(one-shot) love is like no direction
Title: Love is like no direction
Author: mustenentwined3
Pairing: JongKey
Genre: Romance, friendship.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing but what I imagine to be.
Summary: This way, that way, and you're the most popular kid in the world.
A/N: This pairing is starting to becoming addicting, haha. I don't really know what this is; hopefully it makes a bit of sense even though I just wrote it at 1:30 in the morning. Uh, enjoy? Comments are always very, very much appreciated! :)
The first time you try to confess, you are sixteen. You are sixteen, and on the verge of debut, with your life spread out wide ahead of you, a smoothed out road map (this way, that way, and you’re the most popular kid in the world). You are sixteen, and you are in love with your best friend - you are in love with his smile, the way he bursts out into song at the most unexpected moments, the way he laughs, hard, the way he shifts on his feet when he’s nervous about something.
The two of you are on a swing set, toeing your feet along the edge of a woodchip hill you’ve created in between you on the ground, the wind blowing soft whispers through your hair.
Jonghyun-ah, you say, and it comes out louder, stronger than you intended for it to be. Do you believe in true love?
He laughs (the laugh that you love), his eyes twinkling as he looks up at you. Should I? His laugh is contagious, his eyes a deep brown, pools of cinnamon with sunshine swirled in. He is gorgeous, and you are in love, and he is your best friend. I think I might love you, you almost say - I love you, I love you, I love you.
You open your mouth, and a blob flies in between the two of you, a blob consisting of your other almost-band members, other people, other beings that he loves just as much as he loves you, other beings you do not love as much as you love him. Hyung, we’re debuting! Next May!
The words on the tip of your tongue dissolve immediately - you swallow them back, and curve your lips upward instead, and watch as they spread your life out ahead of you (go that way, Kibum, and you’re all set.
You wonder if there’s another map lying around somewhere to direct you around love.)
---
The next time is close - you are close up against him, your shoulders pressing against each other, awkward skin and bone, covered by layers of clothing and colors and sweat. You are debuting, and working hard, and the spotlight is you - him, you, and him, and him, and him. You’ve changed in the past almost year; you’re seventeen, and debuting. You’re a star, an idol. You are still irrevocably in love.
He laughs beside you, a laugh that vibrates through the both of you, like a wave. You curl your earphone wire around your index finger, press it hard into your skin. One minute, comes the call, one minute until you spread yourselves thin for the world, one minute until you officially reach stardom. One minute for you to compose yourself, and lay out the map (turn right here, and you are on your way).
Suddenly, he turns to you with the bubble of excitement on his lips and a smile in his eyes. Are you ready, he says giddily, nervously, rubbing his palms on the denim of his thighs.
Yeah, you nod, and smile, and nod. I’m ready because you’re beside me. You barely stumble over the words, and he barely stumbles over the meaning of those words when the call comes again - five seconds, and you’re on, five seconds.
So instead of interpreting, he stands, and throws you back another smile. Cool, let’s do this, there’s a bit of uncertainty in his voice, a thread of anxiety. You stand as well, forcing down the words that have unexpectedly risen in your throat, that have been somehow unclasped from the dusty shelf in your heart.
You’re on, they call, and you are, you’re being pushed into the spotlight, on stage, your fingers tangling with his for a split second before you part, step forward into the screams and rush of applause.
(I love you, you should have said, but there was no direction.)
---
It’s a mess after the debut, a mess of performances and promotions and lights and screams and people, people, people. There are thousands of people - fan people - they love him just as much as you do, love you just as much as he doesn’t. They shout your name, and his name, and their names. You are famous; you are stars (success is right there; work hard, turn left, go down that road). You are still seventeen. You are still in love.
Late evening finds you washing the dishes - you’ve developed a reputation for being the mother, no questions asked. By the time you are finished dunking your hands into soapy suds and rubbing the surfaces clean, it is almost pitch black outside, almost quiet in the dorm. They’re probably asleep, the rest of them (the map forgets to mention being famous is tiring).
When you step out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, you are greeted by the faintest light from Onew’s corner, the soft lull of sleep from the rest. Go to sleep, you whisper at the older, and he nods. He doesn’t smile. You understand. You’re all tired of smiling.
And then, there is a humming noise, a suspiciously familiar-sounding tune that erupts, quietly, from your best friend’s side of the room. Jonghyun-ah, you call tentatively, but there is no response, only the continuation of what you now recognize as your debut song.
You plop down onto your own bed, crawling forward on your knees and propping your chin up in your hands, elbows pressed into the mattress. Jonghyun, you say again, but all you receive is the tune being drawn out, the murmur of lyrics. You laugh a little, tilting your head against the light of Onew’s book lamp to see your best friend’s face, the outline of his nose, his jaw line, the involuntary clench of his teeth as he sings spontaneously in his sleep.
You think about the things he doesn’t know, sleeping and singing peacefully in his sleep, the things that you should have but never told him. You lean forward with the temptation to whisper them in his ear - it would be easy, so easy. I love you. He would never know.
But you pull back, settling down into the crevices of your own bed. You draw up the covers, and snuggle into the warmth, and close your eyes. You fall asleep, into half-consciousness, and when you dream, you dream of his singing, and his laugh, and his eyes, and his smile.
(You are still in love. You are waiting for somebody to give you the map for it.)
---
You start to accustom yourself to the push and pull of being a singer, a star. You follow along with the promotions; pose when they tell you to, smile when they don’t. You sign thousands of CD covers until your hand cramps (and Jonghyun rubs it for you; being the only one to notice), you laugh until your cheeks hurt from drawing your face into the same position for too long (but he doesn’t seem to mind; his smile is just as natural as ever).
There is one day - one awful, awful day where you have already thrown up twice, coughed yourself senseless millions of times, and almost fainted while being filmed once. You feel like your head is going to explode into endless pieces any second now, and you wonder, briefly, if anybody would bother to pick it up.
Kibum-ah, his voice sounds behind you, and you turn around slowly, so as to lessen the dizziness of moving. Kibum, are you okay?
Does it look like I’m okay, you retort at him, but then you clamp your mouth shut. He doesn’t glare at you like you expect him to - he just stares, his eyes a dark, deep brown - pools of cinnamon with sunshine swirled in (which you are still in love with). You are eighteen, and sick, and in love with him. You want to go home.
I’ll be okay, thanks, you say, just to reassure him. It doesn’t. He raises an eyebrow, and links his thumbs, and curves his mouth down into a frown. You are not.
With a sigh, you step away from him, his presence. Don’t worry about me. I can make it through. The last thing you need is him being too close to you (like he always is), him touching you and laughing with you and at you and perhaps even getting sick because of you. You move away a little more at the thought, curling your toes inside your shoes in order to ignore the hurt look he adopts.
Stop worrying, Jonghyun-ah, you try again. His presence is starting to become discomforting - why is he still so close? You shimmy away a tiny, tiny bit more - but all of a sudden, his hand is clasped on your wrist, fingers imprinted on your skin. I can’t, he whispers at you, and his grip is firm, his eyes unwavering (directions, you need the directions, you think). Your heart is beating too quickly, too erratically. He is staring at you, he is too close to you, he is saying -
Why can’t you?
There’s a pause, a moment of unbearable silence. He glances away, and that’s when you notice he is biting his lip, swiping his tongue - he is nervous, just as nervous as you are, just as nervous as when you step out into the spotlight in front of all those people who love him just as much as you do. Because, he says finally. Because I love you.
What?
Do I have to say it twice, he’s flustered - not red, but there’s a flustered look in his eyes, in his voice. He pulls away, his hand lets go of yours. (You are searching frantically for somebody to tell you what to do.) I’m sorry, he bites out, and refuses to look you in the eye. I’m sorry.
No. You stare at him, place a hand on his shoulder when he tries to walk away. No, you say. No. Don’t be sorry. You are slowly forming the words; your lips create the shape, the syllables. They rise in you, with you, after so many non-confessions - I love you too.
His head snaps up, his eyes pour into yours, pools of cinnamon brown. Really, he murmurs, and he leans forward, and he is too close, but you don’t care anymore. Really, you murmur back. Really.
(When his lips close down on yours, you smile. You don’t need a map, or directions.
You already feel like the most popular kid in the world.)
Author: mustenentwined3
Pairing: JongKey
Genre: Romance, friendship.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing but what I imagine to be.
Summary: This way, that way, and you're the most popular kid in the world.
A/N: This pairing is starting to becoming addicting, haha. I don't really know what this is; hopefully it makes a bit of sense even though I just wrote it at 1:30 in the morning. Uh, enjoy? Comments are always very, very much appreciated! :)
The first time you try to confess, you are sixteen. You are sixteen, and on the verge of debut, with your life spread out wide ahead of you, a smoothed out road map (this way, that way, and you’re the most popular kid in the world). You are sixteen, and you are in love with your best friend - you are in love with his smile, the way he bursts out into song at the most unexpected moments, the way he laughs, hard, the way he shifts on his feet when he’s nervous about something.
The two of you are on a swing set, toeing your feet along the edge of a woodchip hill you’ve created in between you on the ground, the wind blowing soft whispers through your hair.
Jonghyun-ah, you say, and it comes out louder, stronger than you intended for it to be. Do you believe in true love?
He laughs (the laugh that you love), his eyes twinkling as he looks up at you. Should I? His laugh is contagious, his eyes a deep brown, pools of cinnamon with sunshine swirled in. He is gorgeous, and you are in love, and he is your best friend. I think I might love you, you almost say - I love you, I love you, I love you.
You open your mouth, and a blob flies in between the two of you, a blob consisting of your other almost-band members, other people, other beings that he loves just as much as he loves you, other beings you do not love as much as you love him. Hyung, we’re debuting! Next May!
The words on the tip of your tongue dissolve immediately - you swallow them back, and curve your lips upward instead, and watch as they spread your life out ahead of you (go that way, Kibum, and you’re all set.
You wonder if there’s another map lying around somewhere to direct you around love.)
---
The next time is close - you are close up against him, your shoulders pressing against each other, awkward skin and bone, covered by layers of clothing and colors and sweat. You are debuting, and working hard, and the spotlight is you - him, you, and him, and him, and him. You’ve changed in the past almost year; you’re seventeen, and debuting. You’re a star, an idol. You are still irrevocably in love.
He laughs beside you, a laugh that vibrates through the both of you, like a wave. You curl your earphone wire around your index finger, press it hard into your skin. One minute, comes the call, one minute until you spread yourselves thin for the world, one minute until you officially reach stardom. One minute for you to compose yourself, and lay out the map (turn right here, and you are on your way).
Suddenly, he turns to you with the bubble of excitement on his lips and a smile in his eyes. Are you ready, he says giddily, nervously, rubbing his palms on the denim of his thighs.
Yeah, you nod, and smile, and nod. I’m ready because you’re beside me. You barely stumble over the words, and he barely stumbles over the meaning of those words when the call comes again - five seconds, and you’re on, five seconds.
So instead of interpreting, he stands, and throws you back another smile. Cool, let’s do this, there’s a bit of uncertainty in his voice, a thread of anxiety. You stand as well, forcing down the words that have unexpectedly risen in your throat, that have been somehow unclasped from the dusty shelf in your heart.
You’re on, they call, and you are, you’re being pushed into the spotlight, on stage, your fingers tangling with his for a split second before you part, step forward into the screams and rush of applause.
(I love you, you should have said, but there was no direction.)
---
It’s a mess after the debut, a mess of performances and promotions and lights and screams and people, people, people. There are thousands of people - fan people - they love him just as much as you do, love you just as much as he doesn’t. They shout your name, and his name, and their names. You are famous; you are stars (success is right there; work hard, turn left, go down that road). You are still seventeen. You are still in love.
Late evening finds you washing the dishes - you’ve developed a reputation for being the mother, no questions asked. By the time you are finished dunking your hands into soapy suds and rubbing the surfaces clean, it is almost pitch black outside, almost quiet in the dorm. They’re probably asleep, the rest of them (the map forgets to mention being famous is tiring).
When you step out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, you are greeted by the faintest light from Onew’s corner, the soft lull of sleep from the rest. Go to sleep, you whisper at the older, and he nods. He doesn’t smile. You understand. You’re all tired of smiling.
And then, there is a humming noise, a suspiciously familiar-sounding tune that erupts, quietly, from your best friend’s side of the room. Jonghyun-ah, you call tentatively, but there is no response, only the continuation of what you now recognize as your debut song.
You plop down onto your own bed, crawling forward on your knees and propping your chin up in your hands, elbows pressed into the mattress. Jonghyun, you say again, but all you receive is the tune being drawn out, the murmur of lyrics. You laugh a little, tilting your head against the light of Onew’s book lamp to see your best friend’s face, the outline of his nose, his jaw line, the involuntary clench of his teeth as he sings spontaneously in his sleep.
You think about the things he doesn’t know, sleeping and singing peacefully in his sleep, the things that you should have but never told him. You lean forward with the temptation to whisper them in his ear - it would be easy, so easy. I love you. He would never know.
But you pull back, settling down into the crevices of your own bed. You draw up the covers, and snuggle into the warmth, and close your eyes. You fall asleep, into half-consciousness, and when you dream, you dream of his singing, and his laugh, and his eyes, and his smile.
(You are still in love. You are waiting for somebody to give you the map for it.)
---
You start to accustom yourself to the push and pull of being a singer, a star. You follow along with the promotions; pose when they tell you to, smile when they don’t. You sign thousands of CD covers until your hand cramps (and Jonghyun rubs it for you; being the only one to notice), you laugh until your cheeks hurt from drawing your face into the same position for too long (but he doesn’t seem to mind; his smile is just as natural as ever).
There is one day - one awful, awful day where you have already thrown up twice, coughed yourself senseless millions of times, and almost fainted while being filmed once. You feel like your head is going to explode into endless pieces any second now, and you wonder, briefly, if anybody would bother to pick it up.
Kibum-ah, his voice sounds behind you, and you turn around slowly, so as to lessen the dizziness of moving. Kibum, are you okay?
Does it look like I’m okay, you retort at him, but then you clamp your mouth shut. He doesn’t glare at you like you expect him to - he just stares, his eyes a dark, deep brown - pools of cinnamon with sunshine swirled in (which you are still in love with). You are eighteen, and sick, and in love with him. You want to go home.
I’ll be okay, thanks, you say, just to reassure him. It doesn’t. He raises an eyebrow, and links his thumbs, and curves his mouth down into a frown. You are not.
With a sigh, you step away from him, his presence. Don’t worry about me. I can make it through. The last thing you need is him being too close to you (like he always is), him touching you and laughing with you and at you and perhaps even getting sick because of you. You move away a little more at the thought, curling your toes inside your shoes in order to ignore the hurt look he adopts.
Stop worrying, Jonghyun-ah, you try again. His presence is starting to become discomforting - why is he still so close? You shimmy away a tiny, tiny bit more - but all of a sudden, his hand is clasped on your wrist, fingers imprinted on your skin. I can’t, he whispers at you, and his grip is firm, his eyes unwavering (directions, you need the directions, you think). Your heart is beating too quickly, too erratically. He is staring at you, he is too close to you, he is saying -
Why can’t you?
There’s a pause, a moment of unbearable silence. He glances away, and that’s when you notice he is biting his lip, swiping his tongue - he is nervous, just as nervous as you are, just as nervous as when you step out into the spotlight in front of all those people who love him just as much as you do. Because, he says finally. Because I love you.
What?
Do I have to say it twice, he’s flustered - not red, but there’s a flustered look in his eyes, in his voice. He pulls away, his hand lets go of yours. (You are searching frantically for somebody to tell you what to do.) I’m sorry, he bites out, and refuses to look you in the eye. I’m sorry.
No. You stare at him, place a hand on his shoulder when he tries to walk away. No, you say. No. Don’t be sorry. You are slowly forming the words; your lips create the shape, the syllables. They rise in you, with you, after so many non-confessions - I love you too.
His head snaps up, his eyes pour into yours, pools of cinnamon brown. Really, he murmurs, and he leans forward, and he is too close, but you don’t care anymore. Really, you murmur back. Really.
(When his lips close down on yours, you smile. You don’t need a map, or directions.
You already feel like the most popular kid in the world.)