thank you. UwU]

( daehyun u are a ing psycho. )

* rolls dice * gets a 3

* rolls dice * gets a 4

@Himchan Himchan met his hips and Daehyun obliged by sinking into pleasure as he moved again. The shifting made him closer to the knife. His fingers curled around the handle and stuck the sharp end of the cutlery to Himchan's nape.

Daehyun moaned.

The feeling of holding the edge, and slicing through flesh, and hearing the first spurts of red velvet liquid squirting out of broken skin was euphoric. His eyes rolled back his head as he dragged the knife down, and he could feel with the tip of the steel that ragged bone Himchan hid so well with his beautiful skin.

* rolls dice * gets a 5

* rolls dice * gets a 2

@Daehyun He threw his head back, a low moan escaping his lips tainted with dried blood. " - Daehyun -"

Himchan tore the suit open, buttons flying and fabric ripping. He his lips at the scent of Daehyun's skin, and by reflex he rolled his hips again, feeling the pleasure through the layers. He forced his teeth down Daehyun's neck again, the spot right after. "So ing sweet," he muttered.

@Himchan [lol. a tie. nothing happens. XD]


"Like how? Like this?" He rolled his hips upward just so he could stretch his arms longer to reach out for that knife Himchan had slapped out of his grasp. He didn't realize the aftermaths of what he did and his eyes fluttered close, the sudden friction sending wanton thoughts in his head involving Himchan and red and maybe the carpeted floor. "F-." He rolled his hips again, more for the friction less for knife idly stationed near his fingertips.

* rolls dice * gets a 4

* rolls dice * gets a 4

Himchan groaned as his arousal had turned him weak, had made his knees shake and body tremble due to the sweetness of Daehyun's nectar (fifty shades of ing brilliant corniness).
His lungs fought for air but his arms had stayed limp. And he stared, with his dilated pupils, how beautiful Jung Daehyun looked like; how brown his eyes looked with only the moonlight illuminating the room; how smooth his skin seemed... Himchan clawed Daehyun's back, painting his own hands in dark red as he took the opportunity of Daehyun's short recovery to straddle the man under him. "And you're ing gorgeous like this."

@Himchan Daehyun grunted.

His head lolled back and he felt Himchan force himself inside his skin. The surprise turned into strength and he was able to push Himchan away from him. Blood ran races from his neck to the collar of his suit and his suit turned a darker shade of gloom. So did his eyes. This was lust.

He dragged a hand on the broken skin on his neck and hissed at the sting; it made him smile a bit wider, a bit wilder. He appreciated the color on his skin when his eyes landed on his dragged hand and ing well did the red suit his tan. His eyes went for Himchan's face. He still felt that it would look good more on Himchan what with that fading blood that he had smeared on Himchan's cheek causing flippings in his guts.

"Hyung," his breath was shaky. He was ecstatic. "Hyung," he was seething, also, as he was aroused. "Himchan." His blood-stained hand flew to slap Himchan across the face and the sound was divine. He made a grab for Himchan's throat and pulled him closer to his face. "Oh goodness," Daehyun inhaled deeply through his nose and spoke through gritted teeth. "You're ing beautiful in red."

(Well me)