synæsthesia

chromesthesia i.

。sound to color;

"i like you," yoongi breathes into his skin, and it sounds an awful lot like venerable scripture pages, something brown and something old and something jimin would handle with extra precaution if not for the vulnerable state it is in. something, something like tarnished papyrus, preserved and kept intact. it sounds like the sunrise in paris, a quiet gleam, gentle and refracting through the luminescence of champagne glasses in pierre gagnaire.

jimin smiles and yoongi hums a soft sonata in c major. he hears a crackle of cremisci and scarlatto with violent brushes of ribes nero smear down the fall of his nose and in the slope of his cupid's bow. it's the distinct sluggish ooze of magenta that slides in the back of his neck, coating him in a layer of yoongi's hues. it's a color that he frequently hums and jimin finds himself yielding to yoongi's euphonious lullaby. "i like you a lot."

"say it again, hyung," jimin says and it's a middle school blush - a faint flamingo blush wallowed in teen lust and youthful coyness, a particular faded rouge that tinkles across the seams of jimin's shoulders and at the expanse of his cheeks. their silenced fuscia sounds a little like magic - like teenage love vulnerability and first kiss gone wrong; terribly young and immaculate.

(he shouldn't have said that)

(but wanting is a force to be reckoned with)

yoongi giggles and it makes his knees weak. always. this time, it faintly resembles of canary moving swiftly down the crux of his collarbone. each moment passing is evanescent so he sidles up to yoongi's body, heart hammering against his rib cage as his lungs catch on every exhale. yoongi threads his fingers against jimin's own and lithe tan bleeds into his alabaster skin. "i like you so much, park jimin," he says it like it's an orison of some sort, doctrinal chants in shades of scarlet find their way to the tip of yoongi's tongue-as if to pay homage to the saints of jimin's little church. yoongi is caressing him, fondling until the sodden bow of the younger's lip catches a pinch of his fire-lit cider.

impatient and wanting, jimin latches his lips unto yoongi's thin and glossy ones, and every sound he hears eventually bursts in technicolour. a hymn of noises once thought to be consigned to oblivion starts playing in his head, every color ruptures rapidly; a concerto of its own. if he squints hard enough, he can spot a tangerine-tinged, mellifluous apricot wandering about in a mixture of crisp autumn leaves and daffodils and dandelions and marigolds. hues mix against one another. biscotti and parmesean each and back again. somewhere between the lines, the lilac region of jimin's soft moan melds into yoongi's boysenberry whimper as it sighs into the oceanic blue of their necks in its ever-expanding stature.

jimin is so whipped. so whipped that he constantly finds himself at the mercy of min yoongi. the min yoongi whose eyelashes are fluttering against his own, the min yoongi whose lips are soft and succulent and holy, the min yoongi who has learned which hands he should trust and which hands he shouldn't, the min yoongi whose love is a litany of sacrifice and salvation and fasting. and he'd find himself succumbing to yoongi's hymn time and time again (time and time again) because this is min yoongi. there's a cut to the kiss and he feels the wind steal his breath, a raw pulse of anxiety in the shade of oxblood red tints its way to jimin's spine, but yoongi smiles and jimin feels all the love this universe has to offer course their way through his veins, cascading in a cacophony of iridescent hues and he is so in love (so in love!). he surrenders and submits to yoongi's timid plea, a malachite "don't leave me behind," and he pins that offering in the dusty walls of his temporary abode and yoongi, because he is in love with the boy who holds secrets in his eyes (but also love, so so much love), he responds with an "i won't," masked in shades of ceruleo and chastised cobalt. yoongi smiles and it's the sun.

he levels their gaze to say, "jimin-ah," and it's the sweetest tone of iris mauve.

"yoongi-hyung," a swift whoosh of the wind. one: the breeze is frigid, tinted in hues of siberian blue and fervent teal with all variations in between. two: along the line, yoongi catches the younger's gaze and it's a blaze of scorched fire - a fervor burning. three: a smile blooms in his face and it's the silent trickle of virgin honey and unsullied marmalade quite yet. "i like you too," jimin hears hues of blue situate itself amidst the solemn sky.

he intertwines their fingers once again and yoongi chases the dulcet honey of jimin's lips - it's brief, painfully brief - but it sounds like the delicate purr of crimson love. it's a feeling so familiar. and feelings are wavering, yes - but jimin thinks he could build a chartreuse home out of this one.

☾

a/n, uhhh uh idkidk dont do drugs kids