46
Title: Drowning
Fandom: DBSK
Pairing: YunChun
Rating: R?
Disclaimer: I don't own.
Summary: You walk to the liquor cabinet, pour yourself some scotch.
Notes: Second person. 1,300 words, even. Angsty and filled with alcohol. Pretty weird. Inspired by listening to No Children by The Mountain Goats far, far too many times.
You get home, close the door behind you, and you are alone, at least for a little while. You walk to the liquor cabinet, pour yourself some scotch. You think it could use some ice, so you grab the bottle and head to kitchen, two right turns and around the island. You finish your drink before you get there, throwing it back as your socks sink into the carpet. You pour yourself another, hand grasping up tight, high on the bottleneck. You wonder why you bother with the glass at all, and then you remember the ice. You gulp down what’s left in your glass as you open your freezer. Three frozen pizzas and a bag of corn, two and a half pints of ice cream, ice. That’s all there is, but you couldn’t care less, not as long as your bottle isn’t empty. You think that’s sad, but you think that’s life.
You wait for Yunho to get home, and you wonder why.
*
You wake up, lying on top of your comforter, to discover Yunho’s passed out next to you. He smells like a lot like vodka and a little like sweat and you watch his face, evened out in sleep and you wonder why he’s still here. Your eyes are bleary and dry, glued half-shut and you fish around on the floor with a free hand, head tilted back over the edge of the mattress, discover the bottle that landed there when you fell asleep. Yunho legs are twined up in yours and one of his hands is wrapped tightly around your wrist. His lips mutter your name, but you think that’s habit, that’s remnants of a love you can barely remember. When you take a gulp from the bottle the scotch burns your throat, but you’re used to that.
*
You wash your face in the morning, splash water to wake up, and you look in the mirror. You hate what you see, but that’s not new. You shave because it’s reflex, not because you care. You imagine what would happen if the razor slipped and sunk into your flesh. You imagine the blood splatters on the white white sink and you imagine the trickle of red through the remants of shaving cream, but you can’t imagine yourself gasping in pain and grabbing your cheek. You can’t imagine feeling anything but relief that you bleed and that you are alive.
You glance up as Yunho enters the bathroom, looks at you with your razor poised next to one sudsy cheek, and you think that he’s as beautiful as when you first met him, and you wonder how you could ever love him and if you ever did and if you still do. You want to press that razor to your cheek and bleed and see what he does. Because you can’t imagine caring, yourself.
*
You only kiss anymore when you are too drunk to think about it. When he’s had just that last bit too much, and you’re lying sprawled on the couch staring at the ceiling, wondering where your feet went and where your bottle went and why they left you. That’s when his lips crush yours and his hand weaves into your hair and he’s kneeling next to the couch, crouched over your body. That’s when his fingers are softly stroking your stomach and when he smiles at you and when he wants you.
And, if you’re perfectly honest, that’s when you want him.
*
You have friends who will tell you that the two of you will get through this whole relationship…thing. They can’t define it, and you can’t either and don’t want to, so it stays uncategorized and unclear. They spout tripe and recite proverbs and you don’t believe them. You sit at the bar; you stare into your drink and wonder how many more you can get until they cut you off. They don’t notice and they talk at you and you don’t care. You don’t listen. They don’t notice.
At least at home, with him, there’s no stopping until you pass out. At least at home, with him, you don’t have to care, or even pretend to care.
Somehow, as unfulfilling as that it, it’s better than sitting in a smoky bar with your inane and pretentious friends, listening to them condescend.
*
When you fight, he grapples at you with big hands, and you struggle and squirm and bruise. Your back hits the kitchen counter with glancing force, and your nails scratch at his arms. You teeth dig into his shoulder. Sometimes it’s almost like kissing, full of emotion and passion and when you’re not inebriated, you don’t know what that’s like.
Once, you punch him in the eye, fist full of drunken anger, and you end up fucking on the kitchen floor. Teeth and nails and growling words. It’s the only language you both know.
*
You have company for dinner, both of you, and you think it’s a bad sign that you already aren’t sure whose friends are here, yours or his, eating the overcooked chicken and undercooked rice. They’re almost the same in their unanimous disapproval/sympathy, so you wonder why they’re here at all, whoever they are.
You get into an argument across the table, and you’re gesturing wildly with your almost empty glass while he bares his teeth and slams his hands flat against the tablecloth. You hurl your glass at him and he dodges and lunges.
They separate you bodily, and the dinner ends in a hurry.
*
Sometimes, when you wake up and he’s curled next to you, body tangled with yours, you wonder how you’d feel if he died. If you came home and he’d been hit by a car, his guts strewn across three highway lanes. If he’d hung himself in the bathroom, and you found him all bulging eyes and slowly dripping fingernails. If he’d been slowly wasting away with cancer and never told you, rotting from the inside with no one to share it with.
You think you might feel relief. You think you might feel numb. Mostly, though, you’re not sure.
When you wake up to him looking at you, his face blank, you sometimes wonder if he thinks the same thing. It makes you want to kiss him; it makes you want to smack him. Mostly, though, it makes you want to dive right back into your bottle before you can think about it anymore.
*
You think about leaving, but it really comes down to nerve. Because he wants you when he’s drunk, and most people wouldn’t even want you then. Because he puts up with you and you put up with him, and you don’t know if you could find that again. Because he used to love you, adore you, and you used to love him, you used to want him. Because, really, leaving would change things, and you might have to adjust to life, you might have to live, and you don’t think you’ll ever be ready for that.
You wonder how you got here. How you grew up and grew into this. Half numb and half stunted.
*
You weren’t sure this blind date was going to be a good idea, but when you look at him, he’s beautiful, perfect, almost. He smiles at you and holds out his hand. Yunho, his name is Yunho. You can’t keep the smile off your face when you shake his hand and you ask where he wants to go. Wherever you want he says, but first, tell me what your name is? and his grin is genuine and his grip holds your hand for just a little too long. You have a good feeling about this, about him. Yoochun, you say, my name is Yoochun.
End Notes: So, this is what happens when I listen to morbid songs on repeat. Huh. Still, I recommend this song, it's really beautiful. I took a break from writing the happy!fic I'm in the middle of (yes, happy!fic, from me, I know) to write this. It's so bizarre. Whatever, I hope you like it, anyway. Despite the amazing amount of out-of-character-ness/lack of characterization in general.
Fandom: DBSK
Pairing: YunChun
Rating: R?
Disclaimer: I don't own.
Summary: You walk to the liquor cabinet, pour yourself some scotch.
Notes: Second person. 1,300 words, even. Angsty and filled with alcohol. Pretty weird. Inspired by listening to No Children by The Mountain Goats far, far too many times.
You get home, close the door behind you, and you are alone, at least for a little while. You walk to the liquor cabinet, pour yourself some scotch. You think it could use some ice, so you grab the bottle and head to kitchen, two right turns and around the island. You finish your drink before you get there, throwing it back as your socks sink into the carpet. You pour yourself another, hand grasping up tight, high on the bottleneck. You wonder why you bother with the glass at all, and then you remember the ice. You gulp down what’s left in your glass as you open your freezer. Three frozen pizzas and a bag of corn, two and a half pints of ice cream, ice. That’s all there is, but you couldn’t care less, not as long as your bottle isn’t empty. You think that’s sad, but you think that’s life.
You wait for Yunho to get home, and you wonder why.
*
You wake up, lying on top of your comforter, to discover Yunho’s passed out next to you. He smells like a lot like vodka and a little like sweat and you watch his face, evened out in sleep and you wonder why he’s still here. Your eyes are bleary and dry, glued half-shut and you fish around on the floor with a free hand, head tilted back over the edge of the mattress, discover the bottle that landed there when you fell asleep. Yunho legs are twined up in yours and one of his hands is wrapped tightly around your wrist. His lips mutter your name, but you think that’s habit, that’s remnants of a love you can barely remember. When you take a gulp from the bottle the scotch burns your throat, but you’re used to that.
*
You wash your face in the morning, splash water to wake up, and you look in the mirror. You hate what you see, but that’s not new. You shave because it’s reflex, not because you care. You imagine what would happen if the razor slipped and sunk into your flesh. You imagine the blood splatters on the white white sink and you imagine the trickle of red through the remants of shaving cream, but you can’t imagine yourself gasping in pain and grabbing your cheek. You can’t imagine feeling anything but relief that you bleed and that you are alive.
You glance up as Yunho enters the bathroom, looks at you with your razor poised next to one sudsy cheek, and you think that he’s as beautiful as when you first met him, and you wonder how you could ever love him and if you ever did and if you still do. You want to press that razor to your cheek and bleed and see what he does. Because you can’t imagine caring, yourself.
*
You only kiss anymore when you are too drunk to think about it. When he’s had just that last bit too much, and you’re lying sprawled on the couch staring at the ceiling, wondering where your feet went and where your bottle went and why they left you. That’s when his lips crush yours and his hand weaves into your hair and he’s kneeling next to the couch, crouched over your body. That’s when his fingers are softly stroking your stomach and when he smiles at you and when he wants you.
And, if you’re perfectly honest, that’s when you want him.
*
You have friends who will tell you that the two of you will get through this whole relationship…thing. They can’t define it, and you can’t either and don’t want to, so it stays uncategorized and unclear. They spout tripe and recite proverbs and you don’t believe them. You sit at the bar; you stare into your drink and wonder how many more you can get until they cut you off. They don’t notice and they talk at you and you don’t care. You don’t listen. They don’t notice.
At least at home, with him, there’s no stopping until you pass out. At least at home, with him, you don’t have to care, or even pretend to care.
Somehow, as unfulfilling as that it, it’s better than sitting in a smoky bar with your inane and pretentious friends, listening to them condescend.
*
When you fight, he grapples at you with big hands, and you struggle and squirm and bruise. Your back hits the kitchen counter with glancing force, and your nails scratch at his arms. You teeth dig into his shoulder. Sometimes it’s almost like kissing, full of emotion and passion and when you’re not inebriated, you don’t know what that’s like.
Once, you punch him in the eye, fist full of drunken anger, and you end up fucking on the kitchen floor. Teeth and nails and growling words. It’s the only language you both know.
*
You have company for dinner, both of you, and you think it’s a bad sign that you already aren’t sure whose friends are here, yours or his, eating the overcooked chicken and undercooked rice. They’re almost the same in their unanimous disapproval/sympathy, so you wonder why they’re here at all, whoever they are.
You get into an argument across the table, and you’re gesturing wildly with your almost empty glass while he bares his teeth and slams his hands flat against the tablecloth. You hurl your glass at him and he dodges and lunges.
They separate you bodily, and the dinner ends in a hurry.
*
Sometimes, when you wake up and he’s curled next to you, body tangled with yours, you wonder how you’d feel if he died. If you came home and he’d been hit by a car, his guts strewn across three highway lanes. If he’d hung himself in the bathroom, and you found him all bulging eyes and slowly dripping fingernails. If he’d been slowly wasting away with cancer and never told you, rotting from the inside with no one to share it with.
You think you might feel relief. You think you might feel numb. Mostly, though, you’re not sure.
When you wake up to him looking at you, his face blank, you sometimes wonder if he thinks the same thing. It makes you want to kiss him; it makes you want to smack him. Mostly, though, it makes you want to dive right back into your bottle before you can think about it anymore.
*
You think about leaving, but it really comes down to nerve. Because he wants you when he’s drunk, and most people wouldn’t even want you then. Because he puts up with you and you put up with him, and you don’t know if you could find that again. Because he used to love you, adore you, and you used to love him, you used to want him. Because, really, leaving would change things, and you might have to adjust to life, you might have to live, and you don’t think you’ll ever be ready for that.
You wonder how you got here. How you grew up and grew into this. Half numb and half stunted.
*
You weren’t sure this blind date was going to be a good idea, but when you look at him, he’s beautiful, perfect, almost. He smiles at you and holds out his hand. Yunho, his name is Yunho. You can’t keep the smile off your face when you shake his hand and you ask where he wants to go. Wherever you want he says, but first, tell me what your name is? and his grin is genuine and his grip holds your hand for just a little too long. You have a good feeling about this, about him. Yoochun, you say, my name is Yoochun.
End Notes: So, this is what happens when I listen to morbid songs on repeat. Huh. Still, I recommend this song, it's really beautiful. I took a break from writing the happy!fic I'm in the middle of (yes, happy!fic, from me, I know) to write this. It's so bizarre. Whatever, I hope you like it, anyway. Despite the amazing amount of out-of-character-ness/lack of characterization in general.