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Cicatrices are common. Especially from dance. the times of clumsiness, accredited accidents, and missteps—they all account to the conclusion that dance is a breathtaking art. As with all art forms, some moments take your breath away, allowing you to dream a dream, of a world that disappeared.
What I can do to get back to you.
It's as if the cosmos are suspended in their respective galaxies, you're able to take flight, alate. Floating, drifting, in a space that can be filled with anything. Your sharp movements, your partner's fluid movements, the melody guiding like a twinkling firefly in the background.
Put simply, it's an elysian serein; the fine, light rain that falls from a clear sky at sunset or in the early hours of the night—evening serenity.
Consequently, when Haechan lifts you up by the waist, there's a moment of a lull. Then something snaps the chord of harmony, snipping the ribbon, untwining the strings to the grand piano. It creates chaos. A discordance.
The next few moments flash by in a blur.
After all, you end up on top of Haechan and you're too dizzy to function your high-end luxury of intellect.
It's not until his voice liberates you from your stupor, do you understand the situation fully. "Are you okay, y/n?"
It's impossible not to focus on the vibrations of his voice that resonate through your body. There are only a mere few centimetres between both your faces, you're on top of him, hands on his chest, his back on the ground.
He must've taken the brunt of the fall. "Y/n?" Haechan's eyes search, inspect, and examine you for any signs of discomfort. "Are you okay?" He echoes once more.
Blinking barrenly back, you do your best to regain your courage to coerce some kind of response out. "I-uh... Yeah... Thanks." You bite the bottom of your lip, awkwardly.
For a few moments, you and Haechan spend an interval of the duration to just take each other with all the glory presented.
Strands of his hair (which you noticed has gotten much longer than before—it has already grown past his eyes,) are splayed and partially split down the middle due to the gravity. This allows you to really absorb his appearance. His eyes are sheen with a glossy coat, inflicting trillions of nebulas to shine radiantly, surpassing that of the sun. His healthy tanner skin is faultless, glazed with a slight layer of sweat from the intense practice.
Shortly, your irises pass over his lips. They're parted and his even air intakes can be seen.
And, as much as you tell yourself not to, you can't help but feel tempted to do something that might ruin your life. Truly.
Hence, your pupils shoot back up after lingering too long at his lips.
But he's Haechan. He never lets anything slip. He will never let you live this down.
"Tempted, now are we?" He raises an eyebrow. "I must say, I never made you out to be a naughty girl, y/n."
His statement causes you to utterly gape at him. "Can you shut up? Let's just lay here a little bit longer. My muscles are aching, oh my God." You complain, rolling off of Haechan before he can do anything else. (Or more for your sake. You don't know how much longer you can take with staring at his face.)
Thankfully, neither of you sustained any injuries. After much bantering (including insults here and there), the two of you pick yourselves back up, stretching.
And a part of you hoped that the trifling situation that just unfolded a scant minute ago will never be brought up again.
Because this, whatever you are starting to feel, will only wreck you in the future. Because enemies should not be in a predilection for one another.
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