Pretty boys with soft skin, pale and addictive, a weakness to you that never stops nagging. Pretty boys, ones with lips you'd love to kiss, their plump, wet and pink flesh so taunting. Pretty boys who make pretty sounds and do pretty things.
You seek out such beauty in the people you meet, never finding enough, their hair too spiky, their words too shrill. You adore those of a quiet demeanor, speaking slowly in a pitch much softer. You treasure the beauty of those who are innocent, who lack much finesse or sophistication. The ones simply too young to be used or worn out.
These boys are like window sills. People older than them might be cracked, maybe their sill is covered in a layer of dust and decay, rotted by the slowly leaking in dampness of the outside. Maybe the rim of the window, once nicely sanded over and painted, is harboring wicked discoloration, the corners sharper and dangerous to an unprotected finger.
But then, there are the boys you love, the ones like window sills. These windows though, it's hard for you to describe them right. Okay, understand this, these boys, their windows look out on the ocean. The ocean with warm water, so clean and clear you see the fish and seaweed weaving through the currents. The waves crashing over each other, the whitewater but a frothy and foamy mist. The sea, welcoming, in its easily approachable beauty, and the eloquent way it invites you in.
These boys, with their see-through and thin curtains pulled back; their paint fresh, maybe still smelling of chemicals; with their sills holding vases of flowers or potted plants; clean, any dust or dirt wiped away. These boys are addictive, sweet on your tongue like lemonade.
You can't seem to get yourself enough of a fix, not in the rare touches over their neck, or the sparse kisses they leave upon your lips. There is always more you are looking for. Always more you crave of them.
And then there is Jungkook. Jungkook, who is narrow in frame, giggly in words, and sweet in flavor. A pet of yours, so obedient and kind, his respect is admirable. He speaks with you like a child would, in tones of pure joy and giddy excitement.
You met him at the park, you were on a bench, and he had walked by. In his long, but nervous strides, legs tight in his jeans, but wobbling with the looseness of his boots. He had stopped right in front of you, to tie his shoe, hoping that would stop the inaccuracy of his step. When he had finished, he had stood, and when he stood he had looked over to you, who was thoroughly observing his every action.
And since then he was yours. In how at that park his dark, round eyes had fell upon yours, and he had bit his lip with the butterflies bubbling in his stomach, and he had tucked his hands in the pockets of his pants, and just looked down at you. You had looked up and had seen in him that clear window; his collar bone jutting out from the collar of his shirt, his cheeks rosy in the slight cold, his hair under a beanie. Jungkook was perfection, in its simplest form.
You wanted him. And you got him.
Conversation turning over from how much you both enjoyed lollipops, to the petals of wilted flowers, to daily routines like turning over in bed when you wake suddenly in the middle of the night. Strange topics, but it seemed like you both enjoyed the strange- or the simple things that life offered. Discussion rambled on, so easily that topics could go from fairs to fawns and it'd somehow make sense.
Numbers exchanged, outings planned. As nervous as he'd be, you found the way his voice would stutter and break endearing. Of only 16, Jungkook was a soft angel, skin fare, eyes so very round, voice weak, body frail. You bought him cocoa, not coffee. It was too hot, it burned his tongue, he pulled back, his shriek turning to a whimper, and his face so utterly shocked and offended.
You couldn't get enough of that face.
You took him out for hot cocoa, too hot, more often, his mouth burning, lips pulling back, each time with a shout or a whine. You found yourself craving those little sounds he'd make, in every moment your whole body pulling at you to hear more of them. More of him.
