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writetomyheart2022-01-13 12:09 am
rlozzies.livejournal.com) wrote in writetomyheart2022-01-13 12:09 am
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[team two] reclamation is a record
this one had a life of its own, but it was fun to get back into writing!
Up is a direction San does not plan on moving any time soon — even if he is vaguely sure that the kitchen is on fire. He’s buried beneath records and at some point had fallen asleep underneath them, or closed his eyes, melted into the plastic and paper and vinyl and forgotten about the water he’d set to boil. Yeosang never had any cooking skills, either, but at least he was always good at — everything, his mind supplies, and he buries himself deeper, thinking about days past, and the color of Yeosang’s hair when the sun hit it perfectly, before Wooyoung bursts into his apartment and ruins his daydream.
—
“You know, they have coffee shops now, San. You can buy these now, in a mug, and not risk war with your landlord.”
San shrugs and clicks his tongue, bringing a fresh brewed mug of coffee to his lips. “Thank you for the coffee,” he mumbles, words getting caught between his mouth and Wooyoung’s eager ears. Wooyoung rolls his eyes and gets up to check the noodles on the stove. “I know you don’t technically have to eat to live, but I’ve figured out that eating makes living forever a lot more bearable and also I have perfected this recipe so you will eat it.”
San rolls his neck and lets his head rest against the couch cushion. “It’s not bearable without—,” and he doesn’t have to finish the sentence before Wooyoung turns back to the stove. “I know,” he says, his back somehow looking smaller. “I loved him too.”
San takes a deep breath and smoothes his hair back. “How much will I have to eat to get you to leave?”
Wooyoung fixes him with a steaming bowl and a blinding smile. “Only all of it.”
In a way, San is glad to have a friend to see the rest of eternity with — if only he didn’t want to kill him every day of his life.
—
San falls asleep on the couch, and wakes up to Wooyoung loudly rifling through his belongings. “Stop,” he murmurs, still groggy, and tries to sit up. Wooyoung soundlessly waves him off as he surrounds himself by records spread across the living room rug. “Why do you have so many records? I thought you liked digital music. You said vinyl was a scourge on—”
“They were his,” San says simply, getting up from his spot on the couch and clutching a Bowie record to his chest. “They are his.”
Wooyoung looks at him with a piercing look. It is pity, understanding, anger, comfort. “Yeosang is gone, Sannie. He lived a good life, with you, with us. It was his time.” Tears pool in Wooyoung’s eyes and San looks elsewhere.
San shakes his head. “No. It was never going to be time. No time is enough.”
Wooyoung moves to where San cannot evade his eyes. “What do you mean by th—No, San. Absolutely not. You promised me. You promised you wouldn’t use your powers three hundred years ago and you’re not breaking it. I get it, okay? I miss him every day. I was there at the start. He was my chosen, and I thought we would have more time. But life happens and people die and you can’t commune with him because you’re lonely.”
San looks into Wooyoung’s eyes, and yet is eons away when he speaks. “I won’t be able to find someone like him ever again. We should have gone on forever.” And then he is host to the memories.
Wooyoung was still receiving assignments for souls when San met Yeosang. Wooyoung and San had been bonded for a millennia at this point — immortals created from suffering, the universe’s response to pain. They all served purpose. Wooyoung’s was to guide lost souls through life, avoiding unnecessary suffering, and San’s was to commune with the dead and provide peace in passing. San had let his power become dormant during the 1700’s, when his communing had woken the spirit of a higher demon, and had inadvertently caused a plague outbreak. Wooyoung convinced him that his communing could be dangerous — he was often not fully in control of who he was communing with, and some passings were best left disturbed and agitated. These passings were deserved.
Wooyoung had been assigned to Yeosang for one year. He was gentle, naive, and susceptible, and Wooyoung was supposed to set him on the right path. He did — but couldn’t bear to leave. Yeosang had become a chosen, a life assignment. Their fate lines were intertwined, for good. Where Yeosang went, Wooyoung went. And where Wooyoung went, San went. And then he fell in love with a mortal.
He feels Wooyoung tapping his cheek in a less than gentle manner, and he pushes him off and walks into his bedroom. Wooyoung is, of course, hot on his heels.
“I need you to listen to me. It’s not safe. You can’t wake up your powers like this. You’ll be unchecked.”
San dresses quickly, energized by the thought of seeing Yeosang, in the flesh, with him again. He ignores Wooyoung’s presence, which does absolutely nothing. Wooyoung continues talking.
“Hi, yes, I’m trying to lay down wisdom here, San. I don’t know if you know this, but I don’t have time to clean up whatever disaster you’re planning on creating.”
San shoves past him and into the bathroom, closing the door on Wooyoung. He hears the beginning of a screech rise up in Wooyoung’s throat while he washes his face, and then hears him slide against the door.
“San,” Wooyoung intones. His voice has lost any bite and it is all gentle and kind. “I love you. I loved him. And I know you loved him. But you have to let him go. He was at peace, thanks to you. You gave him joy and love and his soul is resting. Let it rest. Don’t commune with him.”
San opens the door to watch Wooyoung careen backwards and then stand up. “I’m not communing. I’m going to tie his soul to a physical object. I’m going to bring him back.”
Wooyoung’s face goes through more emotions than San has ever seen, and then drops his face into his hands. Muffled, San hears, “How could you make it worse,” before San walks away from Wooyoung, out of the apartment and into the busy street below.
&
San has it all set up. He figures if he goes out and walks, he might be able to waste enough time to wait for Wooyoung to leave. He thinks he might leave to give him space, or he’ll call someone for advice. He’s decided on what record he’ll use. He’d intended on maybe using a different record, but Yeosang had always loved Bowie and San figures his favorite music may call Yeosang back to him.
Bowie was playing at Wooyoung’s apartment when San first spoke with Yeosang. He’d met him several times across the years, but it was his 22nd birthday when Wooyoung invited San to the party. The air felt thick and humid and Wooyoung paid attention to no one’s temperature needs but his own. San had complimented Wooyoung on his rarely good music choice, and Wooyoung smiled — a smile that seemed only meant for himself. “Yeosang has the aux. I told him it was his birthday so he could choose.”
San thought Yeosang was angelic every time he met him, but that night, he was a vision, an experience. They’d barely spoken and San was content not to push it, but not tonight. His light hair framed his face and San felt like he was breathing diamonds. “Your music choice is much better than Wooyoung’s,” he said, which immediately felt like a bad line to start with.
Yeosang looked down and smiled into himself. “Like that was even a question,” he immediately replied. “At least the two of us have good taste.”
San knew he appeared drunk. His face stayed at a tilt, lips slightly parted, wondering if this was the Yeosang that Wooyoung was constantly worried about. San understood it. Yeosang’s glittering eyes, his smile, his laugh — he was a painting, fraying on the edges of reality, someone neither one thing or the other. Quiet, gentle, strong, biting, angelic, cold. The reality of San’s never ending existence didn’t touch him that night. His reality was this: the song of a gentle boy holding his hand that replaced his thoughts, turning to symphonies that spooled along the edges of his blood vessels. When Yeosang leaned into San with a sigh, closing his eyes and pressing his face into his neck, San was worshipful. There was no imagining of an end, of a car accident, of random chance. There was only Yeosang’s heartbeat, forever strong, that raced and then calmed at San’s touch. San was always immortal, but that night, he was a god.
San arrives back at the apartment, heart on fire. He only has a vague idea of how far his powers will stretch, and he’s never tried to tether a human being to an object before. It’s quiet, Wooyoung having abandoned the place. San lays the vinyl on to the turntable, then slowly lifts the lever to press the needle into the grooves of the record, and locks the door. He lets the record spin past the few first songs until it plays Yeosang’s favorite song.
In a way, San feels like how he felt before their first dates, a long time ago. He was full of bursting, nervous energy, talking too much, while he tried to keep Yeosang’s eyes on him. Yeosang had a small shake, his hands warm, his smile always there. Even when they moved from movie and coffee dates, to rooftop nights, to each night in a different country, to nights in on the couch, he never lost sight of Yeosang’s eyes and the way his mouth upturned in a smile that was just for him. When he was called to identify Yeosang’s body, he’d been unable to look into Yeosang’s eyes, one last time.
Life On Mars starts playing, and San nods. He closes his eyes, and envisions all the small moments, the ones that only belong to him and Yeosang. Burnt waffles in the Seoul apartment, the bird that tried to steal Yeosang’s phone in Paris, pizza and kisses under the sheets in New York, hiding in the corners of the Van Gogh museum stealing moments. He goes deeper. His hand on the small of Yeosang’s back when he’s sick, rubbing circles. Whispering their dreams back and forth when the lights are off. The concert of the painfully indie group when they laughed so hard they cried. Yeosang falling asleep on his shoulder on the subway. Yeosang giving him a copy of his apartment key, admitting it was the first key copy he’d ever given to someone else. Telling Yeosang who he was, and Yeosang pulling him in closer. Laying in the sand, sunburnt and love drunk. The last night he never knew would be his last with Yeosang, when he pulled him in close and whispered I love you. Did Yeosang remember that, when he faded?
The memories are starting to hold and take shape. The space next to the record player is filling with mist, nothing quite visible yet, but growing. Edges filling in. San whispers his name like a prayer. There’s vague form, he can see the gentle tip of Yeosang’s nose, the brutally beautiful curve of his mouth. “Sangie,” he says again, edging closer.
“Where am I,” Yeosang says, a nervous edge to his voice. He looks around. He’s almost corporeal, but everything around him looks like it’s being seen through gossamer.
“I brought you here. You’re home, Yeosang. Our home. I brought you back.” San is weeping now, both because he can’t believe he’s with him, and because Yeosang sounds pained.
“I can’t see you, San. Help me, please. Take me back. I was resting. I can’t see anything. It hurts, Sannie. Take me back. I want to go back.”
San shakes his head. “It’s just the process. It will work, trust me. You’ll be here and everything will be okay again.”
Yeosang’s body begins to contort. “I love you, but this isn’t right. I wasn’t meant to be brought back. I miss you, but I can’t see you, and I can’t touch you, and your voice sounds so far away. Why can’t I see you? I wanted to see your face one last time. Why does it hurt so much. Can you make the pain go away?”
San collapses onto his knees, crawling towards Yeosang. Instead of getting clearer, his image waxes and wanes, but it clear enough to see Yeosang’s eyes widen in fear and to see him clench his jaw. His hands are mist, undefined. And then, suddenly, he is here. San can see his birthmark on his upper cheek, his eyelashes, tear tracks running down his face. San takes his hand and it is warm. Yeosang throws his arms around San, and he is home. “Thank you,” Yeosang whispers, reverently. “Thank you for letting me see you one last time.”
San holds him in his arms. “No, there’s no last time for us anymore.”
Yeosang backs away and nods his head. “Something is happening, San. I’m not supposed to be here. I can feel it. Something is happening. You have to send me back now.” His voice is measured but stern.
“I—I didn’t think about sending you back, Sangie. I don’t know how to let you go.”
“You have to let me—” Yeosang falters, a gurgling, his eyes wide open, muscles taut. “San,” he says. Simply, painfully, almost biting out the words, which is immediately followed by his chest being cracked in half.
San falls backwards, without words or sound, the air knocked out of his chest. As Yeosang’s neck hangs limply, barely connected, the body regenerates with lumpy bone and sinew, turning his boy into a heaving monster. His spine reforms into knotted muscles, the body creating a shape San wishes he didn’t recognize. He looks like a higher demon.
And then there is a voice inside his head.
"You had me locked out, but not for long. 300 years is nothing to wait for something like me. All I had to do was wait for you to commune with one person, and your love for this poor boy tastes so sweet. I can have you, and him too. Your one weakness is perfect for me."
San already can feel the strength leaving his body. He chokes on his own tongue as he tries to remember grounding things. The smell of coffee, the smile of Wooyoung, the touch of Yeosang, but then all he can see is how Yeosang cried for help, and how he could not let him go, and all the bad he had let in for his own selfishness.
His heart is stilling, the muscles inside his own body growing larger, his skin contracting and expanding. He is wondering how long before it ends, when he curves backward and his spine cracks apart into an upside down v shape. His brain explodes into dynamic splinters, fractals of pain repeating in endless loops. Suddenly, his body and his consciousness merges with Yeosang’s. He feels his thoughts, his memories, his fear, everything in his brain being replaced by blood and ash and gore as sinew connects and they become one being.
Someone is trying to break down the door. A voice yells for San, a name that is increasingly becoming less and less familiar to him. He is only conscious of his new body, his new brain, and Yeosang. They are melded together. They are one spirit, one energy, one life force. He is only aware of one thing — together, forever, before his jaw unhinges and united, they burst into flame and enter a void as one.
Next up is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sidleypkhermit!
Up is a direction San does not plan on moving any time soon — even if he is vaguely sure that the kitchen is on fire. He’s buried beneath records and at some point had fallen asleep underneath them, or closed his eyes, melted into the plastic and paper and vinyl and forgotten about the water he’d set to boil. Yeosang never had any cooking skills, either, but at least he was always good at — everything, his mind supplies, and he buries himself deeper, thinking about days past, and the color of Yeosang’s hair when the sun hit it perfectly, before Wooyoung bursts into his apartment and ruins his daydream.
—
“You know, they have coffee shops now, San. You can buy these now, in a mug, and not risk war with your landlord.”
San shrugs and clicks his tongue, bringing a fresh brewed mug of coffee to his lips. “Thank you for the coffee,” he mumbles, words getting caught between his mouth and Wooyoung’s eager ears. Wooyoung rolls his eyes and gets up to check the noodles on the stove. “I know you don’t technically have to eat to live, but I’ve figured out that eating makes living forever a lot more bearable and also I have perfected this recipe so you will eat it.”
San rolls his neck and lets his head rest against the couch cushion. “It’s not bearable without—,” and he doesn’t have to finish the sentence before Wooyoung turns back to the stove. “I know,” he says, his back somehow looking smaller. “I loved him too.”
San takes a deep breath and smoothes his hair back. “How much will I have to eat to get you to leave?”
Wooyoung fixes him with a steaming bowl and a blinding smile. “Only all of it.”
In a way, San is glad to have a friend to see the rest of eternity with — if only he didn’t want to kill him every day of his life.
—
San falls asleep on the couch, and wakes up to Wooyoung loudly rifling through his belongings. “Stop,” he murmurs, still groggy, and tries to sit up. Wooyoung soundlessly waves him off as he surrounds himself by records spread across the living room rug. “Why do you have so many records? I thought you liked digital music. You said vinyl was a scourge on—”
“They were his,” San says simply, getting up from his spot on the couch and clutching a Bowie record to his chest. “They are his.”
Wooyoung looks at him with a piercing look. It is pity, understanding, anger, comfort. “Yeosang is gone, Sannie. He lived a good life, with you, with us. It was his time.” Tears pool in Wooyoung’s eyes and San looks elsewhere.
San shakes his head. “No. It was never going to be time. No time is enough.”
Wooyoung moves to where San cannot evade his eyes. “What do you mean by th—No, San. Absolutely not. You promised me. You promised you wouldn’t use your powers three hundred years ago and you’re not breaking it. I get it, okay? I miss him every day. I was there at the start. He was my chosen, and I thought we would have more time. But life happens and people die and you can’t commune with him because you’re lonely.”
San looks into Wooyoung’s eyes, and yet is eons away when he speaks. “I won’t be able to find someone like him ever again. We should have gone on forever.” And then he is host to the memories.
Wooyoung was still receiving assignments for souls when San met Yeosang. Wooyoung and San had been bonded for a millennia at this point — immortals created from suffering, the universe’s response to pain. They all served purpose. Wooyoung’s was to guide lost souls through life, avoiding unnecessary suffering, and San’s was to commune with the dead and provide peace in passing. San had let his power become dormant during the 1700’s, when his communing had woken the spirit of a higher demon, and had inadvertently caused a plague outbreak. Wooyoung convinced him that his communing could be dangerous — he was often not fully in control of who he was communing with, and some passings were best left disturbed and agitated. These passings were deserved.
Wooyoung had been assigned to Yeosang for one year. He was gentle, naive, and susceptible, and Wooyoung was supposed to set him on the right path. He did — but couldn’t bear to leave. Yeosang had become a chosen, a life assignment. Their fate lines were intertwined, for good. Where Yeosang went, Wooyoung went. And where Wooyoung went, San went. And then he fell in love with a mortal.
He feels Wooyoung tapping his cheek in a less than gentle manner, and he pushes him off and walks into his bedroom. Wooyoung is, of course, hot on his heels.
“I need you to listen to me. It’s not safe. You can’t wake up your powers like this. You’ll be unchecked.”
San dresses quickly, energized by the thought of seeing Yeosang, in the flesh, with him again. He ignores Wooyoung’s presence, which does absolutely nothing. Wooyoung continues talking.
“Hi, yes, I’m trying to lay down wisdom here, San. I don’t know if you know this, but I don’t have time to clean up whatever disaster you’re planning on creating.”
San shoves past him and into the bathroom, closing the door on Wooyoung. He hears the beginning of a screech rise up in Wooyoung’s throat while he washes his face, and then hears him slide against the door.
“San,” Wooyoung intones. His voice has lost any bite and it is all gentle and kind. “I love you. I loved him. And I know you loved him. But you have to let him go. He was at peace, thanks to you. You gave him joy and love and his soul is resting. Let it rest. Don’t commune with him.”
San opens the door to watch Wooyoung careen backwards and then stand up. “I’m not communing. I’m going to tie his soul to a physical object. I’m going to bring him back.”
Wooyoung’s face goes through more emotions than San has ever seen, and then drops his face into his hands. Muffled, San hears, “How could you make it worse,” before San walks away from Wooyoung, out of the apartment and into the busy street below.
&
San has it all set up. He figures if he goes out and walks, he might be able to waste enough time to wait for Wooyoung to leave. He thinks he might leave to give him space, or he’ll call someone for advice. He’s decided on what record he’ll use. He’d intended on maybe using a different record, but Yeosang had always loved Bowie and San figures his favorite music may call Yeosang back to him.
Bowie was playing at Wooyoung’s apartment when San first spoke with Yeosang. He’d met him several times across the years, but it was his 22nd birthday when Wooyoung invited San to the party. The air felt thick and humid and Wooyoung paid attention to no one’s temperature needs but his own. San had complimented Wooyoung on his rarely good music choice, and Wooyoung smiled — a smile that seemed only meant for himself. “Yeosang has the aux. I told him it was his birthday so he could choose.”
San thought Yeosang was angelic every time he met him, but that night, he was a vision, an experience. They’d barely spoken and San was content not to push it, but not tonight. His light hair framed his face and San felt like he was breathing diamonds. “Your music choice is much better than Wooyoung’s,” he said, which immediately felt like a bad line to start with.
Yeosang looked down and smiled into himself. “Like that was even a question,” he immediately replied. “At least the two of us have good taste.”
San knew he appeared drunk. His face stayed at a tilt, lips slightly parted, wondering if this was the Yeosang that Wooyoung was constantly worried about. San understood it. Yeosang’s glittering eyes, his smile, his laugh — he was a painting, fraying on the edges of reality, someone neither one thing or the other. Quiet, gentle, strong, biting, angelic, cold. The reality of San’s never ending existence didn’t touch him that night. His reality was this: the song of a gentle boy holding his hand that replaced his thoughts, turning to symphonies that spooled along the edges of his blood vessels. When Yeosang leaned into San with a sigh, closing his eyes and pressing his face into his neck, San was worshipful. There was no imagining of an end, of a car accident, of random chance. There was only Yeosang’s heartbeat, forever strong, that raced and then calmed at San’s touch. San was always immortal, but that night, he was a god.
San arrives back at the apartment, heart on fire. He only has a vague idea of how far his powers will stretch, and he’s never tried to tether a human being to an object before. It’s quiet, Wooyoung having abandoned the place. San lays the vinyl on to the turntable, then slowly lifts the lever to press the needle into the grooves of the record, and locks the door. He lets the record spin past the few first songs until it plays Yeosang’s favorite song.
In a way, San feels like how he felt before their first dates, a long time ago. He was full of bursting, nervous energy, talking too much, while he tried to keep Yeosang’s eyes on him. Yeosang had a small shake, his hands warm, his smile always there. Even when they moved from movie and coffee dates, to rooftop nights, to each night in a different country, to nights in on the couch, he never lost sight of Yeosang’s eyes and the way his mouth upturned in a smile that was just for him. When he was called to identify Yeosang’s body, he’d been unable to look into Yeosang’s eyes, one last time.
Life On Mars starts playing, and San nods. He closes his eyes, and envisions all the small moments, the ones that only belong to him and Yeosang. Burnt waffles in the Seoul apartment, the bird that tried to steal Yeosang’s phone in Paris, pizza and kisses under the sheets in New York, hiding in the corners of the Van Gogh museum stealing moments. He goes deeper. His hand on the small of Yeosang’s back when he’s sick, rubbing circles. Whispering their dreams back and forth when the lights are off. The concert of the painfully indie group when they laughed so hard they cried. Yeosang falling asleep on his shoulder on the subway. Yeosang giving him a copy of his apartment key, admitting it was the first key copy he’d ever given to someone else. Telling Yeosang who he was, and Yeosang pulling him in closer. Laying in the sand, sunburnt and love drunk. The last night he never knew would be his last with Yeosang, when he pulled him in close and whispered I love you. Did Yeosang remember that, when he faded?
The memories are starting to hold and take shape. The space next to the record player is filling with mist, nothing quite visible yet, but growing. Edges filling in. San whispers his name like a prayer. There’s vague form, he can see the gentle tip of Yeosang’s nose, the brutally beautiful curve of his mouth. “Sangie,” he says again, edging closer.
“Where am I,” Yeosang says, a nervous edge to his voice. He looks around. He’s almost corporeal, but everything around him looks like it’s being seen through gossamer.
“I brought you here. You’re home, Yeosang. Our home. I brought you back.” San is weeping now, both because he can’t believe he’s with him, and because Yeosang sounds pained.
“I can’t see you, San. Help me, please. Take me back. I was resting. I can’t see anything. It hurts, Sannie. Take me back. I want to go back.”
San shakes his head. “It’s just the process. It will work, trust me. You’ll be here and everything will be okay again.”
Yeosang’s body begins to contort. “I love you, but this isn’t right. I wasn’t meant to be brought back. I miss you, but I can’t see you, and I can’t touch you, and your voice sounds so far away. Why can’t I see you? I wanted to see your face one last time. Why does it hurt so much. Can you make the pain go away?”
San collapses onto his knees, crawling towards Yeosang. Instead of getting clearer, his image waxes and wanes, but it clear enough to see Yeosang’s eyes widen in fear and to see him clench his jaw. His hands are mist, undefined. And then, suddenly, he is here. San can see his birthmark on his upper cheek, his eyelashes, tear tracks running down his face. San takes his hand and it is warm. Yeosang throws his arms around San, and he is home. “Thank you,” Yeosang whispers, reverently. “Thank you for letting me see you one last time.”
San holds him in his arms. “No, there’s no last time for us anymore.”
Yeosang backs away and nods his head. “Something is happening, San. I’m not supposed to be here. I can feel it. Something is happening. You have to send me back now.” His voice is measured but stern.
“I—I didn’t think about sending you back, Sangie. I don’t know how to let you go.”
“You have to let me—” Yeosang falters, a gurgling, his eyes wide open, muscles taut. “San,” he says. Simply, painfully, almost biting out the words, which is immediately followed by his chest being cracked in half.
San falls backwards, without words or sound, the air knocked out of his chest. As Yeosang’s neck hangs limply, barely connected, the body regenerates with lumpy bone and sinew, turning his boy into a heaving monster. His spine reforms into knotted muscles, the body creating a shape San wishes he didn’t recognize. He looks like a higher demon.
And then there is a voice inside his head.
"You had me locked out, but not for long. 300 years is nothing to wait for something like me. All I had to do was wait for you to commune with one person, and your love for this poor boy tastes so sweet. I can have you, and him too. Your one weakness is perfect for me."
San already can feel the strength leaving his body. He chokes on his own tongue as he tries to remember grounding things. The smell of coffee, the smile of Wooyoung, the touch of Yeosang, but then all he can see is how Yeosang cried for help, and how he could not let him go, and all the bad he had let in for his own selfishness.
His heart is stilling, the muscles inside his own body growing larger, his skin contracting and expanding. He is wondering how long before it ends, when he curves backward and his spine cracks apart into an upside down v shape. His brain explodes into dynamic splinters, fractals of pain repeating in endless loops. Suddenly, his body and his consciousness merges with Yeosang’s. He feels his thoughts, his memories, his fear, everything in his brain being replaced by blood and ash and gore as sinew connects and they become one being.
Someone is trying to break down the door. A voice yells for San, a name that is increasingly becoming less and less familiar to him. He is only conscious of his new body, his new brain, and Yeosang. They are melded together. They are one spirit, one energy, one life force. He is only aware of one thing — together, forever, before his jaw unhinges and united, they burst into flame and enter a void as one.
Next up is
sidleypkhermit!