[M] Cancer clouds and charcoa (1/1)

“Bleeding isn't optional for most of us.”

― Eileen Wilks, On the ProwlKim Jongin.Cancer clouds and charcoal. Kim Jongin is a bundle of bones (on the) inside,and on the outside, he's anything butand more than a mess of tangled limbs,more like a mess of beautiful, beautiful red and black.He's an artist, they say,who paints only in mediumsthat involve pain and wretched sorrow;something like blood and charcoal,the touch of palms on foggy windowsand white, swirling clouds of cancer.He's dying, too, they know,something everyone  but him is aware of,Jongin'll be gone one day, they know,in clouds of cancer, charcoaland blood.Always blood.In the mornings, he gets up at ungodly hours,strides over to his tray of charcoal;the little mound of black and beauty (sometimes both).Scarlet fingers drag through the 'coal,(Doctor says he shouldn't be doing this, but who gives a fuck)and when red turns into black,he raises three on the right hand and slides the dust across his ribs,across the sloping planes,in the ridges in between,covering bruises that shouldn't be there.And when he's done,when Jongin's painted shadows of ribsthat don't even need to be painted(God knows everyone can see all 24, both sides, easy peasy, 1-2-3)he sits back, stretched smile breaking skin over lips,and he knows his doctor would kill him for this;which would be easier, wouldn't it? (pity the doctor's scared of losing his job; bastard)When he