tell me the plot of a chankai story you'll never write
writer chanyeol and his muse, lithe graceful kim jongin, a fine arts dance major who moved in to replace chanyeol's old roommate.
"do i look like this?" jongin asks in awe when he stumbles across chanyeol's manuscripts despite chanyeol's desperate attempts to hide them. "do i look so beautiful when i dance?"
chanyeol may be a writer, but even then his words, always a solace and comfort, fail him at a moment like this.
"how does it work, being a muse? can you paint me with words? if i tilt my head like this, do words spring to your head?" he stretches his arms to his side and wriggles his toes, a poor imitation of a tour en l'air, but it's enough to draw chanyeol's gaze to the way his muscles ripple under his shirt, too threadbare to even pass as something decent.
you are delicate but strong, elegant but firm. you are beautiful in every sense of the word, my muse-
-is what chanyeol wants to say, but he bites his lips and says nothing instead, snatching the manuscripts back from jongin and stuffing them into the drawer. "i wasn't done."
"do i have to act a certain way?" jongin laughs, the slightest tremour in its lightness. "i feel burdened now, like i have to watch what i do."
you are perfect just the way you are, chanyeol doesn't say.
"sorry i wrote about it you without your permission," chanyeol says belatedly. "do you mind-?"
jongin worries his bottom lip, swinging his legs back and forth in a way that makes him seem younger than his years, amplifies the alluring innocent that both fascinates and guilts chanyeol. "but you have to pay me back in dinners. i miss homecooked food."
hands stained with kimchi juice is worth trading for jongin letting chanyeol watch him dance for hours on the end. oil splatters on his favourite shirt is worth it to have jongin shuffle closer to chanyeol after a particularly long practice session, laying his head down against chanyeol's shoulder with his eyes closed, "just a moment, hyung, let's stay like this for a just a moment more."
chanyeol isn't going anywhere, not when his heart is already stained with jongin's ink.
"do i look like this?" jongin asks in awe when he stumbles across chanyeol's manuscripts despite chanyeol's desperate attempts to hide them. "do i look so beautiful when i dance?"
chanyeol may be a writer, but even then his words, always a solace and comfort, fail him at a moment like this.
"how does it work, being a muse? can you paint me with words? if i tilt my head like this, do words spring to your head?" he stretches his arms to his side and wriggles his toes, a poor imitation of a tour en l'air, but it's enough to draw chanyeol's gaze to the way his muscles ripple under his shirt, too threadbare to even pass as something decent.
you are delicate but strong, elegant but firm. you are beautiful in every sense of the word, my muse-
-is what chanyeol wants to say, but he bites his lips and says nothing instead, snatching the manuscripts back from jongin and stuffing them into the drawer. "i wasn't done."
"do i have to act a certain way?" jongin laughs, the slightest tremour in its lightness. "i feel burdened now, like i have to watch what i do."
you are perfect just the way you are, chanyeol doesn't say.
"sorry i wrote about it you without your permission," chanyeol says belatedly. "do you mind-?"
jongin worries his bottom lip, swinging his legs back and forth in a way that makes him seem younger than his years, amplifies the alluring innocent that both fascinates and guilts chanyeol. "but you have to pay me back in dinners. i miss homecooked food."
hands stained with kimchi juice is worth trading for jongin letting chanyeol watch him dance for hours on the end. oil splatters on his favourite shirt is worth it to have jongin shuffle closer to chanyeol after a particularly long practice session, laying his head down against chanyeol's shoulder with his eyes closed, "just a moment, hyung, let's stay like this for a just a moment more."
chanyeol isn't going anywhere, not when his heart is already stained with jongin's ink.