Beauty - tk (rewriting)

1. The Warren Cup.

Whiskey. Pages turned left and right, round eyes scanning over the pages. A sip. He ran a hand through his hair, licking his lips. Another sip. He read through the pages, absorbing. A third one. He could feel frustration seeping in. Finished the glass. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair again but this time gripping it tight, groaning. Why must his field of work be so hard? He didn't have the patience one should have if they wanted to work in this particular field. He had the success though, something most people in his field didn't. Maybe, it was his impatience. Maybe, it was his talent. Could be his teachers too, the reason for his success. He couldn't really tell. 

He looked over to his left, eyes tracing over the brown wooden table he was working on to land on the ancient cup sitting there, pretty with poise. Truly beautiful. He was an archaeologist, after all. How could he not appreciate art? Truly an absurd thought really, if anybody could ever think he couldn't appreciate art.

It was a cup, really. Just a cup. Something they used in the ancient times to drink— water? Fruit juice? Alcohol, perhaps? He couldn't tell. Who would even drink from a cup full of homosexual sculptures? Jeongguk definitely wouldn't. 

Don't get him wrong. Oh, no. He wasn't the least bit homophobic. He didn't hate anybody engaging in sexual acts with the same sex, no, nor did he hate the act in itself. He was half homosexual, after all. He means bisexual. He just had things against… just humans.

"Cruel beings, they truly are," he mused to himself, "truly cruel." He shook his head. Truly cruel indeed. Again— don't get him wrong, he doesn't hate people because some girl left him heartbroken— no. He'd never. He could never. It was just, the way they acted in general.

He poured some more whiskey into his cup, still drowned in his thoughts, body, in alcohol. He sighed, trying to clear his head. He had to concentrate. He had to research and a head full of thoughts wouldn't make his job any easier. 

He needed details on the cup. He knew what it was called— the warren cup. Its previous owner— Mr. Warren (he was hazy enough to forget his full name). The time period it was created in— fifth to fifteenth century. Somewhere in between. Seventh century, perhaps? He couldn't tell for sure.

Now, he had other questions than just basic information. He wanted to know who the original creator of that sculpted cup was. Why was it created? Why wasn't the creator known? Who was it dedicated to— if it was created for someone specially. 

Questions he had, answers he didn't. Information? Of course, he didn't. If he did, then wouldn't he have the answers too? He sighed, taking a sip from his third glass of whiskey. 

Oh. It tasted weird. Really weird, actually. His face contorted to one of disgust. Definitely, not the good weird. He looked at the cup he held in his hand, mind still hazy, only getting more so by the second.

Oh Lord, how does my whiskey glass look so pretty? Wasn't it supposed to just look round and clear? He giggled. It tasted bad though so Jeongguk wasn't sure if he'd be drinking more from the pretty, gay cup. He let the cup sit on the table before his feet took him to bed, passing by the huge, wooden furnished hall, reaching his modern bedroom.

In his alcohol induced state, even the paint swirls of the wall looked more swirled, almost like staring at a rose directly into its ovary. He wasn't sure he could even differentiate between pink and purple in his state.

He passed out on his cushioned bed with a dopey smile on his face, clutching that black bedsheet which didn't know what it did wrong to deserve four weeks of no washing. Washing hurt though, so it was okay. That's what Jeongguk had told it, at least.

-

His eyes hurt. His body was heavy. His head felt like rocks placed on it. Jeongguk felt like he was experiencing hell in short.

The heat was too much. It was as if sun directly shone above him, burning his pale skin to turn to a bright pink. He was sure he'd have burn wounds when— if he could wake up.

What was happening? He wasn't sure. Where he was? He was questioning that too. It just seemed very sunny and as if he were laying on sand.

He wasn't sure if he'd survive if he doesn't get up as soon as possible, and that thought had to keep him going.

He slowly got up, starting from twitching fingers to finally getting up with buckling knees covered in sand all over.

He dusted himself off, careful not to touch the burn wounds. They were painful with the sun still burning like no tomorrow.

He remembered laying on his bed the day before, even the swirls of his room and that black bedsheet which were now nowhere to be found.

If there was one thing he knew, it was that he wasn't in the comfort of his own home. Where else? He couldn't put a finger on it. The areas around looked deserted with only a couple trees here and there which he used to stand under.

He had to figure out what was going on, and for that, he needed to move, walk somewhere, keep walking till he had an answer.

All sorts of thoughts ran in his mind but one was predominant, he needed to survive no matter what.

Even with the hunger and thirst he felt, he walked and walked in the sand under the angry sun which started fading by the minute, sky turning to a beautiful blue, swirls of purples and the whites of stars decorating.

It looked like a stargazing spot— or somewhere ancient without pollution— of course, that was what came to the mind of an archaeologist.

He shivered from the sudden change of temperature, cold fingertips, warm legs, burning sand and cooling body. It wasn't where he wanted to be. He needed to survive, he needed to live. He was ready to walk forever if it meant life. He was gonna live.

-

(A/n: thoughts?)