(one-shot) make you fly
Title: Make You Fly
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: JongKey
Genre: Angst, friendship, romance.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing.
Summary: (Three superpowers to make you fly, three abilities to make somebody like Jonghyun fall in love with somebody like you.)
A/N: A remix of scarletpeonies's drabble butterfly, for the JongKey fanfiction remix. Expanded on the plot / written in late hours of the night, so hopefully this is somewhat coherent and can match up to the prettiness of her drabble. Enjoy ♥ comments are, as always, very much appreciated!
The lights are hot against your skin, bright flashes of exhaustion at the corner of your eyes. You are tired, and it’s only the first performance, and all you really want to do is go home (curl up with your iPod on full blast, foreign American music drowning your thoughts to sleep). The floor is soft beneath your feet, almost as if you are stepping on cotton, and your head spins with each step - a reel of motion and pounding music, your toe skidding a mark across the stage.
There’s a shout from somewhere in the darkness behind the cameras, a few screams from the sparse amount of fans watching. Hand pressing your temple, you stumble to the side of the stage, leaning against the metal lighting structure to keep your center of balance. Biting your lip, you will the nauseous bubbling inside your stomach to go away, teeth clenching as you shift your concentration to easier, happier, better things.
A hand closes around your wrist, fingers rubbing circles on your skin. When you glance up, Jonghyun is smiling back at you, all perfect white teeth and sunshine-filled hair, eyes glimmering. We’re almost there, he tells you, a lilt in his voice. Don’t tell me you can’t make it through only two more repeats.
It’s a challenge. Lips quirking upwards slightly, you purse them to clear the haze in your mind, eyes focusing upon Jonghyun to lead you forward and back to the center of the stage. Who are you kidding; of course I can make it through. Indignant, you fold your arms, hair flopping along the edge of your eye as he beams again at you, eyebrow rising in potent disbelief.
Oh, really.
Frowning, you glare at him, and nod curtly. The music catches you off-guard, and immediately, you are back on track, feet slipping and sliding across the stage floor in sync with the beat. In between verses, as you pass behind Jonghyun, he bumps purposefully against you, sharp hipbones brushing the denim at your waist.
As the song ends, you spin around in his direction to protest, but he is smiling, that stupid, cheesy smile as he swings an arm around Taemin (who is now awkwardly taller than him). Blinking, you watch them for a few moments; watch the way Jonghyun curls a strand of Taemin’s hair around his finger, laughter echoing across the stage. He catches your eye for a split second in the process, corners crinkling and brightness unfolding over the dark, gloomy mess of your exhaustion.
And somehow, beneath your long face and dark, ringed eye bags, you can’t help but smile back.
---
The nausea comes back worse the next day, suffocating just a few hours before the next performance. Your head is in your hands, knees pulled up to your chest and fingers raked into your hair. Everything around you is blinding - way too bright, way too much, way too confusing. The lack of sleep piles onto you like a blanket, forced far over your head with no way out, and you want to scream, to cry, to fist your hands into fabric and beat it out.
The back of your throat is hot, brimming up with a tickling sensation that pricks at your nose, stings the back of your eyelids. With deep, shaky breaths, you swallow it back down forcefully (you are trying, always trying, always too much and too hard and too overboard). You are The Almighty Key, and nothing you do can go wrong (crying, crying is wrong).
But there’s wetness pooling against your skin now, drips of salty tears onto your collarbone. Cursing, you wipe them away with one hand, your body convulsing with suppressed sobs. You encircle darkness with your arms, shutting your eyes and burying your face inside it. Everything around you is falling, you are falling, and you cannot catch yourself, cannot pick yourself up like you -
A pair of arms startles you from behind, warm breath puffed into the crook of your neck. The scent of Jonghyun fills your nostrils, his sturdy, overwhelming cologne floating at you, soft incoherency murmured into your ear, words that spill around your piercings and into your heart. Fingers skim the hem of your shirt, rough skin on your own, and it fills you with unspoken warmth, fragility that pours out of your mouth into loud, aching sobs, tears that roll down your cheeks and onto his hand as you crumple into a ball in his arms.
He doesn’t say anything, just rocks you back and forth, blonde-tipped hair sweeping random patterns along your shoulder. The stomach acid inside of you brews stronger than ever, and you open your mouth to warn him - but the bucket is already in front of you, the liquid spewing out of you like blood, bitter and shameful and disgusting. (You are not Almighty in front of him, you never are.)
His hand runs soothing lines down your back as he offers you a stack of napkins and a water bottle. The stench fills the atmosphere, but he barely reacts, face perfectly composed and eyebrows furrowing to focus in on your dismayed, lowered head. Kibum, he whispers, and you put down the water bottle to look at him from beneath the fringe of your bangs, at his perfectly curved features and complexion, at the blurry concern in his eyes. It’s okay, he says when he’s sure you’re looking, and it makes you buckle down all over again, messy tears and sobs. He catches you in his arms, hands stroking your sweaty hair and pushing away the bucket to make you forget it ever happened. His voice fills the air around you; quiet singing layered in between your involuntary, uncontrollable sobs and hiccups (acceptance, love that is woven into your world of never-ending exhaustion and anxiety and trying).
I love you, he whispers in your ear, and you are still crying so hard you’re not sure if you heard him right.
---
The next morning, you walk into the kitchen to find everybody there but him. He’s writing lyrics, Jinki informs you, but you know it’s a lie (there are no lyrics to be written as of right now).
Breakfast is almost silent without him and his cheerful, upbeat morning presence, so routinely that you’ve never realized how much you’ve enjoyed it until today. Lips tightening, you watch Taemin poke at his cereal, clearly worried as he chews his bottom lip and blinks hard to clear his gaze.
You push your chair back, legs scraping against the tiled floor. None of them look up at you, not until your plate has clattered loudly into the sink and you’ve slammed the cabinet to the garbage can closed. Kibum, you hear, a soft warning in Jinki’s voice. Did anything happen yesterday?
Freezing, you place your hands on the counter, bracing yourself as you lean into the edge. With a deep breath, you turn around to face them, inquiring, anxious faces. I got sick, you state plainly, and pause for emphasis.
That’s it? Incredulous, Taemin crosses his arms.
I don’t know what you want me to say, you snap, and regret it instantly after, when Taemin’s face falls a little and he returns to eating (or, attempting to eat) his cereal. Your nerves are already bristling - you’ve stayed up practically all night thinking about just three words, three potential possibilities you’ve never imagined, never dreamed of before. (Three superpowers to make you fly, three abilities to make somebody like Jonghyun fall in love with somebody like you.)
Light seeps out from under the crack of the door of the study when you step out into the hallway, and you hesitate, hands stuffing into your pockets as you stare at the door intensely, as if you might be able to see through it, to find an answer hidden in the swirled patterns on the whitewashed front. Instead, though, you hear a shuffling of papers within, wheeling of a chair dangerously close to the door, and you tiptoe in a rush to the bedroom, closing the door until a crack is left for you to peek through. (You don’t know why, but suddenly, your heart is pounding rapidly.)
Slowly, the door of the study opens to reveal Jonghyun, hair tousled and sweatpants clinging to his waistline. He yawns as he closes the door behind him, pausing for a moment to survey the surrounding area. You strain your ears as well, and you catch the faint clang of pans and dishes in the kitchen, the chaos of the other three’s voices making a mess of the silverware.
Jonghyun seems to hear it the same time you do, and he pulls the door completely shut, tucking his hands into his pockets and closing his eyes for a brief, breathless moment. Oblivious to your watching, he glances towards a framed group picture hanging across the hallway from him, the hint of a smile crossing his lips. (And if you try hard enough, you can barely make out your own figure in the picture, Jonghyun’s arm slung around your shoulder, smiles brilliant and perfect.)
Finally, Jonghyun steps in the direction of the kitchen. You peer through the crack at his retreating back, at the slight bob of his brown-blonde hair and short figure until it disappears into the kitchen doorway.
Your eyes flutter closed, and you sag against the wall, already feeling drained (somehow, you always feel drained when Jonghyun’s not around to pull you up, to drag you somewhere).
And somehow, you find yourself wondering when you started wishing he really meant to say those three words.
---
You manage, in some way, to make it through the day avoiding Jonghyun. To your surprise, though, he doesn’t comment on it, nor does he express any acknowledgement that he’s even noticed. In fact, he appears to be preoccupied himself for the most part of the day, towing members away at certain intervals to go to rehearsal, or for a walk, or to buy groceries (that is, until Minho reminds him it’s not even his day to buy groceries).
By the time evening rolls around, you are dead tired. Rehearsal today lasted longer than usual, due to you being unable to pull yourself together and the director frowning in your face, all wrinkled lines and unhappy remarks. You collapse with a heaving sigh onto the bed, wriggling fully into your covers without even bothering to dry your hair properly after showering.
The others are still outside in the living room - you can hear their voices through the crack, muddled laughter and chatter just beyond your reach. Jonghyun’s voice is shockingly lacking, and you find yourself straining your ears for it, but to no avail. With a reluctant sigh, you snuggle deeper into the covers, dragging the warmth up to your chin.
Darkness drapes over your mind, and your thoughts start to break down into a haze, incoherent snippets of emotions and dreams mixing together. Just as you are about to completely drift off, there’s something soft on your lips, a gentle graze of familiar-tasting mint. Heartbeat speeding up, you will your eyes to remain closed, though your breath shallows noticeably as you wait in anticipation - and alas, there’s another touch against your lips, pressing harder this time, more insistent.
You are fully awake now, hands trembling in the depths of your covers as the lips on yours move slightly. I call you butterfly, comes the whisper, elbows nudging your shoulder and fingertips skimming delicate emotions across your forehead as they brush back your bangs. You could recognize that voice anywhere.
The presence begins to draw away carefully, warmth releasing from your invisible grasp. Frantic, you open your eyes, right hand snapping closed over the wrist closest to you. With a surprised jump, Jonghyun snaps his gaze back towards you, eyes clouded with panic. You were awake? His voice is thready as you bore your gaze into his, and his pulse is rapid beneath your fingers, small thuds in the protruding veins of his skin.
Were you trying to steal something? You are surprised at how composed your voice sounds, how crisp and clean in comparison to the cold sweat beginning to cover your hands, fingers clammy and uncertain.
Jonghyun is fumbling for words, eyes averted. Did you…
A kiss, perhaps? Bolder now, you pull back the covers to sit up on the edge of the bed, your grip on his wrist still unrelenting. His eyes flicker with confusion, darkening to contemplate your next actions, and you almost smile (it’s a first, you knowing what’s going to happen and him not). Or maybe a butterfly.
You slowly inch closer to where he is standing rigidly, large eyes watching your every move. Would you like a butterfly, Jonghyun? Your voice is losing its composure as your heart rate quickens, breaths coming in and out at a faster, unsteady pace (you are surprised he can’t hear the ear-deafening pound of your heart).
Kibum, he breathes, and you can feel his breath on your face now, mint and Chapstick drawing you in, arms pulling you against him until you can feel his skin through the fabric, the heady scent of his cologne. Your head reels as he descends lips onto yours, your knees buckling (this time, not in tears). He chuckles into the kiss, pushing you back onto the bed as you wrap legs around his waist.
I love you; you are compelled to say, fingers running through his blended hair, soft at the ends. He smiles at you, that old, stupid, cheesy Jonghyun smile, and it makes you laugh, throwing your head back with loud spurts and until tears start to form in your eyes. His smile widens in your line of vision, arms circling loosely around you as you collapse against the mattress in fits of laughter (you can’t stop, not the tears nor the happiness).
You feel like you are flying, like you are walking on cotton, like you can do anything you want to (three powers, three abilities - three words, you think, that make all the difference).
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: JongKey
Genre: Angst, friendship, romance.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing.
Summary: (Three superpowers to make you fly, three abilities to make somebody like Jonghyun fall in love with somebody like you.)
A/N: A remix of scarletpeonies's drabble butterfly, for the JongKey fanfiction remix. Expanded on the plot / written in late hours of the night, so hopefully this is somewhat coherent and can match up to the prettiness of her drabble. Enjoy ♥ comments are, as always, very much appreciated!
The lights are hot against your skin, bright flashes of exhaustion at the corner of your eyes. You are tired, and it’s only the first performance, and all you really want to do is go home (curl up with your iPod on full blast, foreign American music drowning your thoughts to sleep). The floor is soft beneath your feet, almost as if you are stepping on cotton, and your head spins with each step - a reel of motion and pounding music, your toe skidding a mark across the stage.
There’s a shout from somewhere in the darkness behind the cameras, a few screams from the sparse amount of fans watching. Hand pressing your temple, you stumble to the side of the stage, leaning against the metal lighting structure to keep your center of balance. Biting your lip, you will the nauseous bubbling inside your stomach to go away, teeth clenching as you shift your concentration to easier, happier, better things.
A hand closes around your wrist, fingers rubbing circles on your skin. When you glance up, Jonghyun is smiling back at you, all perfect white teeth and sunshine-filled hair, eyes glimmering. We’re almost there, he tells you, a lilt in his voice. Don’t tell me you can’t make it through only two more repeats.
It’s a challenge. Lips quirking upwards slightly, you purse them to clear the haze in your mind, eyes focusing upon Jonghyun to lead you forward and back to the center of the stage. Who are you kidding; of course I can make it through. Indignant, you fold your arms, hair flopping along the edge of your eye as he beams again at you, eyebrow rising in potent disbelief.
Oh, really.
Frowning, you glare at him, and nod curtly. The music catches you off-guard, and immediately, you are back on track, feet slipping and sliding across the stage floor in sync with the beat. In between verses, as you pass behind Jonghyun, he bumps purposefully against you, sharp hipbones brushing the denim at your waist.
As the song ends, you spin around in his direction to protest, but he is smiling, that stupid, cheesy smile as he swings an arm around Taemin (who is now awkwardly taller than him). Blinking, you watch them for a few moments; watch the way Jonghyun curls a strand of Taemin’s hair around his finger, laughter echoing across the stage. He catches your eye for a split second in the process, corners crinkling and brightness unfolding over the dark, gloomy mess of your exhaustion.
And somehow, beneath your long face and dark, ringed eye bags, you can’t help but smile back.
---
The nausea comes back worse the next day, suffocating just a few hours before the next performance. Your head is in your hands, knees pulled up to your chest and fingers raked into your hair. Everything around you is blinding - way too bright, way too much, way too confusing. The lack of sleep piles onto you like a blanket, forced far over your head with no way out, and you want to scream, to cry, to fist your hands into fabric and beat it out.
The back of your throat is hot, brimming up with a tickling sensation that pricks at your nose, stings the back of your eyelids. With deep, shaky breaths, you swallow it back down forcefully (you are trying, always trying, always too much and too hard and too overboard). You are The Almighty Key, and nothing you do can go wrong (crying, crying is wrong).
But there’s wetness pooling against your skin now, drips of salty tears onto your collarbone. Cursing, you wipe them away with one hand, your body convulsing with suppressed sobs. You encircle darkness with your arms, shutting your eyes and burying your face inside it. Everything around you is falling, you are falling, and you cannot catch yourself, cannot pick yourself up like you -
A pair of arms startles you from behind, warm breath puffed into the crook of your neck. The scent of Jonghyun fills your nostrils, his sturdy, overwhelming cologne floating at you, soft incoherency murmured into your ear, words that spill around your piercings and into your heart. Fingers skim the hem of your shirt, rough skin on your own, and it fills you with unspoken warmth, fragility that pours out of your mouth into loud, aching sobs, tears that roll down your cheeks and onto his hand as you crumple into a ball in his arms.
He doesn’t say anything, just rocks you back and forth, blonde-tipped hair sweeping random patterns along your shoulder. The stomach acid inside of you brews stronger than ever, and you open your mouth to warn him - but the bucket is already in front of you, the liquid spewing out of you like blood, bitter and shameful and disgusting. (You are not Almighty in front of him, you never are.)
His hand runs soothing lines down your back as he offers you a stack of napkins and a water bottle. The stench fills the atmosphere, but he barely reacts, face perfectly composed and eyebrows furrowing to focus in on your dismayed, lowered head. Kibum, he whispers, and you put down the water bottle to look at him from beneath the fringe of your bangs, at his perfectly curved features and complexion, at the blurry concern in his eyes. It’s okay, he says when he’s sure you’re looking, and it makes you buckle down all over again, messy tears and sobs. He catches you in his arms, hands stroking your sweaty hair and pushing away the bucket to make you forget it ever happened. His voice fills the air around you; quiet singing layered in between your involuntary, uncontrollable sobs and hiccups (acceptance, love that is woven into your world of never-ending exhaustion and anxiety and trying).
I love you, he whispers in your ear, and you are still crying so hard you’re not sure if you heard him right.
---
The next morning, you walk into the kitchen to find everybody there but him. He’s writing lyrics, Jinki informs you, but you know it’s a lie (there are no lyrics to be written as of right now).
Breakfast is almost silent without him and his cheerful, upbeat morning presence, so routinely that you’ve never realized how much you’ve enjoyed it until today. Lips tightening, you watch Taemin poke at his cereal, clearly worried as he chews his bottom lip and blinks hard to clear his gaze.
You push your chair back, legs scraping against the tiled floor. None of them look up at you, not until your plate has clattered loudly into the sink and you’ve slammed the cabinet to the garbage can closed. Kibum, you hear, a soft warning in Jinki’s voice. Did anything happen yesterday?
Freezing, you place your hands on the counter, bracing yourself as you lean into the edge. With a deep breath, you turn around to face them, inquiring, anxious faces. I got sick, you state plainly, and pause for emphasis.
That’s it? Incredulous, Taemin crosses his arms.
I don’t know what you want me to say, you snap, and regret it instantly after, when Taemin’s face falls a little and he returns to eating (or, attempting to eat) his cereal. Your nerves are already bristling - you’ve stayed up practically all night thinking about just three words, three potential possibilities you’ve never imagined, never dreamed of before. (Three superpowers to make you fly, three abilities to make somebody like Jonghyun fall in love with somebody like you.)
Light seeps out from under the crack of the door of the study when you step out into the hallway, and you hesitate, hands stuffing into your pockets as you stare at the door intensely, as if you might be able to see through it, to find an answer hidden in the swirled patterns on the whitewashed front. Instead, though, you hear a shuffling of papers within, wheeling of a chair dangerously close to the door, and you tiptoe in a rush to the bedroom, closing the door until a crack is left for you to peek through. (You don’t know why, but suddenly, your heart is pounding rapidly.)
Slowly, the door of the study opens to reveal Jonghyun, hair tousled and sweatpants clinging to his waistline. He yawns as he closes the door behind him, pausing for a moment to survey the surrounding area. You strain your ears as well, and you catch the faint clang of pans and dishes in the kitchen, the chaos of the other three’s voices making a mess of the silverware.
Jonghyun seems to hear it the same time you do, and he pulls the door completely shut, tucking his hands into his pockets and closing his eyes for a brief, breathless moment. Oblivious to your watching, he glances towards a framed group picture hanging across the hallway from him, the hint of a smile crossing his lips. (And if you try hard enough, you can barely make out your own figure in the picture, Jonghyun’s arm slung around your shoulder, smiles brilliant and perfect.)
Finally, Jonghyun steps in the direction of the kitchen. You peer through the crack at his retreating back, at the slight bob of his brown-blonde hair and short figure until it disappears into the kitchen doorway.
Your eyes flutter closed, and you sag against the wall, already feeling drained (somehow, you always feel drained when Jonghyun’s not around to pull you up, to drag you somewhere).
And somehow, you find yourself wondering when you started wishing he really meant to say those three words.
---
You manage, in some way, to make it through the day avoiding Jonghyun. To your surprise, though, he doesn’t comment on it, nor does he express any acknowledgement that he’s even noticed. In fact, he appears to be preoccupied himself for the most part of the day, towing members away at certain intervals to go to rehearsal, or for a walk, or to buy groceries (that is, until Minho reminds him it’s not even his day to buy groceries).
By the time evening rolls around, you are dead tired. Rehearsal today lasted longer than usual, due to you being unable to pull yourself together and the director frowning in your face, all wrinkled lines and unhappy remarks. You collapse with a heaving sigh onto the bed, wriggling fully into your covers without even bothering to dry your hair properly after showering.
The others are still outside in the living room - you can hear their voices through the crack, muddled laughter and chatter just beyond your reach. Jonghyun’s voice is shockingly lacking, and you find yourself straining your ears for it, but to no avail. With a reluctant sigh, you snuggle deeper into the covers, dragging the warmth up to your chin.
Darkness drapes over your mind, and your thoughts start to break down into a haze, incoherent snippets of emotions and dreams mixing together. Just as you are about to completely drift off, there’s something soft on your lips, a gentle graze of familiar-tasting mint. Heartbeat speeding up, you will your eyes to remain closed, though your breath shallows noticeably as you wait in anticipation - and alas, there’s another touch against your lips, pressing harder this time, more insistent.
You are fully awake now, hands trembling in the depths of your covers as the lips on yours move slightly. I call you butterfly, comes the whisper, elbows nudging your shoulder and fingertips skimming delicate emotions across your forehead as they brush back your bangs. You could recognize that voice anywhere.
The presence begins to draw away carefully, warmth releasing from your invisible grasp. Frantic, you open your eyes, right hand snapping closed over the wrist closest to you. With a surprised jump, Jonghyun snaps his gaze back towards you, eyes clouded with panic. You were awake? His voice is thready as you bore your gaze into his, and his pulse is rapid beneath your fingers, small thuds in the protruding veins of his skin.
Were you trying to steal something? You are surprised at how composed your voice sounds, how crisp and clean in comparison to the cold sweat beginning to cover your hands, fingers clammy and uncertain.
Jonghyun is fumbling for words, eyes averted. Did you…
A kiss, perhaps? Bolder now, you pull back the covers to sit up on the edge of the bed, your grip on his wrist still unrelenting. His eyes flicker with confusion, darkening to contemplate your next actions, and you almost smile (it’s a first, you knowing what’s going to happen and him not). Or maybe a butterfly.
You slowly inch closer to where he is standing rigidly, large eyes watching your every move. Would you like a butterfly, Jonghyun? Your voice is losing its composure as your heart rate quickens, breaths coming in and out at a faster, unsteady pace (you are surprised he can’t hear the ear-deafening pound of your heart).
Kibum, he breathes, and you can feel his breath on your face now, mint and Chapstick drawing you in, arms pulling you against him until you can feel his skin through the fabric, the heady scent of his cologne. Your head reels as he descends lips onto yours, your knees buckling (this time, not in tears). He chuckles into the kiss, pushing you back onto the bed as you wrap legs around his waist.
I love you; you are compelled to say, fingers running through his blended hair, soft at the ends. He smiles at you, that old, stupid, cheesy Jonghyun smile, and it makes you laugh, throwing your head back with loud spurts and until tears start to form in your eyes. His smile widens in your line of vision, arms circling loosely around you as you collapse against the mattress in fits of laughter (you can’t stop, not the tears nor the happiness).
You feel like you are flying, like you are walking on cotton, like you can do anything you want to (three powers, three abilities - three words, you think, that make all the difference).