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Watashi No Kokoro

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They remembered very different first meetings, and being them, they tend to argue as to who’s right. Changmin remembers a pale beauty crashing into him while he wandered the streets in the rain, dying to paint but with no inspiration at all but for the play of light in the puddles of water. After looking down at glimmering skin and dewy lips, all he wanted to paint were pale diamond eyes with the depth of the oceans, eyes that haunted his mind and asked if he’d ever find them.


 Jaejoong remembers an icy cold day, breath warmed inside his cupped hands but it wasn’t enough. His shoulder brushed past something strong, something that left behind it a swell of warmth and musk that was dangerously familiar. He turned his head, catching a glimpse of a twisted smirk and a devastatingly forceful expression. For weeks after, his songs were filled with accidental love and his dreams with long legs and quirked lips. But now, as they’re twisted together in a studio of easels and speakers, paint splattered fingers press against song swollen lips, and nothing seems to matter. They’ll argue about this later.

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They remembered very different first meetings, and being them, they tend to argue as to who’s right. Changmin remembers a pale beauty crashing into him while he wandered the streets in the rain, dying to paint but with no inspiration at all but for the play of light in the puddles of water. After looking down at glimmering skin and dewy lips, all he wanted to paint were pale diamond eyes with the depth of the oceans, eyes that haunted his mind and asked if he’d ever find them.


 Jaejoong remembers an icy cold day, breath warmed inside his cupped hands but it wasn’t enough. His shoulder brushed past something strong, something that left behind it a swell of warmth and musk that was dangerously familiar. He turned his head, catching a glimpse of a twisted smirk and a devastatingly forceful expression. For weeks after, his songs were filled with accidental love and his dreams with long legs and quirked lips. But now, as they’re twisted together in a studio of easels and speakers, paint splattered fingers press against song swollen lips, and nothing seems to matter. They’ll argue about this later.