Fanfiction: There are no forevers
title: there are no forevers
genre: :) at first but then turns :(
rating: pg
pairing: bandfic ( +some pairings if you squint, haha )
summary: he had left, leaving not bitterness, not disillusions, not pity; only pain.
an: i don't even know. ): if there's something you don't understand, don't hesitate to ask me about it! also, something is hidden here, if you see it, you happen to be a really smart person. ;) (ctrl+a at the end :|)
one.
It was magic, Chansung thought, how two people found each other in a world full of strangers. But in their case, seven different people with seven different hearts, seven different stories to tell, seven different scars and wounds and bruises and pain, sharing one beautiful skyward dream, it was a miracle.
We're going to be famous one day, Chansung says.
Taekyeon laughs, his heartstring fingers playing over Nichkhun's hair, weaving in and out stories of kings and queens and fairies of long ago, getting tangled into the invisible strings of his beautiful soul. Junsu smiles and Wooyoung nods, eyes fixed on Junho's eyes, and in them he sees dreams and silent hopes that speak of forever. Jaebum just stares at him, smiles. Maybe, he says, maybe.
There are no maybes, Chansung argues, we can be anything we want to be. We can be heroes, we can be angels with wings made of glass and gold, and we'd be careful not to hear them splintering against the sun. We can be superstars.
Junho says, okay, okay we'll be superstars, and what happens after that?
Chansung doesn't answer. Instead, he looks out the window, the lights of the city reflected in his beautifully broken eyes and his voice seems far away when he says, says with all his heart, says with all his childlike-faith, says with all his vulnerability, there'll only be forevers.
two.
Jaebum used to think love was two people on the sidewalk or in the corner booth of a seedy bar, kissing and baring themselves open for the other to see until it gave them headaches and butterflies and nausea.
But when he looks at Wooyoung with his arms around Nichkhun, laughing at one of Taekyeon's corny American jokes, Junsu telling Junho about the symphony he just wrote ( a broken symphony of seven young boys who were going to reach the sky, going to reach the sun, no matter how much it hurt or how many pairs of carefully carved wings would burn ) with his arms around Chansung, Jaebum realizes that love wasn't about broken lips pressed together on a cold winter night, or bodies held close and tightly together in the desire for copulation.
No, love was Taekyeon bringing him dried mangoes because every night he ached and cried and longed to be home, love was Nichkhun playing the piano for him, his fingers dancing along the keys like he was going to save his broken soul with his music, love was Wooyoung holding him when he was lonely and telling him to be strong and hey hey have a little faith, love was Junsu singing him English love songs with slightly broken English ( you are not alone, I am here with you ) because it was his only link to home, love was Junho smiling at him and telling people what he meant while he struggled with his Korean, love was Chansung telling him that sharing was something he didn't do and yet left him a piece of one, two, three Korean candies every after meals.
Love was having the people you cared most about right there with you, holding you up when you weren't strong enough to do it.
three.
Small steps, Taekyeon says, take it easy.
It's a big day. This day represents the tears they couldn't cry, the blood rushing through their veins, the sweat that comes from souls and spirits and bodies overworked and their future lies in the screams and the cries of thousands of people they don't know. Their hearts are beating fast-- synchronizing, swelling. There's terror behind their smiling eyes. This marks a new beginning, one step into an unknown world and you're going going and no one can stop you. There's no turning back now.
Off you go. Stepping into the stage, Nichkhun says, this is where I belong. Everything blacks out and they forget everything they practiced. Hold on to the music. Hold on to your voice. They let the beat take them and every step is perfect, every move is in place, every tune is in key, and every heart is where it should be.
They hear applause and cries of people screaming their names. Taekyeon looks at Nichkhun and in his eyes he sees happiness and elaborate silvery starbursts that he swears could break the moon. They love you, he says, wide smiles at that beautiful boy.
No, Nichkhun tells him, eyes on the audience, eyes on the six boys he grew to love with all his heart, all his mind, all his soul.
They love us.
four.
When Junsu sings, when he opens his mouth and sings, and his melody and his voice cuts through the air and fills the four walls of the room, Junho almost wants to cry.
He sees colors in Junsu's voice. Music lives in his bones and they want to be set free; his music, it was so indefinitely strong, it could break people's hearts and bones with a shift in key. It's like he was spun and weaved by the lacy fingers of Mozart's dreams, made up and finished off by sad love songs and Beethoven's unfinished sonatas. When Junsu sings, his eyes are monochromatic and Junho thinks of orchestras and violins when he hears him, and he sits there, mesmerized.
Again and again, his heart cries. Again and again, he's at a loss for words.
You were born for this, Junho tells Junsu, his heart crying out. Where do you get the inspiration? Let me in your heart, tell me your secrets, I want to know everything.
Junsu smiles and Junho is reminded of appasionatas and moonlight sonatas bursting into a symphony so painstakingly beautiful, he doesn't think himself worthy to hear it. Us, Junsu says simply. When I think of the seven of us, the music just comes. It lives within all of us, the heart of music, and it's there, being burned up by the fire of love.
It's not as easy as it seems, Junho says sadly.
But it is, if you want it to be.
five.
You should die, they scream, and in their eyes Jaebum sees rage, he sees cold-blooded murder. They throw him rocks and boulders of harsh, cruel words that could send a man into his knees, begging for redemption. They don't listen, they don't hear him. Traitor, traitor, they say as they stone him, stone his bleeding heart. You're not fit to be here. You should just die. Die.
They pin him like a beautiful butterfly with broken wings against the cold, wooden cross of his past, with nothing but air for food and the bittersweet pain of his memories rushing through his bones, and there they were, six of them, six of his brothers weeping by his velvet wounds and delicate scars and bruises.
But he could not hang for long, he could not hang softly there for long, while the others trembled underneath his cross, and the people that once raised their voice in awe for them were now raising their voices in unspeakable hate and anger, threatening to pin his brothers to a cross too if they stood by his side. His running flesh and blood was turning sour.
He stopped struggling, and the look on his eyes was beyond despair now. Coming down, he picked up his heavy cross on his tired, aching, weary shoulders, and kissed the others he now called his younger brothers, goodbye. Raging and weeping are left on the early road, as the young man made old by the pain of this world, take up his cross and leave the cold hill.
six.
Like an apprehension for reality, the death of the flower, the collapse of hope, the crush of wasted years, or old shoes abandoned in old corners like half-forgotten voices that once said love but did not mean love.
That's what Wooyoung sees when Jay says, opens his mouth and says, I'm leaving.
No longer family, no longer 2PM.
You can't erase who you are, you can't erase what you know, Taekyeon tells him, his hand on his breaking heart. It was funny, how in one day all your wounds open and simple words could utter pain. Everything was happening so fast, and yet it was all so utterly real and tangible. Taekyeon screams silently, and it reverberates in his chest. He could not cry, he could not weep. Because if he cried and the others cried, who would stand and be strong and hold them all up?
And then he [ Jaebum ] had left, leaving not bitterness, not disillusions, not pity; only pain.
No longer family, no longer 2PM.
seven.
Wooyoung calls Jay, his fingers shaking as he tries to keep the telephone in his hands.
We were going to be angels, Wooyoung cries. We were going to be angels and heroes and superstars and we were going to touch the skies, we were going to touch the sun and remain unburned. We were going to be happy.
Jaebum sighs, defeated. Only in dreams, he says, only in dreams do we reach the sky.
In the silence, Wooyoung hears his heart shatter.
Chansung goes back to the place where everything first began. There are no wings made of glass and gold, no angels, nothing that can make everything go away forever. Instead, there are burnt CDs, torn photographs, and paper wings that soar, brushing his blazing heart.
(.the best often die by their own hand just to get away,
and those left behind can never quite understand
why anybody would ever want to get away from them.
-charles bukowski.)
genre: :) at first but then turns :(
rating: pg
pairing: bandfic ( +some pairings if you squint, haha )
summary: he had left, leaving not bitterness, not disillusions, not pity; only pain.
an: i don't even know. ): if there's something you don't understand, don't hesitate to ask me about it! also, something is hidden here, if you see it, you happen to be a really smart person. ;) (ctrl+a at the end :|)
one.
It was magic, Chansung thought, how two people found each other in a world full of strangers. But in their case, seven different people with seven different hearts, seven different stories to tell, seven different scars and wounds and bruises and pain, sharing one beautiful skyward dream, it was a miracle.
We're going to be famous one day, Chansung says.
Taekyeon laughs, his heartstring fingers playing over Nichkhun's hair, weaving in and out stories of kings and queens and fairies of long ago, getting tangled into the invisible strings of his beautiful soul. Junsu smiles and Wooyoung nods, eyes fixed on Junho's eyes, and in them he sees dreams and silent hopes that speak of forever. Jaebum just stares at him, smiles. Maybe, he says, maybe.
There are no maybes, Chansung argues, we can be anything we want to be. We can be heroes, we can be angels with wings made of glass and gold, and we'd be careful not to hear them splintering against the sun. We can be superstars.
Junho says, okay, okay we'll be superstars, and what happens after that?
Chansung doesn't answer. Instead, he looks out the window, the lights of the city reflected in his beautifully broken eyes and his voice seems far away when he says, says with all his heart, says with all his childlike-faith, says with all his vulnerability, there'll only be forevers.
two.
Jaebum used to think love was two people on the sidewalk or in the corner booth of a seedy bar, kissing and baring themselves open for the other to see until it gave them headaches and butterflies and nausea.
But when he looks at Wooyoung with his arms around Nichkhun, laughing at one of Taekyeon's corny American jokes, Junsu telling Junho about the symphony he just wrote ( a broken symphony of seven young boys who were going to reach the sky, going to reach the sun, no matter how much it hurt or how many pairs of carefully carved wings would burn ) with his arms around Chansung, Jaebum realizes that love wasn't about broken lips pressed together on a cold winter night, or bodies held close and tightly together in the desire for copulation.
No, love was Taekyeon bringing him dried mangoes because every night he ached and cried and longed to be home, love was Nichkhun playing the piano for him, his fingers dancing along the keys like he was going to save his broken soul with his music, love was Wooyoung holding him when he was lonely and telling him to be strong and hey hey have a little faith, love was Junsu singing him English love songs with slightly broken English ( you are not alone, I am here with you ) because it was his only link to home, love was Junho smiling at him and telling people what he meant while he struggled with his Korean, love was Chansung telling him that sharing was something he didn't do and yet left him a piece of one, two, three Korean candies every after meals.
Love was having the people you cared most about right there with you, holding you up when you weren't strong enough to do it.
three.
Small steps, Taekyeon says, take it easy.
It's a big day. This day represents the tears they couldn't cry, the blood rushing through their veins, the sweat that comes from souls and spirits and bodies overworked and their future lies in the screams and the cries of thousands of people they don't know. Their hearts are beating fast-- synchronizing, swelling. There's terror behind their smiling eyes. This marks a new beginning, one step into an unknown world and you're going going and no one can stop you. There's no turning back now.
Off you go. Stepping into the stage, Nichkhun says, this is where I belong. Everything blacks out and they forget everything they practiced. Hold on to the music. Hold on to your voice. They let the beat take them and every step is perfect, every move is in place, every tune is in key, and every heart is where it should be.
They hear applause and cries of people screaming their names. Taekyeon looks at Nichkhun and in his eyes he sees happiness and elaborate silvery starbursts that he swears could break the moon. They love you, he says, wide smiles at that beautiful boy.
No, Nichkhun tells him, eyes on the audience, eyes on the six boys he grew to love with all his heart, all his mind, all his soul.
They love us.
four.
When Junsu sings, when he opens his mouth and sings, and his melody and his voice cuts through the air and fills the four walls of the room, Junho almost wants to cry.
He sees colors in Junsu's voice. Music lives in his bones and they want to be set free; his music, it was so indefinitely strong, it could break people's hearts and bones with a shift in key. It's like he was spun and weaved by the lacy fingers of Mozart's dreams, made up and finished off by sad love songs and Beethoven's unfinished sonatas. When Junsu sings, his eyes are monochromatic and Junho thinks of orchestras and violins when he hears him, and he sits there, mesmerized.
Again and again, his heart cries. Again and again, he's at a loss for words.
You were born for this, Junho tells Junsu, his heart crying out. Where do you get the inspiration? Let me in your heart, tell me your secrets, I want to know everything.
Junsu smiles and Junho is reminded of appasionatas and moonlight sonatas bursting into a symphony so painstakingly beautiful, he doesn't think himself worthy to hear it. Us, Junsu says simply. When I think of the seven of us, the music just comes. It lives within all of us, the heart of music, and it's there, being burned up by the fire of love.
It's not as easy as it seems, Junho says sadly.
But it is, if you want it to be.
five.
You should die, they scream, and in their eyes Jaebum sees rage, he sees cold-blooded murder. They throw him rocks and boulders of harsh, cruel words that could send a man into his knees, begging for redemption. They don't listen, they don't hear him. Traitor, traitor, they say as they stone him, stone his bleeding heart. You're not fit to be here. You should just die. Die.
They pin him like a beautiful butterfly with broken wings against the cold, wooden cross of his past, with nothing but air for food and the bittersweet pain of his memories rushing through his bones, and there they were, six of them, six of his brothers weeping by his velvet wounds and delicate scars and bruises.
But he could not hang for long, he could not hang softly there for long, while the others trembled underneath his cross, and the people that once raised their voice in awe for them were now raising their voices in unspeakable hate and anger, threatening to pin his brothers to a cross too if they stood by his side. His running flesh and blood was turning sour.
He stopped struggling, and the look on his eyes was beyond despair now. Coming down, he picked up his heavy cross on his tired, aching, weary shoulders, and kissed the others he now called his younger brothers, goodbye. Raging and weeping are left on the early road, as the young man made old by the pain of this world, take up his cross and leave the cold hill.
six.
Like an apprehension for reality, the death of the flower, the collapse of hope, the crush of wasted years, or old shoes abandoned in old corners like half-forgotten voices that once said love but did not mean love.
That's what Wooyoung sees when Jay says, opens his mouth and says, I'm leaving.
No longer family, no longer 2PM.
You can't erase who you are, you can't erase what you know, Taekyeon tells him, his hand on his breaking heart. It was funny, how in one day all your wounds open and simple words could utter pain. Everything was happening so fast, and yet it was all so utterly real and tangible. Taekyeon screams silently, and it reverberates in his chest. He could not cry, he could not weep. Because if he cried and the others cried, who would stand and be strong and hold them all up?
And then he [ Jaebum ] had left, leaving not bitterness, not disillusions, not pity; only pain.
No longer family, no longer 2PM.
seven.
Wooyoung calls Jay, his fingers shaking as he tries to keep the telephone in his hands.
We were going to be angels, Wooyoung cries. We were going to be angels and heroes and superstars and we were going to touch the skies, we were going to touch the sun and remain unburned. We were going to be happy.
Jaebum sighs, defeated. Only in dreams, he says, only in dreams do we reach the sky.
In the silence, Wooyoung hears his heart shatter.
Chansung goes back to the place where everything first began. There are no wings made of glass and gold, no angels, nothing that can make everything go away forever. Instead, there are burnt CDs, torn photographs, and paper wings that soar, brushing his blazing heart.
(.the best often die by their own hand just to get away,
and those left behind can never quite understand
why anybody would ever want to get away from them.
-charles bukowski.)